Revenant

by Kat Richardson

  His focus on me was intense and I found myself wincing and drawing my shoulders in defensively as if his stare had physical weight. He seemed to realize it and stepped back, cutting his gaze to the side. “My apologies.”

  I let out a breathless chuckle. “You’ve apologized to me more in the past twenty-four hours than in our entire acquaintance up to this point.”

  “Have I?”

  “Yes. I might start to think you’re growing a conscience.”

  “Never that.” He growled and turned his back so he could walk into the house.

  I followed him, once I had conquered my urge to laugh.

  There was no sign of Carlos when I cleared the door, but Quinton was waiting for me near the stairs. He looked horrible even in the subdued light of the room.

  “There was a message on the answering machine—I didn’t know people still had those,” he said. “The Danzigers’ car died, so we’ll have to get Sam and the kids to Spain ourselves.” We’d known the Danzigers wouldn’t be here too soon, but I hadn’t expected this complication—it was almost as if Carlos had known it was going to happen. . . .

  I looked at Quinton and saw that the color of his flickering aura was a sick olive drab with thin threads of black wound through it. “I’ll do it. I don’t know my way around as well as you, but Sam can help me. You need some rest and I have an assignment from Carlos that you’ll be much better at than I could be.”

  “I’m not feeling too well and I—I am disturbed by what I did. I killed a man. . . .”

  “You did it to save your niece. You didn’t have much choice.”

  “It hurt you and I didn’t have to . . . kill him. I could have disabled him, left him alive. . . .”

  “I’m not sure you could have. You had no idea what he was capable of, and if it had become a fight, or if he’d gotten back up in a few minutes, the advantage would have been lost. We would have lost.”

  He hung his head. “I don’t know. And I don’t feel right about sending you off—”

  “I know you don’t, but I can see that you’re sick and I’m sure Sam will understand.”

  “Do you think we did the right thing . . . ?”

  “Of course we did. Why do you ask that?”

  “I’m not stupid. Dad—or these mages—will be looking for a substitute for Soraia.”

  “Yes. But you can’t worry about that now. You need to rest and I’ll deal with the other stuff. Where are Sam and the kids?”

  “They’re in the kitchen. There’s a clean bedroom on the second floor I figured they can have.”

  “Good idea. Go join them and I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?” His voice was breathy and unsteady.

  “To dump the luggage and risk the wrath of Carlos before he gets too involved in whatever else he needs to do. He thinks he can find out tomorrow night what the Kostní Mágové are trying to make, but he’s got to do something first. I want to intrude before he gets too immersed.”

  “All right. But if you’re not back down in fifteen minutes, I’m coming to get you.”

  I was afraid he might not be able to, but I smiled and hugged him. He felt stiff, slick with sweat, and too warm. “Go get Dr. Rebelo to look at you,” I said as I let him go.

  He picked up one of the bags—which had Sam’s initials on it. “She’ll never let me live this down,” he muttered, trudging toward the kitchen.

  I ran up the first set of stairs and dropped the remaining bags without ceremony in the hall on my way past, then up the last flights of steps to the tower and knocked on the door, panting a little from the steepness of the final risers.

  Carlos opened the door a few inches and held out a small paper packet. I could smell something vile cooking in the room beyond. “Make him drink this in some warm liquid. He’ll sleep heavily, but he’ll live. Go, and don’t disturb me again before tomorrow at sunset.”

  I took the folded paper. “What is it?” I asked, but he had already shut the door. I sighed. “Thank you, I guess,” I said, and started back down the stairs, hoping the cure wasn’t going to be worse than the disease.

  Without a doubt, I’d only known a paler version of Carlos up until now. Even though he was near exhaustion, there was something more to his powers here in Lisbon than at home in Seattle. But then, this was his home and it wasn’t far-fetched to imagine that a vampire who was also a mage had a special connection to the place where he’d been born, died, and been reborn. It didn’t seem to be true for me, but I’m not a magic-user or a vampire.

