Illusion

by Dy Loveday

  Grabbing the chance, she lurched forward and roundhoused him in the stomach.

  He exhaled in a loud oomph of pain, and agony speared across his face as it contorted into a misshapen mess. His eyes bulged and his face purpled with effort. He fell against the counter and it cracked, peeling away from the tiled wall. The basin dangled from an exposed pipe, gushing a fountain of water over the mirror. Jhara must have realized he had a moment to regain control because the mage’s torso twisted and flailed against the counter like a bug caught on the head of a pin. He spun, cracking his spine against the mirror. The glass shattered, slivers raining onto the floor, one large hunk containing the moon hanging from the frame.

  Jhara’s head lifted and his icy eyes glared back at her. She tugged the sleeves of her sweater up her arms and flicked a quick glimpse at the door.

  His features contorted in a combination of terror and rage. He lifted his fist and backhanded her across the mouth. For a moment she went numb with incredulity, then a terrible ache rocketed through her jawbone.

  Guess I won’t be getting paid in spells tonight. She flexed her jaw to check if it was broken and bit back a cry.

  He seized her hair with an iron fist and tossed her across the slimy floor. She skidded on her stomach straight into a cement pipe.

  Excruciating pain flooded her skull, and the room revolved like the spinning horses on an old-fashioned merry-go-round. Scalp burning, she snatched a sliver of glass and scrambled to her feet, her heart jackhammering. The bastard had hit her—she couldn’t believe it. She squeezed her eyes, breathing in the pain, letting it flow over her.

  Something splattered between her boots and she touched her burning face. A trail of blood dripped off her hand. Time slowed, and the floor wavered. Oh God, she was going to lose consciousness and then he’d rape her and dump her body in the river. Terror coursed through her.

  “You stupid bitch, you let him in without a protective circle.” Jhara’s face was white. “I’ll strangle you with my bare hands.”

  She forced herself to breathe and stand still. He scurried toward her. Ignoring the fresh agony on the back of her head, she flipped to the side and crouched low, snaking her leg out at the same time. He tripped over her boot. The momentum carried him into the bathroom wall. His head struck the tile with a resounding crack and he fell to the floor.

  Tit for tat. She smiled in grim satisfaction. With any luck his head hurt worse than hers. The whole experience was surreal, as if it was happening to someone other than herself. The world dissolved into the distance and time slowed to a drip, silent and withdrawn as an icy calm washed over her.

  Jhara collected himself and turned toward her, blood leaking down his face where the pitted surface had broken skin. He muttered in Latin and jerked his fist as if tugging on a rope. She cried out as her body lifted and slammed against the wall. The sour smell of sweat erupted from her clothes.

  Something flashed in the mirror, brightening the room, and Jhara swiveled. She dropped several inches to her feet and stumbled before recovering.

  Using his distraction, she snatched the door handle with a wet palm and dashed out of the room. She ran down the corridor onto the factory floor. The door slammed open with a dull crash and Jhara’s boots pounded the cement behind her. She turned to face him and the factory shrank to the two of them.

  Cold air flew from Jhara’s raised arm and whopped her in the stomach. She exhaled with a cough and doubled over before straightening.

  The events of the evening replayed in a series of still pictures and her mind whirled, trying to make sense of it all. Had Jhara seen the mirror move, or was he embarrassed she’d witnessed his possession? Illegal magic would undercut Oxyhiayal’s syndicate. She had to be in the middle of a House war. Either way, Jhara would hunt her to the ends of the earth for the loss of face. Hindsight was a loathsome thing. She should have avoided the bastard, even if he produced the cheapest spells in town. The disappointment in her own stupidity and shock at underestimating him made her want to kick herself.

  “Look, mage, I have no idea what’s going on, so don’t blame me.” She cradled her stomach in protection.

  “Bullshit. This is your fault,” he spat. “You have no idea what you’ve done.” He raised his arm, wrist twisted to fling another spell, and started mumbling in Latin.

  The action made her angrier still, and she flipped her wet hair back over straightened shoulders and beckoned him forward with one hand. The same hand clasping a shard of glass and dripping blood.

