Sorcerer's Luck

by Katharine Kerr

  Through the mask Nils tried to speak. He gibbered, his eyes darted from side to side, he tossed his head. Tor held the glowing point of the spear rune steady and said one last word. The mask began to burn. Nils screamed as the mask disappeared in flames. A shadowy blue image of his naked body stood in its place. With another growl the dog-ghost leapt for its throat. Nils screamed one last time and fell backwards as the pair of them, locked together, disappeared.

  Tor stamped three times on the floor, then slowly turned his way around the circle. As he did, the eight runes at the circle points winked out one by one. He held Tyr’s Mark above his head, and for the briefest of moments I saw another hand, huge and glowing white, reach down and take the fiery red rune from him.

  “Done!” Tor said.

  I caught my breath with a sob. I was shaking too hard to stand up. Tor knelt and laid the knife down in the center of the circle. For a long moment he stayed kneeling, head bent, as if in prayer. He got up, walked over to me, caught my hands, and pulled me to my feet. He threw his right arm around my shoulders to support me.

  “He’ll never be free of the dog until he dies himself,” Tor said. “And for all I know, she’ll chase him halfway to Hel even then.”

  “Is he dead?” I said.

  “No. But he’s about half the sorcerer he used to be. The dog will keep draining his power, harrying him.”

  “I thought you wanted her to run free. That day on the hillside, you said —”

  “She will, once Hel claims him.”

  I looked up and saw him smiling, not at me, just smiling in satisfaction at a job well-done. What have I fallen in love with? That was my first thought. The second was, It doesn’t matter. I have.

  The smell of his released élan became irresistible. I bent my head and licked blood from the back of his left hand. He smiled and kissed me. The taste of his blood became our bindrune.

  Chapter 16

  By morning the long cut on Tor’s arm had scabbed over, although it opened again when he took a shower. Blood oozed. I treated the cut with an antibiotic ointment, laid on thickly. Tor stood yawning while I tended it.

  “Does it hurt?” I said.

  “A little. Nothing I can’t ignore.”

  To keep the wound clean, I put soft gauze over the ointment layer and taped it down at strategic intervals.

  “It should be okay,” I said. “But you look exhausted. I could go to the hospital by myself.”

  “No, I don’t want you to go alone. I’ll bet Nils is totally wiped out this morning. I’m hoping he’ll stay that way for days. He should. But let’s not take any chances.”

  Tor put on a long-sleeved shirt to hide the bandage, and this time he took a jacket. I took my sweater. Roman’s blood had stained my denim jacket and Tor’s flannel shirt so badly that we left them downstairs in the sink of that flat’s kitchen.

  We arrived at the hospital just before noon. Brittany gave us a quick rundown of their night—nothing untoward had happened, except she’d barely slept thanks to the noise—then took off to look after her grandmother. In a web of IV tubes and monitor cables, Roman lay on his side in the hospital bed, propped and bolstered with pillows to keep the pressure off his wound. The drugs had left him wide-eyed, a little sweaty, and comfortable enough.

  “It still hurts,” he told me, “but with this stuff in your veins, you don’t care that it does.”

  The doctor, a younger man than I was expecting, arrived on his hospital rounds and talked about ‘the prognosis’, which was good. He repeated that the bullet had missed the spine and, surprisingly, Roman’s vital organs. There was secondary nerve damage, but that, the doctor felt, would heal with physical therapy. The hospital administration wanted to move Roman as soon as possible into a VA hospital, but budget cuts had closed the big facility in San Francisco. He’d end up too far away for Brittany to visit easily, especially with our college year so soon to start.

  “I’ve told them,” the doctor said, “that they can’t move the patient yet. It would be entirely too dangerous. Eventually the committee will take a hand and overrule me, but we’ve got a while before that happens. I’d like to get him into convalescent care somewhere near by.”

  “Let me to talk with them,” Tor said.

  The doctor grinned. “From what Admissions told me, I was expecting you to wear a horned helmet and carry a sword.”

  Roman caught my glance and winked. Tor and the doctor left together, talking in low voices.

