Traveler

by Melanie Jackson

  As Jack shoved his uninjured hand deeper into the wood, he blessed Io for her craftwork that had altered the spell into something so useful. She was a master at making silk purses out of sows’ ears. Jack could make spells strong, but it was simply brute force prevailing over weaker magic. If he pushed too hard, he could break spells, collapsing their structures like aluminum cans. Io coaxed and charmed and bent subtly. Her spells were flexible and strong. They stretched. Look what she had done with his own core magic. Love me, Jack, she had said, shifting the ancient protective word charm into something else.

  And he did love her, goddess help him. Against all will and common sense, he loved her.

  The timing of this revelation sucked, but it did add incentive to finish this job quickly and safely.

  Jack pushed more power into his spell and shoved harder on the wedged bar. There was some noise when the brace hit the floor and when the hinges creaked open, but no one seemed interested in seeing who was destroying Horroban’s door. Most likely everyone was up top partying. It was nearly midnight. Most magical beings would be higher than kites.

  And Io would be in the tunnels now, getting ready to loose her magical conflagration.

  Jack moved on through the black arcade, being just one more shadow among all the other shades that crouched there in the windowless mansion. He went slowly because the magic was thick here—thick and evil and waiting. There were no lights of any kind, and there were certain to be magical trip wires and other more physical traps. Jack was betting that that was the unwelcoming kind of guy Horroban was.

  The corridor had been built all out of bad angles and uneven surfaces that had no sympathy for the preferences of human height and clumsy feet. But Jack had no trouble knowing where he needed to go. As he had told Io, a magical being’s inner sorcery always knew where to seek out other sorcery. No darkness was deep enough to obscure that path.

  Following the psychic slime trail of Horroban’s now familiar black art, Jack went down a narrow stair cleft into the stone. Naturally, this would be Horroban’s choice of locale: the deepest, darkest, closest spot to the upswell of magical power, which would peak at midnight. Sorcery Central.

  Jack wiped the sweat from his face.

  Goddess willing, there’d be no peak for the goblin king tonight, no nasty magical climax to make him shivery with wicked delight. Death would call on Horroban instead, and he wouldn’t offer the goblin king a chance to use the mitigating charm he had donated to Io. This was one goblin whose heart was going to stop. Eat it, drink, love it—it didn’t matter. Horroban was about to die. He’d die so the world would be safe. So Io would be safe.

  Io didn’t put the manhole cover back in place. She wanted her retreat left open since she probably would be heading back at a flat-out run, quite possibly with half the goblin population from beneath the Motor City on her heels. There would certainly be fire chasing her.

  She walked silently, but boldly, heading for the fields outside Horroban’s headquarters. She would start there and retreat back to Lutin’s special hydroponics project, and then take out all the fields back to Edmund Street.

  It would have been nice to take her mask off and allow the sweat on her face to run free, but a bit of concealment would buy her a measure of safety and time if she were spotted from a distance.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Where are Xanthe’s pet spies?” the voice, familiar from television, asked. William Hamilton. Horroban. He didn’t speak in goblin. Perhaps all the surgery had altered his vocal chords so that he could no longer produce the proper sounds.

  Jack finished checking for wards on the chamber door, disabling the ones he found, but knowing there would be more inside the mirrored room beyond where all the reflective surfaces would increase the goblins’ power.

  He was ready, and it was time, but…he decided to watch and listen to his prey for a moment before sending spells and bullets into the magic-charged space.

  It was an odd moment—the moment—brought about by Fate, and it seemed that the occasion should be marked somehow. If nothing else, Jack thought it was likely that he would never be this close to true evil again.

  Also, he might learn something useful for later on. Information was power and the second coin of the realm. And Jack wanted info in a bad way because, though he doubted that Horroban had actually uncovered the magical generator, the goblin warlord had gotten hold of something very powerful, very old, and very magical that was allowing him to focus the magic that dwelled down here.

