The Sunken Tower

by J A Campbell

  “Hagatha, there is a washroom just there. Please retrieve water. Melanie, milady, if you don’t mind, please get that bowl.” He pointed to shallow silver basin on a shelf. “Elise, sit and rest. I will heal you shortly. I do not want Clarion to escape beyond our reach.”

  Elise nodded. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re pale and sweating,” he countered.

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Dad.”

  Taking that in stride, Marcus nodded and directed Melanie to set the basin on the desk. Hagatha came back with a pitcher of water and poured it in the silver bowl. Marcus pulled out an exquisite-looking silver salt shaker, which clearly had never been used at a meal, and shook a bit of salt into the water.

  “Can one of you undo the chain?” Elise couldn’t manage the clasp with one hand. She glanced down at her wrist as it throbbed. It had turned a sickly shade of green, and she could see where the bone pushed against the skin. Gulping, she forced her attention elsewhere.

  Marcus gently moved her long hair over her shoulder and undid the clasp. He handed her the pendent.

  Taking it, Elise dipped it in the scrying bowl before holding it above. A couple of drops fell from the pendant, sending out ripples. As they cleared, an image formed. Clarion, the ocean in the background, sun rising.

  “It looks warm.”

  Marcus looked over her shoulder, studying the image. “He has a stronghold in Australia. We’ve got him.”

  Elise dropped the magic and stood as Marcus opened a WayGate in his office.

  He frowned, as if to tell her to stay put. Elise glared right back, and her father shrugged and entered the gate. She followed. Broken wrist or no, she’d see this through to the end.

  Melanie jumped through the WayGate, with Hagatha at her side. Marcus’ expression indicated that he expected the ladies to stay put, but if he thought for one minute she was going to just sit there obediently while he went off and chased Clarion, he was mad as a hatter. The crossroads were busy, as usual, with a giant bubble-maker blowing out full-size men. The men landed on the ground, plopped, and fizzled like a bubble would. How could she have missed such an interesting spectacle?

  Besides, wherever they were, it was blessedly warm. The rooms they exited into were high-ceilinged, with frescoes and other ornately carved woodwork. The open patio doors invited them to a lush, green garden, full of fragrant flowers and trees bearing fruits.

  “The hell?” Marcus glowered at the three of them, his green eyes emitting an eerie gem-like glow.

  Hagatha waved her hand, and their clothing magically changed into badass-looking black commando uniforms. Melanie shifted from foot to foot, trying to settle the new garment against her skin.

  “At your service, Lord Macrow,” Hagatha saluted cheerfully with her left hand.

  “Stay with me.” Marcus scowled at the three of them but set the gleaming emerald into the palm of his hand. It clearly pointed into the main part of the house. He took off at a run.

  Melanie put on a burst of speed and came up alongside him. His legs might have been longer, but she’d sprinted with Tallon, who’d taunted her and goaded her until she could make serious time over short distances. A girl never knew when it would be best just to hightail it out of a bad situation.

  They found Lord Clarion in an office, pulling out belongings from an open safe, which was big enough to fit a pirate’s chest. The desktop was covered with several fortunes in glittering jewels and paper money. Clarion’s mouth opened in an O of surprise as the quartet stormed into the room and surrounded him.

  Elise snapped up shields fast enough to make Melanie’s ears pop. Clarion wasn’t the strongest of the JM Council; his skill was communication. He could still whip up an impressive enough offense to kill them, should he be at the advantage.

  But he could attack their minds. Clarion was a vicious man. He’d used his position at the JM Council to destroy many petitioners. Rumor had it, he’d even harmed some of the most powerful of his own House, in order to maintain his position at their head.

  You’re weak. You couldn’t even catch the dragons. Go away, girls... The message screeched in her head. Go get a manicure or whatever your kind does to attract a man who’ll take care of you.

  “By authority of the JM…” Marcus intoned.

  What do you need a woman for anyway, Macrow? Valonna says you can’t get it up…

  Marcus made a cutting gesture with his hand, and Clarion’s thought ended with an ulp!