  “Quite a guy,” Roman said. “Thorlaksson, I mean.”

  “Yeah. I think he’s pretty special.”

  Roman smiled, a tight little twitch of his mouth. “I’m going to pass out,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay, but hey, before you do, thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Covering me like you did. Taking the bullet meant for me.”

  “You’re the only family I’ve got in the world. Fucking right I did.” He sighed, yawned. “We can talk later. But you’re welcome.” He closed his eyes, sighed again, and slept.

  In clean clothes, her hair freshly washed, Brittany returned before Tor did. Everything was fine at home, she said. She’d brought a tote bag with her, a needlework project to pass the time. Tor came back with the news that the hospital was beginning to see reason about not moving Roman.

  “There’s a fight ahead of us,” he said to Brittany. “We may have to call your congresswoman. But don’t worry, we’ll win.”

  For some hours that afternoon I watched Roman sleep and Brittany embroider. Tor slumped down in a chair and drowsed at intervals. I kept looking at his shirt sleeve to check for blood seeping from the cut, but it stayed clean. I should have brought a sketchbook, but in my worry about my brother, it had slipped my mind. Eventually Brit pointed out that there was nothing more that Tor and I could do.

  “I’ll be here,” she said. “Maya, I don’t want to see you exhaust yourself. You know how tired you get.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I do.”

  “I’d like to get over the bridge before rush hour,” Tor said. “If something goes wrong, we can come back.”

  “Nothing’s going to go wrong.” Brittany spoke with calm certainty. “I’m here to make sure of that. So okay. Go!”

  Before we left, I kissed Roman on his sleeping cheek. Getting out of the stuffy room was a relief. Although I wanted to drive home, Tor insisted that he felt fine.

  “I’m wide awake now,” he said. “I’ll drive.”

  “How’s your arm?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Yeah, sure!”

  “The pain is part of the ritual. A vitki’s got to learn to shove the pain out of his mind.” He grinned at me. “I need to practice.”

  Once we got into the car, I noticed him wincing whenever he reached for the turn signal or moved the wheel in a way that put pressure on the left arm. I stayed on alert and watched the cars around us. I never saw any sign of Nils. I figured that if Tor, the victor in their odd battle, had drained so much energy, the loser must have been exhausted. I stopped worrying, although I knew that sooner or later, we’d have to confront Nils again.

  “Do you want to eat out tonight?” I said. “So you don’t have to lift frying pans and stuff?”

  “Good idea. I’ll have a beer. The cut’s starting to ache a little.”

  A little! I thought. I could see blood on his shirt sleeve, not a solid line, just a fleck here and there, but a bad sign anyway, that it would seep through all that gauze.

  We stopped at a Japanese restaurant near home, a tiny place tucked into a strip mall, but nice inside with real wood tables and fabric-covered walls. It also offered a full bar. Once we were seated, Tor had a double shot of scotch with a beer chaser—one whole bottle of dark beer, that is—before the food even reached us. He drank a second beer with his meal, and finally a third “for dessert” he said. Since he hadn’t eaten all day, the alcohol hit him hard, as I tried to point out.

  “I’m fin
e,” he said. “It’s just beer.”

  “And scotch, then a lot of beer. I’ll drive.”

  “Are you saying I’m too drunk to drive?”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Oh god, it’s been a totally awful day, Tor. Let’s not get into an accident on top of everything.”

  “I’m not going to get us into an accident.”

  I might have made things worse by snapping at him, but luckily the waitress arrived with the bill. Tor had trouble getting his credit card out of his wallet. I clamped my mouth shut and looked away. Finally he got the bill settled and left a tip in cash on the table. When we got up, he walked steadily instead of weaving around, but he was sweating in the hot night, and I could smell the beer oozing out of his skin.

  As soon as we stepped outside, the fresh air slapped him in the face. I saw it in the way he took a step back and caught the wall to steady himself.

  “Okay,” he said. “You can drive.”

  “Thanks. I really mean it: thanks.”

  “I should have used the men’s room. Let me just go back in.”

