by P. C. Cast
“Yes.” Stark didn’t hesitate.
“Then lie on the Seol ne Gigh, young MacUallis Guardian. Your Chieftain will draw your blood, take you to a place between life and death. The stone will take your offering. The white bull has spoken, and you will be accepted. He will guide your spirit to the Otherworld gate. It is up to you to gain entry from there, and may the Goddess have mercy on your soul,” the queen said.
“All right. Good. Let’s get this thing done.” But Stark didn’t go straight to the Seol ne Gigh. Instead, he knelt beside Zoey. Ignoring the fact that everyone in the room was watching, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her gently, whispering against her lips, “I’m coming for you. This time I won’t let you down.” Then he stood, drew his shoulders back, and went over to the massive stone.
Seoras had moved from his queen’s side and was standing in front of the head of the stone. Meeting Stark’s gaze steadily, he unsheathed a wickedly sharp dirk that had been resting in a worn leather scabbard at his waist.
“Hang on, hang on!” Unbelievably, Aphrodite was pawing around in the abnormally large metallic leather bag she’d lugged all the way from Venice.
Stark had seriously had it with her. “Aphrodite, now is not the time.”
“Oh, for shit’s sake, finally. I knew I couldn’t lose anything this big and smelly.” She pulled out a quart-sized baggie filled with brown twigs and needles, and gestured at one of the Warriors standing around the perimeter of the room, snapping her fingers and looking more regal than Stark would ever admit aloud. She had the burly-looking guy practically running to take the thing from her while she said, “Before you start what I’m sure is going to be some very unattractive bloodletting, someone needs to burn these, like incense, over here by Stark.”
“What the hell?” Stark said, shaking his head at Aphrodite and wondering, not for the first time, if the girl really was mentally damaged.
She rolled her eyes at him. “Grandma Redbird told Stevie Rae, who told me, that burning cedar is some kind of big, powerful, Cherokee mojo in the spirit world.”
“Cedar?” Stark said.
“Yes. Breathe it in and take it with you while you go to the Otherworld. And, please, close your mouth and get ready to bleed,” Aphrodite said. She shifted her attention to Sgiach. “I think you’d consider Grandma Redbird a Shaman. She’s wise and definitely hooked into the whole earth-has-a-soul thing. She said cedar would help Stark.”
The Warrior she’d given the baggie to glanced at his queen. She shrugged and nodded, saying, “It cannot hurt.” After a metal brazier had been lit and a few needles added, Aphrodite smiled, bowed her head slightly to Seoras, and said, “Okay, now let’s get this thing done.”
Stark bit back the words he wanted to yell at annoying Aphrodite. He needed to focus. He’d remember to breathe in cedar because Grandma Redbird knew her stuff, and the bottom line was he needed to get to Zoey and protect her. Stark wiped his hand across his forehead, wishing he could wipe away the tired fog that settled with daylight over his brain.
“Dinnae struggle against it. Yie need tae be feelin’ out of sorts tae slip from yer body. It isnae a natural thing for a Warrior to be doin’.” Seoras used his dirk to point at the flat surface of the huge stone. “Bare yer chest and lie here.”
Stark pulled off his sweatshirt, and the T-shirt under it, and then he lay on the stone.
“I see yie have already been marked,” Seoras said, pointing at the pink burn scar of a broken arrow that covered the left side of his chest.
“Yeah. For Zoey.”
“Aye, well, then ’tis only right that yie are marked again for her.”
Stark braced himself, lying stiff against the bloodstained stone. It should have been cold and dead, but the instant his skin touched the marble surface, the heat in it began to build beneath him. Warmth radiated rhythmically from within it, like a beating pulse.
“Ach, aye, yie can feel it,” said the ancient Guardian.
“It’s hot,” Stark said, looking up at him.
“For those of us who are Guardians, it lives. Do yie trust me, lad?”
Stark blinked, surprised by Seoras’s question, but his answer was unhesitant. “Yes.”
“I’ll be takin’ yie to the place afore death. Yie need to be trustin’ in me to take yie there.”
