Stone Cold Lover

by Christine Warren

  At times over the course of the afternoon and into the evening, Spar wondered that no one reported the cries to the human authorities. Had he heard them from the street and not realized what was happening above the empty storefront, he would have suspected torture at the very least, if not outright murder. Of course, he doubted many murder victims took six hours to die.

  It took that long for Wynn to do her work. Watching Felicity during that time filled him with a kind of agony he had never experienced before. The fact that she continued to fight her bindings and writhe and struggle during the entire experience proved the forces at play to be inhuman. Not even the pure energy of magic could have fueled that kind of persistence for so many hours.

  The tenuous trust he had in Wynn wavered for a moment when she reached to the table at the start of the seventh hour and picked up a double-edged knife. His hand shot out over the back of the sofa and grabbed her wrist.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Relax, Guardian. I’m not foolish enough to harm another human in your presence.” She turned the knife in her hand, kissed the blade, and then offered him the hilt. “Take it.”

  Spar recognized the ritual blade. The athame wasn’t large—only nine inches from end to end—but it gleamed wickedly sharp in the lights of the living room. The hilt had been fashioned from ebony wood turned to curve gracefully in the palm. It flowed uninterrupted to the blade with no pommel or guard to break the line between wood and metal. Despite having sat untouched on the table for hours, it felt warm in his hand.

  “You won’t let me harm her, so you’re going to have to do it.”

  Spar’s head snapped up, and he felt his fangs emerge even in his human guise. “What?”

  Wynn watched him steadily, outwardly unafraid of his show of aggression. “I’ve weakened the bond, but to sever it, the poison it’s infected her with has to be drained. We need to cut her hand and let the cloth soak it up.” She saw the expression on his face, and her mouth curved. “Just a prick, Guardian. I promise she’ll suffer no lasting harm.”

  Spar still didn’t like the idea, something he felt certain the witch had no trouble seeing in his face and his reluctant movements. He turned to Felicity and saw to his surprise that her movements had slowed, growing less aggressive in the last several minutes. She continued to pant more like an animal than a human, but she no longer bucked and thrashed against her bonds. He felt a renewed sense of optimism that the witch might actually know what she was doing.

  “You need to use the tip of the blade and prick her through the cloth right in the center of the mark. Don’t disturb the wrapping otherwise. It needs to stay in place,” Wynn instructed as she hovered on Felicity’s other side. “The binding around the hand needs to soak up the blood. After you prick her, hand me back the athame.”

  He nodded that he understood her instructions, much as he was loath to carry them out. The idea of deliberately causing his mate injury went against the very fabric of his nature. If it would save her, though, he would do whatever he needed to. Taking her bound hand in one of his, he gently pried the fingers open and cradled the palm in one of his own.

  With a deep breath, he pulled back and struck before he could think. If he allowed himself to hesitate, he questioned his ability to follow through. The wickedly honed blade sliced through the muslin as if it were tissue paper, and he felt the tip bite into Felicity’s tender flesh. Her high, wild scream nearly caused him to drop the knife.

  Color bloomed in the center of the binding, not bloodred but black as pitch. Wynn glanced at it and nodded. “Good.”

  Reluctantly, Spar passed back the blade. “What now?”

  “Give it a minute.”

  Spar waited, eyes riveted to the spot where the black substance continued to stain the white cloth. Near Felicity’s head, Wynn closed her eyes and began to chant. The words were lost on him, but he recognized the lilting, shifting syllables as Welsh. As she spoke her spell, the stain on Felicity’s bandage spread until the very edges began to turn not black, but bright, bloody red.

  Wynn’s eyes snapped open and she reached forward, slipping the blade of the knife between Felicity’s skin and the soaked cloth. She sliced easily through the muslin and drew it away, handling it reluctantly by the very edges. Using the athame to shift and poke at it, she stuffed it into a black silk bag she held at the ready and tied it shut with a thin, black cord.