  “Fine, let’s do this.”

  She had nothing to lose; he was far more powerful than she, but if he killed her, there were witnesses. Someone would tattle if enough money passed hands. Jhara didn’t inspire loyalty. He seemed to realize the same thing because he stopped and glanced around the room as if noticing for the first time they had a large audience. Some looked on with curiosity, others with expectancy, but no one showed an interest in helping. A few humans stood together in a corner, riveted and wide-eyed, as if she was crazy.

  The lights above sparked, dulling to a low glow. In her peripheral vision a large shape stepped from the bathroom corridor. Maybe she was losing it, but the scent of ozone and incense began to overshadow the stench of burned herbs.

  “Get out, you spell-fucked skank. No pay, nothing. Just get out,” he snarled.

  Relief erupted and she shuddered—forced herself to walk on wooden legs past him, ready to duck if he made a move. At the last moment she lifted her bag from the coat hook and slung it over her shoulder. As she opened the door, a movement of air rushed by.

  “Why do you think I picked you? I knew how good you’d be at pushing spells on others,” he whispered over her shoulder.

  She half turned, wishing she had a hex to lob at Jhara’s head. The only thing stopping her from striding onto dangerous ground was bad karma and a shortage of spells. Before she realized she had her hand raised, the fingers balled into a fist. Trembling with rage, she forced her arm back to her side.

  Jhara watched her, his lips curled into a sneer, the glint in his gaze almost disappointed. “Don’t think this is over, girl. You’re a dead bitch walkin’. If Anu doesn’t get you, Horus surely will. And the Houses are your best bet. The other thing you’ve summoned will fuck you over for eternity.”

  Chapter 2

  Resheph-wa-Khasis

  The mournful wail of a taxi pod horn echoed between the dark buildings. The hairs on Maya’s body stood to attention and a shudder made a slow creep down her spine.

  The pavement had lost the last of the day’s warmth. The wind picked up, whistling down an alley between Jhara’s building and a tall Victorian warehouse, maybe fifty feet away. She hated the dark, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. In thirty minutes, she’d be wheedling a free ride on the shuttle bus—if one turned up at all.

  How she’d love to see the sky instead of filthy streets and blackened structures. Too bad illustrations and old photographic images were rare, holed up in libraries under guard. If she’d been born a few decades earlier—and if she’d kept her mouth shut and survived genocide—she might be painting color instead of using charcoal. Maybe she’d be living a comfortable life, painting trompe l’oeil landscapes in rich folks’ houses, instead of passing out half-assed medi-charms to people who couldn’t afford government-sanctioned spells.

  The cold bench seeped through her clothes, freezing her backside, and her toes beat a staccato on the broken road. Her bottled anger died and her temperature dropped while sweat cooled on her skin. Digging into the pocket of her jeans, she found a used handkerchief and wrapped her hand to stanch the blood. She tucked the shard of glass from the mirror into her bag, hoping against hope the water in the factory bathroom would dilute the trail of blood. There was nothing to be done about that, but the mirror shard was soaked in her DNA—something Jhara would love to use in a ritual.

  She cursed and peeled her sleeve from the cut on her arm. The coagulated blood tugged at the wound, and she winced
. Blood patterned the front of her sweater and jeans—a gruesome reminder of her ex-boss’s temper. How the hell would she get enough coin to buy another box of charms? She’d expected to be paid tonight and now she’d have to break into her last savings to survive.

  The overhead bulbs dimmed and sparked. One exploded and she jumped. It shattered glass onto several crates leaning against Jhara’s factory.

  Bruised and weary, she pulled her legs up to her chest in a futile attempt to escape the wind. When she looked up, the world had taken on a wavy, distorted appearance. The warehouse doorways darkened. A sense of foreboding ran up her spine and she swiveled to the right. At the very edge of the light a great black shape rose from the ground. It swept along the pavement, its claws scrabbling on the verge.

  Maya curled into the bench, alone against this awful delusion. A great mangled beast with a human face plunged to the pale edge of light, its mouth exhaling clouds of vapor. Mist smothered her along with the sour smell of rotting fish. She fell back, crying out in fear, and the whimper repeated back, an imitation, but not quite right, more like mimicry.