  Clarion threw a bank bag at Marcus. The heavily stuffed leather bag exploded against Elise’s shield, disgorging a small fortune in gold coins and jewelry. The contents rolled out onto the polished hardwood floor. Melanie stepped on one and slid, checking her body hard against another massive desk. What precisely was he compensating for with all that massive furniture? His chair alone was a carved wood throne with gargoyles glowering from the handles and a lion perched at the head. And, ironically, a swivel, so he could use the damn thing as an office chair.

  Clarion thrust his stout body out a window, which was opened to more lush green gardens. The place looked like paradise. Wrong that a rotten bastard got to enjoy it, when he’d put so many people in the ocean.

  Hagatha made a gesture, and the heavy sash holding the window up ripped free, pinning the man half in and out with the weighty, stained-glass window pinning him at the waist, leaving his rump for Hagatha to plant a solid kick in with her booted foot.

  Melanie wiggled her toes and suppressed a snicker when she realized Hagatha had given them all steel-toed boots. She must have had that commando uniform in her head to make three of them so fast. She made a mental note to talk to Marcus about how to program spells. Something told her she was going to need a wardrobe, among other things, to deal with the JM cases.

  “You used me. You gave me a spelled pendant so I’d endanger us and get us killed.”

  You’re— Clarion tried to send a message, but Hagatha spoke instead.

  “Just shut up!” Hagatha sent Clarion’s message back with the equivalent of squealing feedback from an out-of-tune guitar over a static-prone amp. Melanie’s teeth jarred together, but she cheered the effort.

  Clarion gasped with pain as Hagatha dealt another solid blow squarely between his legs that raised his torso up several inches and made him squeal like a suckling pig. Servants arrived behind them and in the gardens below. They called out questions, which Marcus answered regarding the man’s arrest. None raised a finger to help their Lord. It was almost like they expected this to happen. None precisely cheered them on, but Melanie suspected he would not be missed.

  The window magically rose, and Marcus snatched the man by his collar and hauled him up so they could face each other. Before Clarion could raise his hands to summon a spell, Marcus had him locked in the magical equivalent of handcuffs and a headset that she suspected nulled his ability to send taunting mental messages. They gleamed in the room, which was green from the reflection of the lush exterior.

  “By the authority of the JM,” Marcus’ words hissed out. His eyes were narrow as a cat’s, shining green. Melanie took a step back as real sparks flew around his person. “You are under arrest. Come peacefully. I have the right to use deadly force. I would love it if you resisted me.”

  “It was only fair,” Clarion’s face was red as claret, but he still blustered breathlessly. “I lost Larissa, you should lose your betrothed. The other two were just—interest for seven hundred years of my pain.”

  Melanie paused, seeing a gleaming circle on the floor. She bent and picked up the silvery ring, staring at the familiar, deep sapphires Marcus had chosen to match her eyes, her heart quickening. She’d never noticed prior to this that there was an inscription. She peered at the lettering, but she couldn’t make out the language.

  “You had my engagement ring.” Her voice went low in accusation.

  Clarion’s eyes widened as she approached, holding the silvery circle up for them all to see.

  If looks could explode a perso
n’s head, Melanie’s would. The part of her that came from Dr. Catherine Mueller assessed his vulnerabilities. Oh, she could do the obvious and kick him in the groin, but that was cheap and easy, and there was so much more on a person’s anatomy that’d hurt. She sensed Hagatha walking to her side, her fingernails elongating to claws. Elise was somewhere nearby, her anger nearly as palpable as her father’s.

  Clarion’s face shifted from red to white. Nickel-sized blobs of sweat popped out on his forehead. She smelled the salt of sweat heavy on him.

  Melanie deliberately stopped, smiling at him. She dropped her voice down into contralto. “So I was nothing to you and my friends were less. My pain mattered not a bit. Your betrothed was fortunate to not have one such as you for her partner.”

  “Marcus.” Clarion whimpered. “I beg you…”

  “I should let them have you,” Marcus said, the note of amusement clear in his voice. “Aren’t you the one who believes in pain for pain? You didn’t take their pain into account, did you? It looks like the ladies are ready for some payback.”