  “No one’s seen ’em lately,” several warped Glashtins answered. The halves of the weather goblin’s face that Jack could see in the multiple mirrors were all green iridescence under the glowing plaster ceiling. He sounded drunk and held a brandy snifter loosely in his upper right hand. “Figured they’d go back to Lutin’s after sneaking around down here, but they never went back. They haven’t been in the club either. Hille’s real disappointed about that. She had plans for the little fey girl after the show tonight.”

  “I see. Neveling?” the calm voice asked next. “You are quite certain they haven’t been in the factory? Jack Frost’s reputation among our contacts in law enforcement does not suggest that he is the sort of man to simply abandon a project.”

  “Oh yes, I’m quite sure,” a new voice said. “I’ve left Slav and Plait there to roam at will. He’d have been eaten if he came back.” The goblin perfumer’s voice was high; his surgeon had not been as skilled as Horroban’s in manufacturing the perfect human tenor. Or perhaps the goblin was nervous. “I think they have given up. Our contacts in the police department haven’t seen Jack in days and believe he has left town. And, anyway, there wasn’t anything to find at the factory. Since her spy got eaten, Xanthe has been most cooperative about discouraging H.U.G. from doing anything active. The perfume release will go as planned.”

  “It is nice to know that Xanthe has cooperated. Not that it will do her any good. The little sister dies tonight. Ah, but how? Let’s see. Give her to the trolls? They’ve been very patient. Would you like that, Toc?”

  “Sure. Thanks, boss!” a troll, presumably Toc, said. His several long-nosed reflections grinned, showing double rows of jagged teeth. “Me and the boys appreciate it. We ain’t had us a girl for a long time.”

  “She’s at the factory,” Neveling spoke up in a fretful voice. Several misshapen versions of the perfume maker pulled at their identical bow ties. “She’ll have to be fetched and taken elsewhere. I don’t want the mess at work. The last killing ruined the carpet!”

  Horroban sighed. “Fine. I don’t think Toc is particular about where he takes his meals. But be quiet now. It is nearly time. How I have waited for thissss night!” Horroban’s tongue flicked out quickly. He closed his eyes and began ‘mainlining power—that was the only word that Jack could think of to describe what was happening.

  Jack watched, fascinated, as Horroban’s modified skin began to glow and his dark hair grew large, perhaps raised at the roots as the current of swelling magic contracted his scalp muscles. His perfect, capped teeth appeared as the lips pulled away in an unnatural grin. His eyebrows and cheeks drew back as well, making his lower jaw appear longer and even more pointed.

  Everyone obediently fell silent, bowing their heads. They looked respectful, but unable to enjoy the magic the way Horroban did. Lutin, in fact, appeared rather ill and kept swallowing convulsively.

  Time to go.

  Jack shifted a bit so that he could better see where the troll Toc was standing. Neveling and Glashtin were dressed in formal wear and didn’t seem to be armed, but the troll would be. Yes, he had a gun holstered on his left side, but he wouldn’t have a clear shot at Jack without moving. Trolls were slow.

  Satisfied that the mirrors hadn’t deceived him and that he knew where everyone was, Jack shifted his attention back to the creature he was planning to exterminate.

  Evil had chosen a less than prepossessing face. It was not extraordinarily ugly, nor extraordinarily beau
tiful. It was not extraordinarily anything. Yet however modest his wrappings, Horroban was extraordinary, and Jack respected that fact even as he detested what the creature was doing.

  Horroban had aimed high and succeeded—the best law school, then the state senate, next a seat in congress. And his final stop was the White House. It seemed inevitable. The public loved his southern witticisms delivered in his soft, slow, drawling style. He was homely as all modified goblins were, but still looked good in the spotlight. His supporters felt sure he would look even better standing behind the presidential podium.

  It was hard to imagine how he had gotten where he was. His pedigree was impeccable, seemingly impossible to forge. Yet somehow it had been stolen at some time in the real man’s life without anyone noticing. Horroban had slipped into this man’s shoes without a single misstep and without leaving any betraying footprints behind as clues. He’d taken William Hamilton’s identity, his power, his wife, his children, and almost certainly his life.