  The visions were back and this was a bad one, a steep slide into madness.

  Something wet and cold touched the back of her neck, rasping as it brushed strands of her hair. It crawled onto her back, anchored its sinuous body to her clothes with painful digs, and tried crawling up her spine. She arched her back and slapped her shoulders. Another grabbed her ankles, making them burn with a wintry fire. She felt them, one by one, a dozen hands, forcing her to take notice.

  She took even breaths and closed her eyes, fumbling in the side pocket of her bag for a rubber band. She tugged it on her wrist and pulled it back. The band snapped against her skin, and she exhaled with satisfaction.

  Come back. It’s fine. There’s nothing to run from. Your name is Maya. Come back.

  The thing on her back brushed her face. Panic rose in her throat and she tugged the band again, let it twang against her wrist.

  Fingers brushed her cheeks, reached for her mouth and she gasped, began to drift away, began to disconnect to a place where visions wouldn’t find her. It wasn’t cold Earth, desolate after the Mage Wars, but a warm, balmy place where the sun bled through wispy clouds and a huge moon rose to forgive the past.

  A caw sounded above and her lids flew open. There was a whisper of movement and the vision shifted. The shadows wavered, edging back.

  “It is dangerous for you to be here.” A tight voice spilled from the darkness, the words delivered clearly, with enough volume that her muscles locked up tight. The shadows withdrew fast, shrieking in a seething mass of faces and arms. They darted back into the alley between the buildings.

  A stony-faced man stood several feet away. She smelled acrid smoke and lifted her gaze. Red flickers of fire danced on the factory roof. The doors opened and magi and humans streamed out into the street, shouting, but it seemed to come from a great distance, even though they couldn’t be more than twenty feet away.

  She gasped, sucking in a lungful of burned herbs. “Who are you?”

  “We must talk, but this isn’t a good place. Come.” He held out his hand, palm outstretched.

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere safe.”

  She looked into a hard expression, half-exposed by the streetlight.

  “My life just went to crap.” Her breaths shortened and she wanted to get away from Jhara and his damn factory, from dark streets where shadows moved and lurked, waiting to drag her into oblivion.

  “Indeed.” His features were harsh; a hawk-like nose jutted from between dark eyes.

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “Of course not.” He lifted her hand and pressed his hot palm into hers. “But perhaps you might allow me to escort you home.”

  * * * *

  She’d have to remember to thank the magi. Maya hoped the next run-in would end with them howling in pain. And there would be another meeting. The way her luck spilled through her fingers, she could almost count on it.

  Maybe she’d finally reached the low point her mother had predicted would end her life? Her mind swirled with images of the magi, the stranger and, for some inexplicable reason, a fortress basking under a hot sun.

  A headache wound its way across her skull and she wanted to be home when it hit, preferably between warm sheets. She probed the back of her head and winced when her fingers came back smeared with blood. Her body was one twitching pile of pain and she wasn’t sure what part ached the most.

  She focused on the dark haired stranger sitting next to her in the back of the taxi pod and rolled her shoulders to relieve the tightness in her neck. In the front seat, a turbaned driver tapped on the illuminated dashboard as the pod weaved through wet streets.

  “Where did you come from?” she asked.

  Her blood still pumped through her veins in shock at the man’s sudden appearance, but at least the darkness had retreated.

  “My name is Resheph-wa-Khasis.” A scar split one corner of his mouth, lifting the side of his lip into a permanent sneer. He watched her, his face expressionless and eyes steady, just like a shark watching its prey.

  Instead of making her afraid, his intent gaze irritated her. Resheph carried the same bulky muscle as the warrior in the mirror. He’d unceremoniously assumed control, piling her into the taxi pod, and although part of her felt relief, the other part conferred a manic desire to smack the smirk off his face.

  “Did you see or sense anything other than me earlier?” He uttered a strange, low-toned invocation and waved his hand. An odd circular object with glyphs and runes around the rim appeared. He turned it slowly, looking into the concave mirror, and beckoned with his finger. A purple vial burst out of the middle and bounced into his palm.