  “You shouldn’t hold a grudge,” Clarion said to Melanie. “It wasn’t personal.”

  “Killing me wasn’t personal? I would love to know what you think is. What about my friend Hagatha?” Melanie said, rounding on the lord. “That was real personal… You tried to cut her off from friends and family, and you didn’t care one whit.”

  “It was originally Valonna’s idea,” Clarion said. “I just went along with it. You know she can be quite persuasive when she wants to be, and I’ve been alone so long. Oh, that woman has charms—she could seduce a gay man, I swear. She found the way to open the tunnels at Curon Venosta and worked the deal to share the treasure with the dragons, in exchange for their freedom, if they would kill the three ladies. It’s her you want, not me. You know me, I’m not clever by half enough to think this kind of plan up. Marcus, have mercy…”

  “As much as I would love to see you suffer for the pain you have caused my fiancée and my kindred, and for the deaths of the people on the ships, I’m no vigilante. I’m turning you in for to the Justicariate Magus to administer proper justice with a court trial and witnesses.”

  Marcus snatched him by the collar, opened a WayGate, and stepped them through to the JM. He’d done all of it in nearly an eye blink. Rather, Melanie suspected, so he wouldn’t give himself a chance to consider any alternatives or to let them stain themselves with retribution.

  “Damn!” Hagatha snarled, her hands balled up in fists.

  Melanie held the ring out to Hagatha who studied it for a moment before nodding that it was safe. Melanie then slid the ring on her finger. She stared down at her hands: pale in the artificial light: slender, muscular fingers, callused by strings, practical-length nails with Rouge Noir polish chipping away. They’d made music, they’d made food for her table and that of her friends, they’d soothed hurts when she could. No, she couldn’t use her hands to hurt anyone. Karma would take care of Clarion and then some. She didn’t have to see it. She had faith in the Balancer. She clutched her hands to her chest, feeling a hollow ache.

  Marcus practically shoved Clarion into the waiting hands of the JM’s armed guards. The men affixed odd, steel cuffs on him and a large helmet that prevented him from sending any kind of magical communication.

  Melanie hoped having all those hateful thoughts to himself made the bastard’s head ache.

  “Now, we are off to Macrow Manor,” Marcus said. A gesture, and black cloth materialized in his hand. “Your Highness, you will want this. It’s chill in England this time of year.”

  “Thank...” Melanie scarcely got the word out, and the lovely cashmere sweater over her shoulders, before the WayGate opened. She stepped through, ignoring the huge, green, apple-selling old women at the crossroads, and into a very proper-looking English manor.

  “Milord.” A deep-voiced man in a butler’s uniform rushed forward to aid Marcus.

  “Where is she?”

  Marcus barely waited for an answer before he sprinted off. They arrived in a suite of opulent rooms done in shades of purples and reds that brought to mind the interior of a genie’s bottle. From the clutter of belongings everywhere, it appeared the occupant either left in haste or had a tantrum. Or both. She’d literally ripped a gorgeous, designer, leather jacket in half. Melanie hoped it hadn’t been with her bare hands.

  Marcus grabbed a glass bowl that looked like Baccarat. A knife flashed on the fat of his left thumb, and he spilled blood into the bowl in a heavy gush. Elise pulled a vial from her person and covered the crimson spill with water. The trio of Macrow kindred stood over the bowl, casting the enchantment to blood scry. Melanie grabbed the first cloth she could find to blot Marcus’ wound, a cut too deep to ignore.

  “NO!”

  His eyes flashed at the sight of the silk blouse in her hand. Clearly, nothing of the woman’s could touch his flesh. Melanie dropped it, backing away to a safer distance and finally out into the hallway, where Valonna Macrow’s heavy perfume wasn’t quite so choking. She wrapped her arms about her person and moved to a window where she could look out on the rain-swept countryside and gain some measure of peace. She glanced back into the posh room, where the magic energies were almost as thick as the intermingled musks, woods, and flowers in the woman’s noxious fragrance. She coughed, her eyes watered, and she hoped they’d find something soon. If she stayed much longer in the proximity of the stench, she was going to need an inhaler.