  Immediately Spar’s gaze shifted to his mate. He felt his heart stutter as he saw the clear, fair color of her skin and the calm, peaceful expression on her face. She had fallen perfectly still, her body relaxed against the ropes that bound her, no longer fighting to escape. He reached out and cupped her face in his hand, feeling her skin smooth, cool, and soft against his.

  After a moment, she stirred, her lashes fluttering briefly before parting to reveal sleepy and confused green eyes. “Hm, wow,” she murmured, her voice husky. Not from sleep, but from six hours of shrieking, screaming, and moaning. “That was one hell of a nap. How long was I asleep?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  After everything she had done for them, it only seemed polite to ask Wynn to stay for dinner. Plus, having been informed what had happened over the past several hours, Fil still had a few questions to ask. Easier to ask them with the witch still present and properly fed.

  They ordered in Chinese, and over Hunan beef, Buddhist delight, and pork dumplings, Fil tried to fill in the big blank spot in her memory. “I’m still having a hard time wrapping my mind around it all. The last thing I remember is sitting on the sofa with my laptop feeling frustrated with our lack of progress in the search.”

  “It’s not surprising.” Wynn lifted a broccoli spear to her mouth with deftly wielded chopsticks. “You weren’t yourself. And I mean that literally. I wouldn’t exactly call what you went through possession, not in the classical sense, but your actions absolutely were not your own. Memory loss isn’t unexpected.”

  “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  “Don’t blame you.”

  Turning over her left hand, Fil examined the tiny, new red scar in the middle of the demon’s mark. “I’ve already thanked you for your help, so please don’t think I’m not grateful, but I kind of wish whatever you had done had erased this thing completely. I can’t imagine walking around for the rest of my life with some demon’s signature scrawled across my palm.”

  “Sorry about that, but I don’t think it will last forever.” Wynn sipped from a glass of cola before continuing. “Like I told the Guardian, what I did was break the bond tying you to the demon’s energy. Without that, the mark has nothing sealing it in place. It should fade over time. Sorry it’s not immediate.”

  “Hey, any improvement is appreciated. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “And I think that after the experience we shared, you might consider calling me by my name,” Spar threw in.

  Wynn glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t want to presume any familiarity.”

  Fil frowned. “Why not? If you grew up with Wardens in your family, you’re already a hell of a lot more familiar with the whole Guardian thing than I am.”

  “Yeah, that’s why I didn’t presume.” Wynn made a face. “Everything is turned upside down now, I suppose, but the way I grew up the Guardians were always held up as these figures of awe, something you treated with kid gloves and a whole lot of respect. Especially if you were just a girl.”

  Oh, that phrase rubbed Fil all sorts of the wrong way. “Just a girl?” she repeated.

  Wynn snorted. “You really are new to this, aren’t you? Let’s just say that the Guild of Wardens does not have the universe’s greatest track record when it comes to gender parity and equal rights.”

  Fil glanced at Spar. He looked uncomfortable.

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “Ninety-nine percent of those accepted into the Guild as apprentices are men. Literally. For every one hundred members of the Guild, there i
s exactly one woman. And trust me, it’s not like there aren’t women out there who are qualified, but somehow, mysteriously, they’re almost always passed over in favor of men.”

  “What the hell is that all about?”

  Shrugging, Wynn pointed her chopsticks at Spar. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  Fil shifted on the sofa to face the Guardian. “What the hell is that all about?”

  Spar gave Wynn a dirty look. “I am not a member of the Guild. The Guardians exist separately from the Guild and do not make its rules or govern its practices.”

  “Um, I call cop-out.” Fil poked him in the chest. “You might not belong to the Guild, but you’ve worked with them for, like, a thousand years. Or more. You can’t tell me you aren’t at least familiar with how they operate.”