  I walked back down to the kitchen and joined the family. A kettle was simmering on the stove and there were mugs of something sitting around, untouched by anyone. Soraia was seated at the table with Martim, who’d fallen asleep with his head in her lap and his rump on the neighboring chair. Soraia had wrapped her arms around him as if she feared someone would snatch him away. Sam was examining her brother with one of those annoying light things doctors use to look down your throat. Quinton, seated at the end of the table, appeared to be at death’s door, pale and shivering as if he had a virulent case of the flu and not protesting his sister’s prodding. Soraia started when I came in, even though she looked barely awake, herself.

  “Tio Pássaro is sick,” she said, her voice shaking more than it had on her own behalf. “The bad woman hurt him.”

  “I can see that, honey,” I said, catching her shoulder and turning her back to address her steaming cup. I could feel Sam’s gaze on me, uncomfortable, no doubt, with what her daughter had probably been telling her and now worried about her brother as well as her kids. “Senhor Carlos gave me some medicine for him, so we’ll have to see how he feels after he takes it.”

  “He doesn’t need some kind of folk remedy,” Sam snapped, distressed beyond her ability to remain composed. “He’s ill and I don’t know why. Fever, sweats, difficulty breathing, his eyes are discolored. . . . It’s not the flu—it came on too quickly. I’d say it’s some kind of poisoning, but he needs tests, a hospital. . . .”

  “We don’t have that luxury,” I said. “Your father’s friends will be looking for us, and if they know he’s sick, any hospital won’t be safe.”

  I held out the packet to Quinton who blinked at it as if unable to see it clearly. He wasn’t arguing—not a good sign. I started to open the folded paper and pour the powder inside into an untouched mug, but Sam snatched the package from me.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but Carlos says it’ll cure him and I believe that.”

  “You trust your friend with Jay’s life?”

  I was still struggling to remember to call Quinton “Jay,” but I replied, “He’s trusted Jay with his.”

  Sam sniffed at the packet. “It smells like . . . mint. Or catnip.”

  It didn’t smell like either to me, but it also didn’t look completely benign in my sight, either—the glow around the package was as black as the poison that had dripped from Carlos’s wards, but I knew he didn’t need to go to this kind of trouble if he wanted any of us dead. And I did trust him.

  “Dr. Rebelo,” I started, “if you can suggest anything better at this stage, I’m game to try it, but Jay isn’t improving while we argue.”

  With poor grace, she handed the folded paper back to me. “All right. But I don’t like this. Your friend is a bit high-handed.”

  “You get used to it after a few years.”

  Sam bit her lip and her gaze darted around the room as she stuffed her fear and temper back down. With an effort, she sat next to her children and put her hand on Soraia’s head, smoothing the curls compulsively. “Just what the hell happened in that place?”

  “It’s not a story we need to go over right now.” I filled a mug with hot water from the kettle and dumped the powder into it, then sat down next to Quinton and put my arm around his back. “Dr. C
arlos says you have to drink this while it’s still warm.” His skin was hotter than before, but he was shivering and his muscles were stiff.

  Quinton lifted the cup in a shaking hand. His face was the color of unfired porcelain. “It smells vile. . . . Will it turn me into a newt?”

  “Yes, but you’ll get better.” At least he still had a sense of humor. . . .

  He grumbled and slurped the liquid. “Tastes like dirt.”

  “Could be worse,” I said, thinking of all the other things it could have tasted like, given its origin. “I think you’re supposed to drink the whole thing.”

  He made a disgusted sound but drank the rest. “I don’t feel any better.” He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, horrified. “Oh God . . .”

  He dove for the sink and vomited. I dashed to hold him up when he swayed and started to heave again.

  Soraia huddled against her mother crying, pressing her face to Sam’s chest, and though it was clear Sam wanted to get up and help her brother, she stayed seated and comforted her daughter, instead. “It’s all right, little angel, Uncle Jay will be all right. Shhh, shhh. . . . It’s all right. . . .”