  Clearly, the scry wasn’t working.

  Marcus picked up a necklace from the floor with his fingertips, a look of disgust on his face. The piece was pretentious for anyone but a potentate or a royal, heavy with a king’s ransom of diamonds and rubies. It landed in the mix of seawater and blood with a silvery ping and plop of water.

  Unable to take it anymore, Melanie hastened back downstairs to the last whereabouts of the butler. Servants descended upon her, looking for some way to assist her. Their expressions were generally anxious; they awaited a new mistress with a mixture of hope and dread. From what little Elise and Hagatha said, Valonna Macrow treated them like they were slaves, and the rest of the House generally just avoided her.

  “Your Highness,” the butler bowed. “Is there something we can get for you?”

  She stopped, staring. They knew her? She hadn’t contemplated the consequences of wandering about the posh estate in black camo up until that moment. Anyplace else, she might have wound up in jail for breaking and entering. The Macrow House servants were offering up the traditional greeting for a new mistress.

  “Might I have a spot of tea?” Her voice shook with a mixture of relief and exhaustion. “Is there somewhere quiet and peaceful where I could sit and enjoy it?”

  “Follow me,” the butler said. “I have just the spot for your enjoyment.”

  A maidservant, who looked to be in her teens, rushed ahead and quickly shut what Melanie took to be a game-room door. It wasn’t quick enough. She paused, shocked to see a huge blowup of one of her promo photos on a wood paneled wall with half a dozen knives sticking out of it. The photo was larger than life, perhaps four times the size of her real head. Valonna had exceptional aim. She’d scored at least two knives in each eye…and…

  She backed away feeling the room tilt eerily. A strong hand stopped her from tripping on a carpet runner and remained at the small of her back until she could stabilize herself.

  “My apologies, Highness,” the butler said. “We left this for His Lordship to see… No one expected you to accompany him. We will remove it as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you,” Melanie stammered, her voice more of a squeak.

  Melanie steadied her shaking knees and followed the man down a corridor with portraits of family members in ornate gilded frames. One thing she could say for Valonna Macrow, the woman had impressive aim with a butcher knife. Her heart sister Tig was the only person she knew who possessed equivalent skills.

  He directed her to a huge library, chock full of
floor-to-ceiling wood shelves with leather-bound volumes, many with bookmarks and other gentle indications that they were not just for show.

  She took a seat by a fireplace, which the butler quickly lit. In minutes, a silver tray laden with tea in an exquisite china pot with a cosy nestling it and several types of biscuits was set down before her. She sat, lost by the fire, until Marcus arrived. The tea was amazing. She snared a ginger biscuit and took a bite. Delicious, but she put it down again, her stomach too knotty to enjoy the sweet.

  “I knew you could be in either one of two places,” he said quietly.

  Melanie glanced up, horrified to see dried blood on his forearm and the scrying wound untended.

  “Sit.” She stood at her full five feet and pointed at the chair opposite her. “Someone get a first aid kit. Now.”

  The butler bustled in with a medical grade kit, linens, and, she’d swear to God, a crystal bowl full of wash water. She quickly cleaned the wound, appalled at the sight.

  “You need stitches.”

  An amber brow rose as he looked at the impedimenta in the kit.

  Melanie swallowed. Yup. She’d gotten herself into that one. She rushed to the bathroom, washed her hands, and returned quickly. She’d seen Tig do stitches often enough—and she’d certainly done delicate needlework for cosplay. After cleaning his wound, she took a deep breath, sewed four tidy stitches in Marcus’ hand, and dressed the wound. She leaned back and took a look, her breath stuttering out of her. Doc would be pleased. Then she kissed the bandage four times—once for each stitch—for her da, because science could heal, but love made you feel better quicker.

  “You could have healed that.” The realization had her sitting down in the chair opposite him with a thud. Her head felt so light, it could float off her shoulders.

  “I liked having you tend me.” Marcus grinned like an errant boy. “It will heal within a day as it is.”

  “You—” Melanie couldn’t come up with words.