“I trust you.” Stark did. There was something about the Warrior that resonated deeply within him. Trusting him felt like the right thing to do.
“This willnae be pleasant fer either of us, but ’tis necessary. The body must release to allow the spirit the freedom to depart. Only the pain and the blood can be doin’ that. Are yie ready?”
Stark nodded. Pressing his hands against the hot skin of the stone, he sucked in a deep breath that smelled of cedar.
“Wait! Before you cut him, tell him something that’ll help. Don’t just let his soul flail about moronically in the Otherworld. You’re a Shaman, so Shaman him,” Aphrodite said.
Seoras looked at Aphrodite and then glanced from her to his queen. Stark couldn’t see Sgiach, but whatever passed between the two of them made her Guardian’s lips curl up in the slightest hint of a smile when his eyes went back to Aphrodite.
“Well, ma wee queen. I’ll be telling yer friend this: when a soul wants to truly know what it is to be good, and I do mean purely good for unselfish reasons, that is when the basest of our nature gives in to the desire fer love and peace and harmony. That surrender is a powerful force.”
“That’s too poetic for me, but Stark’s a reader. Maybe he’ll have a clue what you’re talking about,” Aphrodite said.
“Aphrodite, would you do me a favor?” Stark asked.
“Maybe.”
“Stop. Talking.” He looked up at Seoras. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll remember it.”
Seoras met his gaze. “You must do this on yer own, laddie. I cannae even hold yie down. If you cannae bear it, you willnae make it through the gate anyway, and best to be puttin’ this tae an end now, before yie think tae begin.”
“I’m not going to move,” Stark said.
“The heartbeat of the Seol ne Gigh will lead you to the Otherworld. Getting back, ach, well, that’ll be a path yie must be findin’ fer yurself.”
Stark nodded and spread his hands against the surface of the marble, trying to absorb its heat into his suddenly chilled body.
Seoras lifted the dagger and struck Stark so fast the movement of the Guardian’s hand was a blur. The initial pain of the wound that slashed from his waist to the top of the right side of his rib cage was little more than a hot line in his skin.
The second cut was almost identical to the first, only it made a weeping red line across his left ribs.
And that was when the pain began. Its heat seared him. His blood felt like lava as it poured from his sides, pooling on the top of the stone. Seoras worked the razor-edged dirk methodically from one side of Stark’s body to the other, until Stark’s blood crested the edge of the rock as if at the corner of a giant’s eyes. It hesitated there and finally poured over and down, weeping scarlet tears in the intricate knotwork and then dripping to fill the horn-shaped trenches.
Stark had never felt such pain.
Not when he’d died.
Not when he’d un-died and thought only of thirst and violence.
Not when he’d almost died from his own arrow.
The pain the Guardian made him feel was more than physical. It burned his body, but it also seared his soul. The agony was liquid and interminable. It was a wave he couldn’t escape, which battered him over and over. He was drowning in it.
Stark automatically fought. He knew he couldn’t move, but still he struggled to retain hold on his consciousness. If I let go I’m dead.
“Trust me, laddie. Let go.”
Seoras was standing above him, bending again and again over his body to slice his skin, but the Guardian’s voice was a distant anchor, hardly discernible.
“Trust me . . .”
> Stark had already made the choice. All he had to do was to follow through with it.
“I trust you,” he heard himself whisper. The world turned gray, then scarlet, then black. All Stark was aware of was the heat of the pain and the liquid of his blood. The two merged, and he was suddenly outside his body, sinking into the stone, dripping down the carved sides, and washing into the horns.
Surrounded only by pain and darkness, Stark fought against panic, but strangely, after only a moment, the terror was replaced with a numb acceptance that was kinda comforting. On second thought, this darkness wasn’t so bad. At least the pain was going away. Actually, the pain seemed almost a memory . . .
“Do not fucking give up, moron! Zoey needs you!”
Aphrodite’s voice? Goddess, it was irritating that even detached from his body, she could still bother him.
Detached from my body. He’d done it! The exhilaration that came with the realization was quickly followed by confusion.