  I kept close to Quinton when he was done and gave him a glass of water to rinse his mouth with before he staggered back to his chair. He didn’t say anything for a few minutes, and I washed the mug and the sink out hastily before Sam could act all doctor-y and want to examine the contents. What Quinton had thrown up looked like a tarantula and it smoked at the touch of the water I’d used to rinse his mug. White spines like broken bits of bone and bile the color of squid ink swirled around the drain before they disappeared.

  “I think I need to go to bed,” Quinton croaked.

  Soraia pulled away from her mother and threw herself on him, clutching him as if she would hold on until the world ended. Her frightened crying blowing up to hysterical sobbing, tears streaking her face, she said, “No! No! You can’t sleep! You’ll die! I don’t want you to die, Tio! Nooo . . .”

  Sam was startled and tried to pull her daughter back, which only made Soraia act more like a limpet. The noise and motion startled drowsy Martim into fussing and crying as well. Sam let go of Soraia and tried to hush the baby while I took over the panicking-child duty.

  In spite of Soraia’s hysteria, Quinton did look slightly better. He wasn’t shivering as hard and his color wasn’t so much like raw clay. The black threads had vanished from his aura as well, and although it was still weak and an unhealthy shade of green, it was shifting as I watched. I put my hand on Soraia’s back and said, “He’ll be OK. See—he’s getting better already. You have to look at him from farther back. See?”

  I encouraged her to lean back so her view was broader. If she really had a touch of Grey to her, she might be able to see some of what I saw while I was touching her. It was a long shot, but worth the trouble.

  Soraia pulled back with reluctance and studied her uncle with a serious expression. She gestured at her own face. “Not all black anymore.” She leaned forward again and hugged Quinton so hard he squeaked. “I love you, Tio. Don’t die.”

  “I love you, too, Soraia,” he said, his voice rough and cracking. “I love you too much to die.”

  “Promete?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  “Come on, now, anjinho,” Sam said, bundling the baby against her chest as she stood up. “Let your uncle go to bed. You know sick people need to rest. And so do little girls who’ve had scary adventures.”

  Soraia looked at each of us as if sizing up who was most likely to tell her the truth. She picked me, turning a baleful silence and piercing stare on me as if to say she’d hold me personally responsible if anything went south.

  “I’ll take care of him,” I said. “I promise. He’ll be fine and in the morning I’m going to take you guys to meet some friends of mine.” I’m terrible around children—I never know what I’m supposed to say or do, and I was, as always, sure I was getting it wrong.

  Soraia shivered and appeared on the verge of tears. I had to bend down to put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right. They’re very nice. They’ll keep all the bad people away from you. And they have a son who’s about your age,” I added, hoping to distract her from the horror and morbid thoughts that seemed to occupy her mind. “His name is Brian and he’s a lot like your uncle Jay, only smaller.” I hoped I was guessing right about Brian, since I hadn’t seen him in years, but I couldn’t imagine the Danzigers’ son being a serious problem—Mara would have turned him into a toad a long time ago if he misbehaved. “Now, let’s all go upstairs and go to bed. OK? We have to get up very early.”

  Soraia stood, scowling with serious thoughts and trying not to fall asleep on her feet. She reached for her mother’s hand while I helped Quinton to his feet. “I’ll protect you and Martim from the ghosts, Mamãe,” she quavered.

  “Ghosts?” Sam asked, hefting the sleeping toddler onto her shoulder to rebalance her uneven stride. “Are you sure they aren’t fairies?”

  Soraia’s face remained serious as she shook her head. She was tired, scared, and had barely escaped from a terrifying ordeal. Talking seemed to drain her.

  We made our way out of the kitchen and up the stairs in a ragged parade with Quinton and me in front only because we knew where the bedrooms were. Soraia, Sam, and Martim came behind as one lumpy unit moving steadily slower and slower.

