by Dy Loveday
“This is out of their league. You’re not human, so you’re out of their jurisdiction.”
“Then I must be a lower mage. My mother was human. Maybe one of my ancestors slept with a mage, but I didn’t know until today that I had any special talent.”
“It’s impossible for any mage to do what you’ve done, let alone a hybrid.”
“I swear.”
“You’re a biohazard. The whole block surrounding the factory went up.” He tugged a black square out of his belt pocket and waved a hand. It unfolded several times, forming a black plastic shroud that floated to the ground. She lurched back at the sight of the body bag.
“We can clone you dead or alive. I’m not taking chances.” His jaw muscles ticked. He was troubled and was trying hard to hide it.
“Look, Jhara was dabbling in all sorts of crap. It had nothing to do with me.” She’d started babbling and she closed her mouth with a snap. Sweat dripped down her back and she shuddered, bracing herself for what was coming.
“We’re well aware of Jhara’s activities. But nothing he could do would leave a mound of crawling insects two stories high.” He shook his head. “Never seen anything like it. The cockroaches wore your profile, stank like death before they scuttled off.” He keyed into his wrist-pad and the particle beam on his shoulder blinked red. “Whatever you are, we don’t need another race in the mix.” He leaned forward and grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head back and exposing her neck.
The world contracted and to her dazed ears the sounds of screams and shots receded. All she could hear was the particle beam humming to life. Her scalp thrummed in agonizing pain.
“Leave her be.” There was a flash in her peripheral vision and Resheph materialized, his body appearing like small squares on a holovid screen, flickering before becoming solid. “She doesn’t know what she can do.” He was taller than the Conjurare and tension ramped up.
“Who are you?” The Conjurare’s face contorted. He pressed his wrist-pad. A red arc triggered from the sensor gun. Resheph swung his sword with a two-handed maneuver, fielding the particle beam before it hit Maya’s neck. The current hit the flat of the blade with a preternatural flash. It arced back, slicing the Conjurare across the face, carving his head in two. The cop gurgled. His face stayed together for a moment before one eye and part of his mouth slid off, falling to the floor. The wall behind the cop smoked. Maya stared at the blood gushing from the open half of the cop’s head. A scatter pattern of blood pooled on the dusty floor and dripped down the walls.
The smell of blood and excrement filled the room. Maya bent over, gagging, bringing up nothing but bile. She felt a hand on her nape and a soft breath on her hair.
“Don’t touch me,” she said.
“You need to move.”
The sound of stamping feet and screams rebounded overhead. Dust floated from the wooden boards holding up the cellar roof. She opened her eyes and recoiled when she saw the Conjurare cop had fallen into his own body bag.
Resheph jerked her toward a half circle of vertical iron bars high up on the far wall. It had to be a basement hatch leading to the alley outside. She stumbled on deadened feet while her chest constricted, cutting off oxygen. She tugged on his arm, stumbling to a halt when he released her, and pulled the spellbox from her back pocket. After thumbing through the contents for endless seconds she found a relaxant spell and dry swallowed the bitter taste. He watched with an inscrutable look on his face.
A few moments later her vision cleared, but the blood thundered so loud in her ears it almost overwhelmed the noise from above. “Let’s get out of here.” Her voice was a tiny squeak and she cleared her throat.
He looked as if he understood what it cost her to ask for his help. “Sensible decision.” He turned, dragging a crate beneath the window. Moon spilled through the horizontal bars, casting stripes on the basement floor.
She glared at his back and breathed a sigh as the tightness in her throat eased.
He muttered in Latin and hefted his sword, cutting through the bars with a spark of fire like welding metal. Maya jumped back, staring at his broad back.
Footsteps echoed above their heads. “Hurry,” she said.
Resheph pulled a black mass out of his pocket and tossed it to the floor. It collapsed, forming a viscous liquid that spread up the walls. The substance hardened to polished granite.
“Delay,” Resheph said, looking over the barrier with a critical eye.
Someone rattled the door at the top of the stairs. “Sir, it’s jammed,” said a low, muffled voice.
“Well, break through, you idiot.” There was a dull thud against the door and it splintered. She stepped closer to Resheph, expecting a victorious cry from the top of stairs.
“There’s only a rock wall.” The officer sounded confused.
“It’s high magic. Get the Conjurare.”
Resheph reached down with outstretched hands. “Here, the gap is large enough for you to crawl through.”
“What about my friends?”