  “What do you mean ‘anything’?” She glared up at him. So this guy happened to be another mage, with an unusual name. She stared at him, wondering when Fate had planned its mammoth magi surprise. The male bothered her, but she’d play along until she got home. Lessons were plentiful on the streets, but one thing stood out more than the rest—a human never, ever, showed vulnerability to the magi—it only brought out their predator instincts.

  He issued an impatient sound. “The portal you opened. Did anything else cross?” The soft trench coat covering him to his knees exaggerated his height so he looked like a mythical werewolf crouched in the shadows.

  “Portal?” She must have been mistaken; he couldn’t have been in the factory—Jhara never let strangers past the front door, especially one who packed enough muscle to swat him into next week.

  The dark-haired mage reached out to touch her forehead. When he pulled his hand away, he rubbed his thumb across his fingers. Blood tickled as it dribbled down her temple, coagulating near her ear. She raised both palms, retreating to the far corner of the pod. A frown creased his brow. He turned away and his wavy, shoulder-length hair fell forward over his face.

  She leaned against the frameless window and her arm pulsed. She gave an involuntary jerk, stifling a cry of misery, and clamped her teeth together to stop them from chattering.

  “I have something that will help,” he said.

  “No, I’ll be fine.” She wasn’t okay but didn’t want to show pain in front of the mage. His pronunciation was oddly slow and inconsistent, as if he was concentrating on making each inflection as bland as possible.

  She fumbled in her bag, locating eyeliner and a knife, before her fingers closed over her spellbox. The glass lid showcased her motley supply of Jhara’s spells, tossed together with a used entry ticket to Absinthe.

  “Are they capable of healing a fracture?” Resheph leaned forward to view the small case. His voice sounded deep and rough, almost hoarse.

  “No, probably not. But I’ll live.” She eyed the thin slice of paper, almost the size of her pinkie nail. She had three blockers left—after that she was on her own.

  She swallowed the tab and heaved a sigh as her muscles relaxed. The image of the middle-aged
woman who’d purchased a spell from her last week ran through her mind. The husband had sworn she’d taken one of Jhara’s inflammatio spells to reduce swelling, and had shrunk to two and a half feet tall instead. Of course Jhara denied any culpability.

  Her head throbbed, pounding as if it had been crushed.

  Resheph took off his coat with a whisper of sound and placed it across her shoulders. It enveloped her in a rich smell of sandalwood and she ran her fingers over the lightweight mesh, curious despite her pain. The warmth from his body trickled into hers and she breathed deeply, holding in the scent.

  He smelled much nicer than regular magi. His fitted pants were made from some type of dense black material while a white shirt stuck close to his skin. He had a stunning body for a mage—two points in his favor, then. His upright posture and formal tone reminded her of the military. A dark shadow of a tattoo snaked up a well-toned wrist to his upper arm. Black ravens gazed back at her from between the desolate branches of a bare tree. Their shiny obsidian eyes seemed filled with knowledge, and she screwed up her nose before she could stop herself.

  Pain shafted through her skull. Her mouth filled with saliva and she swallowed hard.

  “This will help remove the pain.” Resheph held out a slim ampule filled with fluorescent pink liquid. “Your lip and scalp are raw.”

  Maya eyed him. She closed her fingers around her spellbox. The oblong shape under her palm reassured her. Trusting the higher magi went against everything she’d been taught, and this mage didn’t wear the runes of either House.

  “What is it?” she asked. Her voice sounded raspy in her own ears. The elixir looked unfamiliar. She pulled out a mixture of pennyroyal and peppermint oil from her case. After dabbing a spot on her finger, she indicated for him to pass the elixir across.

  “It is a healing spell. We call it ad partes dolentes.” He handed her the glass vial that he’d pulled from the concave disc.

  She rubbed the oil on the bottle and waited a moment to see if it would change color. The oil remained a stable opaque. So the ampule contained nothing poisonous. She pulled out her last ashwood medi-amulet to neutralize untamed spells and attached it to her wrist. He watched impassively.