  While he did, I waited outside the restaurant, then decided to walk out to the car. The sun had just reached its setting point, and the sky blazed with golden light. We’d left Gretel at the far end of the narrow parking lot near a scatter of other cars. I was thinking about Roman, worrying about whether or not he’d make a full recovery, not paying attention to much else. I trusted in the daylight and the presence of other people just some twenty yards away in the restaurant. It seemed perfectly reasonable to go wait for Tor in the car.

  Later I realized that I’d been summoned.

  As I walked up to Gretel, an arm flung itself around my neck. That’s what it felt like, that the arm had suddenly appeared, even though I knew a man had grabbed me from behind.

  “Hold still,” he hissed. “Or I’ll shoot you.”

  I felt cold metal laid along the left side of my face. He had a gun.

  “Nils.” I managed to choke out the word.

  “Smart girl! You’re coming with me. You’re just the bargaining chip I need.”

  Tor! I cried out in my mind. Help!

  Nils began to drag me backwards. Gun or no gun, I wasn’t going to go with him and let him kill me at his leisure. He could travel like Tor did, in big teleported leaps, which meant I had only the briefest moment to get free. I raised a foot and stamped on his instep as hard as I could.

  “Hey!” he snarled. “Play nice, and I won’t hurt you!”

  For an answer I kicked backward and dug the heel of my shoe into his shin. He growled and shook me. I have a weapon, I thought. He can’t know, or he never would have grabbed me. I could feel his élan. I began to gather it, pull it from him, drink it in harder and faster than I’d ever done before.

  His arm tightened around my neck. With every gulp, with every smidgen I felt slide down my throat, I felt him grow weaker, but not fast enough. I had to distract him, or as a sorcerer he’d sense what I was doing. I let my knees go limp. He staggered, off-balance. I got my feet under me again and kicked backwards, hit his shin and heard him swear.

  “Bitch, hold still!”

  His arm choked me, disgusted me, his naked arm, hairy, sweaty in a short sleeve shirt. I twisted, stamped his instep again, and got my head just free enough to bite him. He screamed. I sank my teeth in and locked my jaw tight. The blood spurted. I fed, oh god it felt so splendid to feed myself, to drain red blood, to strip the élan as it flowed from life’s pure fountain!

  Nils dragged me a few feet backwards, but I kept feeding, draining him. I felt a weak surge of energy as he tried to leap away from the parking lot. Instead he stumbled and nearly fell. Full of his élan, my mouth red with his blood, I had power. I threw my weight backwards. Down we went, him underneath. The gun in his hand flashed toward my face. I twisted and rolled. I dragged him with me and on top of me. I fell onto my back and threw my arms around his waist. He tried to use the gun to club me, but it only hit my upper arm. Although I could have broken away, my terror made me clasp him tight against me.

  If I let him go, he’d get up and shoot me. I was certain of that. Faint, damn you! Go under! I felt him weakening, heard his heart pounding a broken rhythm. I lay under him like a succubus and went on feeding.

  “Let go!” Nils was sobbing. “Stop! I’ll let you go! Stop!”

  Someone yelled a word I didn’t know, a string of them—Icelandic words. Big hands grabbed Nils’s wrist and twisted. Nils moaned and shrieked as bone cracked. The gun went flying. A foot flashed into my side vision and kicked Nils hard in the head. The foreign words sounded again. Nils went limp. I unlocked my bite as Tor grabbed me and hauled me to my feet. I leaned against him and trembled but not from fear. I could feel Nils’s élan coursing through my blood. The parking lot seemed to stretch out huge around me. The sunset light surged like water in big bright waves of flame.

  “Hang on!” Tor said.

  I threw my good arm around his neck. He hugged me around the waist and leapt.

  We stumbled to a stop in front of our house. Tor let me go and took his smartphone out of his jeans pocket. I stood panting on the lawn and felt the world settle around me, a normal sight again, because he’d siphoned my excess élan to make the long leap. He looked perfectly sober, whether from absorbing the élan or producing raw adrenalin, I couldn’t know.