He was out of his body.
He could see nothing. Feel nothing. Hear nothing. The blackness was absolute.
Stark had no idea where he was. His spirit fluttered and, like a trapped bird, it battered against nothingness.
What is it Seoras had said to him? What had been his advice?
. . . surrender is a powerful force.
Stark quit fighting and quieted his spirit, and a small memory shone through the blackness, that of his soul, pouring with his blood into two troughs shaped like horns.
Horns.
Stark focused on the only tangible idea in his mind, and he imagined himself grabbing hold of those horns.
The creature came out of the absolute darkness. He was a different kind of black than that which had engulfed Stark. He was the black of a new moon sky—deep, night-resting water—and half-forgotten midnight dreams.
I accept your blood sacrifice, Warrior. Face me and move on, if you dare.
I dare! Stark shouted, accepting the challenge.
The bull charged him. Acting purely on instinct, Stark didn’t run. He didn’t jump aside. Instead, he faced the bull, head-on. Screaming his anger and rage and fear, Stark ran at the bull. The creature lowered his massive head as if he would gore Stark.
No! Stark leaped at the bull, and with a motion that was dreamlike, grabbed his horns. At the same instant the creature threw up his head, and Stark vaulted over his body. He felt like he was diving from an impossibly high cliff as he hurled forward farther and farther, and somewhere, behind him in the black soullessness, he heard the bull’s voice echoing three words: Well done, Guardian . . .
Then there was an explosion of light around him just before he tumbled onto a hard-packed piece of ground. Stark picked himself up slowly, thinking how weird it was that even though he was nothing but spirit, he still had the form and feeling of his body, and looked around.
In front of him was a grove, identical to the one that grew near Sgiach’s castle. There was even a hanging tree before it, decorated with strips of cloth too numerous to count. As he watched, the cloth changed, taking on different colors and lengths and shimmering like Christmas tree tinsel.
The Otherworld—this had to be the entrance to Nyx’s realm. Nothing else could look this magickal.
Before stepping forward, Stark glanced behind him, thinking it couldn’t be this easy to get in and expecting the giant black bull to materialize and this time gore him for real.
All that was behind him was the black nothingness from where he’d come. If that wasn’t creepy enough, the segment of ground he’d been dumped onto was a small, half circle patch of red dirt that reminded him unexpectedly of Oklahoma, and in the center of the patch a gleaming sword was stuck halfway up to the hilt. It took two hands to pull the sword free, and then, as Stark automatically wiped the otherwise spotless blade on his jeans to clean it, he realized that, like the Seol ne Gigh, the original color of the ground had been tainted by blood.
He finished wiping the blade hastily, for some reason not liking the thought of blood staining it, and then he turned his attention to what was in front of him. That was where he needed to go. His mind, heart, and spirit knew it.
“Zoey, I’m here. I’m coming to you,” he said, and stepped forward, running into an invisible barrier hard as a brick wall. “What the hell?” he muttered, moving back and looking up to see that a stone archway had suddenly appeared.
There was an explosion of a cold white light that gave Stark the creepy image of a freezer door opening to expose dead flesh. Blinking, his eyes traveled down, and what he saw in front of him shocked him to his very core.
Stark was staring at himself.
At first he thought the archway must have a mirror in it, but there was no blackness reflected behind him, and his other self was grinning a familiar, cocky smile. Stark definitely wasn’t smiling. Then he spoke, dispelling all thoughts of mirror images and rational explanations.
“Yeah, fucknuts, it’s you. You’re me. To get into this place, you’re gonna have to kill me, which is not gonna happen ’cause I’m not so cool with dying. What is gonna happen is that I’m gonna kick your ass and kill you dead.”
While Stark stood there, speechless and staring at himself, his mirror image lunged forward, slashing with a broadsword identical to the one Stark held, drawing a line of blood down his arm.
“Yep, this is gonna be as easy as I thought,” his other self said, and lunged at Stark again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Aphrodite
“Yeah, light’s on, but there’s definitely no one home.” Aphrodite waved her hand in front of Stark’s open but unseeing eyes. Then she had to snatch her hand out of the way as Seoras, ignoring that he came close to cutting her, too, made another knife wound down Stark’s blood-drenched side.