  There was only one bed made up in the room that the caretaker had arranged for me originally, but it was a large one and Sam assured us that they’d be able to manage just fine. I suspected that they’d all have ended up in one bed to ward off the terrors anyhow. Sam looked worn to a thread, but we didn’t linger to see if she needed anything more. She was capable of letting us know if she wanted help—and I doubted she needed anything more than to hug her children in privacy.

  Quinton barely had the energy to make it through a bath and into bed. I would have skipped the bath, but the stink of rot and burning clinging to us was unbearable and our clothes were probably a loss. I thought I might have to drag him to the bed, but he made it on his own and I fell in next to him.

  “I feel like I unswallowed a porcupine,” he muttered as I curled up next to him and pulled him close. “What was that thing I chucked up?”

  “I’d say it was a physical manifestation of whatever spell residue remained on you after you got out from under Griffin’s work.”

  “She wasn’t incompetent.”

  “What?”

  “Carlos made her mad, teasing her about being a crummy mage, but she wasn’t. He was messing with her head to make her screw up.”

  “Yeah, well . . . He thought that spell would have killed you, given time.”

  He nodded, barely awake. “What was that stuff you gave me?”

  “Sort of a magical emetic, I’d guess, but it seems to work.”

  He made a sleepy noise of assent. Now his body didn’t feel warm enough, so I snuggled closer to him.

  “Sorry,” he whispered.

  “Why?”

  “Too tired to do anything but sleep. Been months . . . dreaming of getting you into bed . . .”

  “I’ve been dreaming of you, too. I love you and it’s enough to just be like this. Go to sleep, superhero.”

  He made a noise, but it turned into a gentle snore and the tension in his limbs drained away. I was tired enough to fall asleep, too, but I couldn’t, and as I lay beside him, his snoring died away. After a while, he seemed to grow colder, his skin feeling like wet newspaper and his breathing so shallow that I had a moment’s panic until I forced myself to look at him through the Grey before jumping to any conclusions. He seemed barely alive and any normal person might not have realized he wasn’t dead, except for the rapid movement of his eyes beneath closed lids. I considered going to Carlos again, but I doubted he would appreciate the intrusion. So long as I could see Quinton was still alive, I
didn’t want to leave him alone.

  In a few hours, his body began to warm again and his sleep became more normal. Relieved, I must have fallen asleep myself, because Soraia woke me at six a.m.

  FIFTEEN

  There was a presence looming at the bedside. I opened my gummy, gritty eyes and looked up. Soraia offered a trembling smile.

  Children have such piercing voices, especially when I’ve had only two hours of sleep. I had to say something before she could stab me with her fluting tones. “I’m awake now, Soraia, but your uncle Jay isn’t. He’s still sick.”

  She replied in a serious whisper, “Will he be all right?” Soraia was hesitant and I had the impression that wasn’t normal for her. Everything about her seemed withdrawn, unnaturally restrained—even the energetic colors around her lay tighter to her body than they should have and there were none of the vagrant sparks or bubbles I usually saw around kids. She was shutting herself down and I wanted to inflict an equal measure of brutality on Purlis and his bone mages for that. Children shouldn’t be terrified and used like commodities.

  Soraia shied a little and I struggled to push my anger aside. I offered her a small smile and said, “I think so—when he’s had some more sleep. We’re going to meet my friends today.” I started to get out of bed but thought better of flashing the six-year-old. “Um . . . sweetie, could you go downstairs and wait for me in the kitchen or something? I need to get dressed.”

  Soraia gave me a big-eyed stare and started to run out of the room. Then she turned back around and looked at me from under her eyebrows, shaking with effort. “Thank you for coming to save me, Auntie Harper. And Uncle Jay and Senhor Carlos, too.”

  I didn’t laugh. She was deadly serious and still frightened. I respected the effort her gratitude required. “You are very welcome.”

  I waited in the bed for her to leave, but she didn’t. She stood, trembling, halfway between the bed and the door. Then she blurted, “What’s an ‘odd duck’?”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “Mamãe says you’re an odd duck. Why are you a duck?”