  He sighed, as if the topic tried his patience. Fil could have told him that he hadn’t even seen her trying side yet. “The Guild works on an apprentice system, which limits the number of applicants that can be admitted. Training a new Warden is an intense and time-consuming process, and each Guild member has only so much teaching he can handle in addition to his other duties. I do not know why more women are not accepted to train, only that each Warden has complete authority over whom he accepts as a student. No one can force him to turn away a female applicant, any more than one could force him to accept one.”

  “Yeah, they’ve got quite the little system going there. Very old-boy network, complete with justifications about how women are ‘unsuited’ to the work of a warden. Just like we were supposedly unsuited to medicine, business, and the military once upon a time.”

  Fil heard the bitter edge to Wynn’s voice. “What about the job they claim we’re ‘unsuited’ for?”

  Wynn smiled sharply. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a straight answer to that question, and I’ve been asking it since I could talk.”

  “Well, what qualifies someone to apply in the first place? Is there some weird test you have to pass first? Something that requires a penis?”

  “The only stated rule about becoming a Warden is that the applicant must have a preexisting magical ability of sufficient strength to cast the spell of supplication. If you can do that, you’re qualified.”

  “And I can assume the spell doesn’t involve writing your name in the snow with your own pee, right?”

  “Felicity!” Spar thundered.

  “What? I can’t think of another reason a woman couldn’t cast the same spell a man can.”

  “There isn’t one,” Wynn said. “That’s why the whole thing is such a joke.”

  Fil narrowed her eyes and curled her lip. “I’m not laughing.”

  “You and me both, sister.” Wynn pushed aside her plate and leveled her gaze on Spar. “Like I told the Guardian, my family has produced Wardens for the Guild for seven generations. Magic runs pretty deep in our line. We’re all witches of one kind or another. Because I’m female, a witch is all I am. If I were a man, I’d be a Warden by now.”

  Spar lifted his hands. “Do not hold me responsible, human. I am not the cause of your denial. I will not take the blame for it.”

  “Still, you have to admit it’s ridiculous, Spar,” Fil said. “I mean, why turn away perfectly qualified applicants? It seems to me it’s time the Guild dragged its sorry ass into the twenty-first century.”

  “I’m not sure the Guild has an ass left to drag anywhere,” Wynn admitted. “Are you guys aware of what’s been happening with the Wardens?”

  “You mean that finding one these days is like looking for a leprechaun and his great big pot o’ gold?” Fil nodded. “Oh, yeah. We’re aware. What no one can seem to figure out is when it started and how it got so far.”

  “No one?” Wynn latched on to the phrasing and looked curious. “Who else knows about it? Have you guys spoken to another Warden? When? What was his name? Where did you find him?”

  The flurry of questions removed any doubt that the witch had a personal stake in the answers. “Who are you missing?”

  “My brother, Bran. He just completed his training two years ago. I haven’t heard from him in more than eight months.”

  Fil heard the pain in the other woman’s voice and reached out to touch her hand. “I’m sorry. I wish we could tell you something, but the only Warden we’ve even had a line on was named Jeffrey, and my friend Ella said she met one named Alan a few weeks ago. Jeffrey was unfortunately gone when we got to his place, and Ella said Alan was killed by nocturnis.”

  Wynn blew out a breath. “Sorry. It’s just really hard not to know, you know?”

  “Ella is still looking for Wardens, and she’s getting better at it every day. I’ll ask her to keep an eye out for Bran, okay?”

  “Thanks, but who is Ella, and how is she mixed up in all this?”

  Fil briefly sketched out the story of her friendship with Ella Harrow and how the other woman had been the first to stumble onto the problem with the Guild of Wardens. She and her Guardian, Kees.

  Wynn’s eyes went wide. “There’s another Guardian awake? Oh, my Goddess, that is such bad, bad news.” She looked a little green around the edges. “For two Guardians to be awake at the same time, without being summoned by the Guild … that spells serious, world-ending trouble.”

  “So we’re beginning to suspect.”