  Horroban sat there in his wing-backed chair, seemingly a man of wealth and authority, dressed impeccably in an Italian wool suit, dark red tie, and handmade shoes. Of course, it was anyone’s guess as to what sort of animal the leather for those shoes had come from—Xanthe’s mole would be Jack’s first bet. Or maybe the man whose identity he had stolen. It would amuse a goblin to daily tread on the man into whose “shoes he’d stepped.”

  Worst of all, Horroban was smugly certain he was going to get away with poisoning the whole human world. It could happen, too, if Jack failed.

  Horroban was surrounded by protection both physical and magical. Jack knew beyond any doubt that his own death spells wouldn’t be enough to kill the goblin king so close to midnight, not unless they touched—and that was not something that Jack wanted. But a long-distance, nonmagical hit was fine with him. He’d prepared for this eventuality. Jack’s hand slipped inside his jacket and he unholstered his gun and aimed it in one smooth movement.

  Time to go.

  Still, he hesitated with a finger on the trigger, waiting for a last miracle, a trick of magic that would allow the cup of cold-blooded murder to pass his lips without him having to drink. Jack had killed—many, many times. But never in cold blood. It was more difficult than he’d imagined.

  As he hesitated, a small foreign doubt entered his mind, and finding fertile soil, it blossomed insidiously. Its petals of misgiving unfurled like an umbrella, getting between Jack’s body and the light of his will.

  What if Horroban wasn’t a goblin? What if he was just a benevolent human who was trying to unite the species in peace? He didn’t look like a goblin, did he?

  Jack’s eyelids began to twitch and his palms to sweat.

  No! That wasn’t true. Horroban was a goblin, a killer. He’d just heard the monster say he was going to feed Chloe to the trolls!

  How could he think that? It was all a misunderstanding. He had no proof. None.

  No, but—

  Something popped open in Jack’s mind, sending small ricochets of pain bouncing off the interior of his skull.

  He should put the gun down and reconsider what he was doing. Jack was the one who was planning death—not Horroban. He was a death fey, an evil carrier of doom. He should maybe even turn the gun around and point it at himself. That would be the best thing. He should do it now! Now!

  Horroban’s eyes flashed open, staring into the space Jack occupied. In that instant, Jack could see the goblin inside the man. The pupils were slits, each iris running all the way to the eyelids. The entire ocular cavity glowed with black sorcery. It was sorcery that the goblin was using to invade Jack’s mind, the white noise of his mind-rending scream causing some form of neural jamming.

  The goblin’s mouth opened, ready to speak words of power that would force Jack into turning the pistol on himself. Part of Jack wanted that, believed he deserved it. The rest of him cried out for help to finish the job before it was too late.

  Jack! Jack, what’s wrong? Io’s voice cut through the manic screaming, breaking through the magic blanket that was blotting out his brain and will, and giving him something to hold on to. He blessed the telepathy that had grown up between them. Jack Frost, answer me! Right now, or I’m coming in after you!

  Io! He couldn’t let her near this!

  Jack’s hand steadied. Not giving Horroban a chance to articulate any part of a suicide spell, Jack ignored the brain-ripping screams of Horroban’s subliminal voice and carefully put two rounds into the goblin’s head, and then one in the monster’s chest for good measure. He doubted the creature actually had a heart, but in case he did have something there, it was better to pulp it into something that couldn’t be eaten or used in some spell by other goblins.

  Immediately, the foreign voice stopped screaming in Jack’s brain, the echoes slowing dying and leaving Jack’s mind blessedly empty, a crater blasted clear by a searing bomb.

  Jack let out a slow breath, his gun hand lowering to his side. His whole body was trembling, awash in adrenaline and foreign magic that was no longer being guided and therefore rushing about purposelessly.

  Jack? Io’s voice was louder now.

  It’s okay. I’m all right now. Don’t come here.

  Swear by the goddess! she demanded.

  I swear.