“He already looks like hamburger. Do you have to keep doing that?” Aphrodite asked the Guardian. There was no love lost between her and Stark, but that didn’t mean she was cool with watching him get sliced to pieces.
Seoras appeared not to hear her. He was utterly focused on the boy who lay before him.
“They are bonded by this quest,” Sgiach said. She’d left her throne to stand beside Aphrodite.
“But your Guardian is conscious and present in his own body,” Darius said, studying Seoras.
“Yes. His consciousness is here. It is also so completely attuned with the boy that he can hear his heartbeat—feel his breathing. Seoras knows exactly how close Stark is to physical death. It is on the cusp between life and death that my Guardian must keep him. Too much one way, his soul will return to his body, and he will awaken. Too much the other, his soul will never return at all.”
“How will he know when to end this?” Aphrodite asked, involuntarily flinching as Seoras’s dirk sliced Stark’s flesh again.
“Stark will awaken, or he will die. Either way, it will be Stark’s doing and not my Guardian’s. What Seoras does now enables the boy to make his own choices.” Sgiach spoke to Aphrodite, but her eyes never left Seoras. “You should do the same.”
“Cut him?” Aphrodite frowned at the queen, who smiled, but continued to watch her Guardian.
“You said that you’re a Prophetess of Nyx, did you not?”
“I am her Prophetess.”
“Then consider wielding your gift to help the boy, too.”
“I would if I had one damn clue how to do that.”
“Aphrodite, perhaps you should—” Darius began, taking Aphrodite’s arm and pulling her away from Sgiach, obviously worried that she’d pushed the queen too far.
“No, Warrior. You need not draw her away. One thing you will find about being bound to a strong woman is that often her words will get her into trouble from which you cannot protect her. But they are her own words, and thus her own consequences.” Sgiach finally looked at Aphrodite. “Use some of the strength that makes your words like daggers and seek your own answers. A true Prophetess gets very little guidance in this world, except through her gift; bu
t strength, tempered by wisdom and patience, must teach you how to use it properly.” The queen lifted her hand and gestured elegantly to one of the vampyres in the shadows. “Show the Prophetess and her Guardian to their chamber. Give them refreshment and privacy.” Without another word, Sgiach returned to her throne, her gaze once again focused solely on her Guardian.
Aphrodite pressed her lips together and followed the ginger-haired giant whose tattoos were a series of intricate spirals that appeared to be made of tiny sapphire dots. They retraced their path back to the double staircase and then went up to a hallway where the walls were decorated with jeweled swords that glittered in the torchlight. A smaller, single staircase finally led them up to an arched wooden door, which the warrior opened and gestured for them to enter the room.
“Would you be sure someone gets me right away if Stark changes at all?” Aphrodite asked before he closed the door.
“Aye,” the warrior said in a surprisingly gentle voice before leaving them alone.
Aphrodite turned to Darius. “Do you think my mouth gets me into trouble?”
Her Warrior’s brows went up. “Of course I do.”
She frowned at him. “Okay, look, I’m not kidding.”
“Neither am I.”
“Why? Because I say what I mean?”
“No, my beauty, because you do use your words like a dagger, and a drawn dagger often causes trouble.”
She snorted and sat on the huge, four-poster bed. “If I sound like a dagger, then why the hell do you like me?”
Darius sat beside her and took her hand. “Have you forgotten that a throwing dagger is my favorite weapon?”
Aphrodite met his eyes, feeling suddenly vulnerable despite his gentle tone. “Seriously. I’m a bitch. You shouldn’t like me. I don’t think most people do.”
“The people who know you like you. The real you. And what I feel for you goes beyond liking you. I love you, Aphrodite. I love your strength, your sense of humor, the depth of caring you show your friends. And I love that which was broken inside you and is only now beginning to heal.”
Aphrodite kept meeting his gaze though she was blinking hard to fight back tears. “All that makes me a terrible bitch.”