  Fil and Spar exchanged glances. She saw his barely perceptible shrug and knew he was leaving it up to her whether she wanted to tell Wynn the rest. For Fil, there was no question. The witch had already saved her life, and her family background made her more familiar with the Wardens, the Guardians, and the Order than either Ella or herself. Heck, she probably knew more about how the Guild worked than Kees and Spar. She was a resource they couldn’t afford to let get away.

  Turning back to Wynn, she nibbled her lip, then just went for it. “Spar and I got some information from the Warden we just missed finding. Jeffrey. According to what he put together—and we’re inclined to believe him—he thinks one of the Seven might already have been set free.”

  Every drop of blood drained from Wynn’s face, leaving her pale, gray, and trembling. “Please, Goddess, no.”

  “We don’t think it’s very strong right now,” Fil reassured her. “Spar believes it didn’t escape but was basically dragged into this plane using some really fucked-up magic the nocturnis concocted. Excuse my language.”

  “No, the Order’s magic is fucked up. That’s the technical term.” The witch used a shaking hand to tuck her long hair behind her ear. “What makes you think the demon is weak for now?”

  “Felicity’s life represents strong evidence.” Spar took her still-marked hand in his and stroked her palm with a fingertip. “Were it not, do you believe she could have survived more than a week bearing its mark?”

  “If the mark belonged to another member of the Seven, it might be possible, but no. You’re right. And I think that the mark used on her belongs to the Defiler probably indicates that it is the one who was summoned.”

  “I believe you are correct. Also the fact that the end of the world has not already been reported by the human media adds to my belief that the demon remains weak, perhaps critically so.”

  “True. If a full-strength member of the Seven were already among us, we’d be toast by now.” She winced.

  “I had a vision last weekend,” Fil said. “I saw someone, a member of the Order, in some kind of basement or something. It looked like he was performing some sort of ritual, or maybe casting a spell … I’m not sure. Anyway, after a minute the vision shifted and I saw him enter the room of the guy who gave me the mark. He killed him, killed the guy who marked me, but before that he spoke to him, and it sounded like the first guy was the other one’s boss. I think the dead guy called him the Hierophant. You know, before the part where he became dead.”

  “The Hierophant?” Wynn looked surprised. “Here in Montreal?”

  “You don’t think it’s possible?”

  “Anything is possible when it comes to the n
octurnis. I’m just surprised. I’ve been living here for more than a year, and I never even suspected activity on that level. It makes me feel like a bit of an idiot.”

  “I suppose I can’t be a hundred percent positive, since the ritual space was inside, and he sort of teleported into the hospital room without registering his flight path, but it didn’t feel like he was far away. Do you understand what I mean?”

  Wynn gave a slight smile. “Instinct is the basis of magic.”

  “Right, and my instinct said he was close by. The problem is that I have absolutely no idea where ‘close by’ might actually be. Heck, I’m so new at this, ‘close by’ in magical terms could mean Manitoba. How would I know?”

  “Manitoba isn’t close in any terms. Even Manitoban terms.” Wynn looked thoughtful. “If we could figure out a way to locate the Hierophant, that would be amazing. Taking him out would really throw the Order for a loop. Eventually someone would step in to take his place, but in the meantime it would be chaos. And not the kind of chaos they like.”

  “We thought the same, but locating a single human on this plane with not even a name to aid our search…” Spar trailed off. “So far, it has not gone well.”

  “What have you tried?”

  “Everything we can think of,” Fil said. “Mostly stabbing around under the Internet’s dark rocks and seeing if I can scare anything into the light.”

  “The Order keeps its business off the Net. They figured out early on it made them too easy to track. You won’t catch him that way. Have you tried finding him by not looking for him?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I mean, by not looking for him. Look for what he leaves behind,” Wynn explained. “If the Order managed to summon one of the Seven, you can bet the Hierophant was behind it, so he’ll be right in the thick of things. He’ll be the demon’s chief servant, and if it really is weak, he’ll be trying to feed it.”

  “Ew. I take it he’s not bringing it Tim Hortons and poutine, huh?”