  And he was all right. It had worked. Jack’s invisibility spell had stifled the soft sounds of the gun that the man-made muffler had not. Standing five feet away, the others hadn’t heard a thing. With their heads still bowed and their eyes down cast, no one seemed to notice Horroban slumping deeper into his chair, his eyelids lowering halfway as the light faded from his eyes.

  Jack stood shaking and amazed, and again blessed Io for the tweaking she had done to his spell. It felt like a grenade had exploded in his head, but no one had heard Jack cry out. No one moved. They hadn’t felt any of it, not the mental battle, not the directed magic, not the death. The spell had held its shield even when Jack wasn’t in control. It had held fast in the face of the strongest sorcery he had ever encountered.

  And thanks to it, Horroban was dead.

  Horroban was dead!

  Jack realized that he could leave right then and it would be several seconds—valuable seconds—before anyone grasped what had happened. Wrapped in invisibility, Jack could be out and away, and no one would ever know that he had been the one to off Horroban. He could hook up with Io and they could escape at once—go far away, and neither of them would have to confront this awful magic again.

  He wanted to—with all his heart, he wanted to flee, to run away from the awesome magic that Horroban had used to try to kill him.

  But that would be leaving the job half done, and the rest of the merry band of mass murderers still alive and plotting. There’d be no White House, but they’d still have fruit, perfume, and a plan.

  Damnation!

  And they knew about Io and Zayn. Goblins hadn’t heard the one about carrying vengeance to the grave but no further. They wouldn’t shrug off Horroban’s death as a casualty of war. They’d hunt Jack and Io and Zayn forever. Chloe as well, if she weren’t already dead. And they would go right on with their arrangement to poison the world with goblin-fruit perfume. Why not? There was nothing to stop them.

  But he could put an end to their deadly stratagems tonight. If all the conspirators died, and their genetically altered fruit went with them, there wouldn’t be anyone left to carry on Horroban’s legacy.

  All he had to do was confront one more time the black magic running wild in that room. Go into that maelstrom, keep a hold on his sanity for a few seconds, and let his gun do its work. Without Horroban to direct this city’s magic against him, he could probably manage the task.

  No! Io protested. Whatever it is, Jack, don’t do it!

  Sorry, little fey.

  Jack didn’t want to do it, but he’d have to go into the room to get Toc, Glashtin, and Neveling. He had no clean line of fire from the doorway—and that meant he’d have to leave his own protective
magic outside the door. The ravenous power welling up in the room would try to strip his brain and gather up his magic as he stepped inside. It might even turn his own core magic against him. He had no defenses against his own magic—none. Jack couldn’t risk it. That was rule one of magical self-defense: Don’t go into battle with any weapon that could be turned against you.

  You won’t be able to hear me! Io said, apparently doing the math and realizing what he was going to try. Jack, don’t do it. I’ll get the fruit. We’ll stop them later. We’ll get the fruit, the factory. We’ll have time to make another plan.

  He wished passionately that it were true.

  The odds were three to one against him, and the troll was definitely armed. Glashtin had strong internal magic and might be able to use the power in the room. That made him dangerous. Lutin was an unknown, but that didn’t mean he could be discounted.

  Jack thought of Io, conjured a picture of her face. Then he pictured her body after the trolls had been at her.

  Three to one. And free-ranging, carnivorous magic was surging through the room, looking for a place to manifest itself, looking for someone to use. Not great odds, but he had to see this through. Even if he didn’t make it out alive.

  Fate and the goddess be with him. For Io’s sake, for her future, he had to stop them.

  Get going, little fey. Horroban is dead and I’ll be there in a minute. Burn this son-of-a-bitch hive down. Jack made his thoughts calm and forceful.

  Jack!

  I love you. Now do it.

  Not giving her a chance to answer, in case the reply wasn’t the one he wanted to hear, Jack broke his connection with her.

  Regretting the loss of fine spells they’d accumulated, Jack slipped off his invisibility and other protection.

  Taking a breath, focusing his energy and thoughts on what he had to do, he stepped into the magical maelstrom.

  “Trick or treat,” he managed to say, the sound of his voice fighting off some of the magical surges that were still trying to find a place to jack into his brain and electrocute him.