  “I’ll let you in,” he said, “and then I’ll go back for Gretel. Where’s your backpack?”

  “I don’t know.” I could barely speak. “I must have dropped it.”

  “Shit! Let’s hope no one finds it.” He tapped in the security codes. “Go upstairs! I’ll lock you in. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  I followed his orders because I didn’t know what else to do. As soon as I got upstairs I ran into the bathroom. I intended to examine my aching arm, but my image in the mirror horrified me so much that I forgot the pain. Blood crusted on my lips and chin. Drops of blood had fallen on my shirt and dried. Nils’s blood. I could taste it in my mouth. I turned to the toilet and vomited.

  It took me some time to clear my stomach and flush every last bit of the vomit away. I washed my face, then took off the filthy shirt and threw it into the bathtub. I was going to take a shower, but my arm throbbed and burned just above the elbow, where Nils had clubbed me. Since I could raise it despite the pain, I knew it wasn’t broken. A meat-red bruise marked the spot. When I looked in the mirror, I saw blood spots on my bra. I took that off and threw it into the tub with the shirt. My stomach had settled just enough to let me keep a couple of pain pills down.

  I left the bathroom and went into my room to get a clean shirt. On the writing desk the image had changed to a skeleton holding up a flask of black liquid. I grabbed the shirt and ran down the hall. In the living room I put the shirt on, then flopped down on the couch. I stared at the empty fireplace and tried to forget the taste of blood. My left arm hurt where left-handed Nils had clubbed me, but my right arm and hand were unharmed. On the coffee table lay a sketchpad and my box of Conté sticks. I picked them up and began to draw.

  When I was a child and my parents were fighting, I drew pictures from fairy stories and folk tales, princes and magicians and monsters and castles, horses who could talk, cats who wore clothes. When I grew older I sometimes drew maps of the magical places where all these beings lived. As a teenager I laid those stories aside, or so I thought, and drew my friends, my family, the buildings where we lived and where I went to school, views of San Francisco, flowers and trees. Those pictures got my teachers’ attention, and they earned me my scholarship to a prestigious school I never could have afforded without it.

  But always in the back of my mind the old stories lurked, because I belonged to their world of monsters and dark magics. That night, waiting for Tor to come home, I drew the horrors from my dreams, the man formed of green slime, the strangled woman. When I drew the wooden shutters, I saw that they were elaborately carved with runes, so I put those in. I
also did a picture of a blond man in a frock coat with a dueling pistol in his hand. I wondered if I was drawing Tor or Björn. Behind the man I drew the shadowy image of a bear standing on its hind legs. The bear seemed to speak and tell me that I was seeing Tor, though he looked different, back then.

  His name was Kristjan. I remembered it, finally, that night. He was a lawyer, not a sorcerer in those days. I was going to divorce Björn and marry him so we could go to America and make a fresh start. Instead Björn killed him, and I followed him into death. I could remember how romantic it seemed, stepping off the dock into death—until the water began to smother me and I floundered, terrified, drowning in the icy cold of the Baltic Sea.

  Slowly the sky outside darkened until it was too dark to see the paper. I hauled myself off the couch and turned on both floor lamps and the counter light in the kitchen, too, for good measure. Tor drove into the garage just a minute or two after. I stood at the window and looked out at the distant bridge and the city glowing under its corona of fog until he came whistling up the stairs. Whistling. I spun around as he walked in and saw him smiling at me. He held up my backpack so I could see it, then laid it onto the coffee table.

  “It was lying where you dropped it,” he said. “No one had come near the car or Nils. The stinking bastard cast an aversion spell before he jumped you. The traces were still there. I banished it and left.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “What?” Tor cocked his head to one side in puzzlement. “I saw his body, but I can’t talk to ghosts. He’s dead.”

  I’d killed someone. Finally I understood what I’d done, broken every promise I’d ever made to decency and God and my father. I’d fed and killed. Yes, he’d assaulted me, but I’d killed him by doing something I swore I’d never do.

  “I’m sorry,” I gasped out. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Why?”