“I’ll delay the guards and get your dark-haired friend to safety.”
Her knees felt weak and she stiffened them, afraid they’d buckle. Upstairs something hit the stone, a heavy thunk like cars colliding. She didn’t have a lot of choice; she needed to get out. “I’m going back to my apartment. I’ll be there for half an hour, and then I’m getting out of town. Please look after Jane. And tell her I need money.” Embarrassment heated her cheeks and she was grateful for the semidarkness hiding her shame.
A blast of energy rumbled as it hit the wall and the room shuddered. A streak of light poured through a seam in the rock. The sounds of screams filtered into the room.
The police voices grew louder. “Sir, headquarters are on line. There’s a commotion at the U.S. embassy. Some animals on a killing spree.”
“Jesus Christ, can I get a break tonight? This whole operation is going to shit,” said a second officer. The stone crumbled and shards of rock spilled down the stairs, letting shafts of light spill into the cellar. “See if she’s in there and let’s get out of here. The psychopomps are setting off detonations.” Something thundered—an echoing boom above their heads—and the light bulb exploded, showering powdered glass all over the room.
“I’ll find you at your apartment,” Resheph said, lifting her into the aperture.
Maya reached up and snagged the bars as he hefted her high. Feet thudded down the stairs and she half fell into the crawl space, bars scraping her stomach. She hoisted herself through, lurching to her feet. She found herself in a dark alley with hover car lights flashing at one end and deep black shadows in the opposite direction.
His disembodied voice filtered through the shattered bars. “I’ve warded your home. It will offer sanctuary, disguising your presence from trackers and repelling those who wish you harm. But it won’t last long if fired on.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say I’ve been hired to watch you.”
“What the hell is going on?” she whispered, half to herself.
“Hey, there’s someone in here.” One of the cops’ voices drifted into the alley from the basement.
She took off, boots slapping through puddles.
What a miserable fucking night. And it didn’t look as if it was going to get any better. Rain fell on her arms and ran down her neck as she raced through the dark alleys, cutting through side streets to her apartment. She only wore a tank top and a thin pair of jeans—her old coat was back at the bar. But right now, replacing her clothing was the least of her problems.
Chapter 5
Khereb
Maya ran up the stairs of her building, keeping to the shadows and avoiding the unreliable elevator that stuttered to a halt every time she pressed one of the buttons. On the second floor, the smell of garlic and fried beans floated under the door from her neighbor’s flat. The key rocked in the chamber, struggling to engage the lock tumblers. When it clicked, she heaved a sigh and entered the dark room, f
licking on a light and dead bolting the door behind her. A pile of laundry lay at the base of the half-open armoire and her newest pair of leather pants hung over one of the shutter doors. She dragged a duffel from under the bed along with the fetters of several dust bunnies, and started tossing clothes into the bag. She strode to the bathroom and collected toiletries, hesitating for a moment over a pewter owl sitting on the window ledge. She gnawed her dry lip, tasting iron, and walked back to the bedroom.
Ten minutes. She kept moving, throwing necessities into the bag and keeping it light in case she had to run. There was no time to pick up the money from Don. They were probably watching him anyway. She poked a handmade journal and charcoal pencils into a side pocket. Resheph had said her apartment was warded, but the tingles running over her scalp said she was out of luck. She checked the clock. She’d told Resheph she’d wait half an hour, but once she was packed she was out of here. The medi-charm might have blocked an adrenaline surge, but it couldn’t stop the voice in her head commanding her to move. She pried a loose floorboard with a knife and plucked out a small moneybag. It would get her to the next city, but God knew what she’d do next. The hover cars under the bridge were her best bet. The drivers paid the cops to leave them alone and the ride wouldn’t be traced. Either way, she had to keep moving.
There was a shift in air pressure near the window and she swiveled on weak legs. A huge silhouette and a flash of silver told her who was waiting. She stumbled to the window, battling with the frame before shoving it high.
“How’d you get away from the cops?” She plucked a tunic T-shirt from the side table and yanked it over her head, not bothering to ask how he’d found her apartment. He’d located her in the bar easily enough.
Resheph shrugged and the sword over his shoulder hummed a little, vibrating slightly. “They were more concerned by their dead comrade. Your friend was gone by the time I returned to the tavern. I encouraged the soldiers to search near the river. It will keep them busy awhile. May I come in?” He cocked his head. The light from her bedside lamp grazed his face, sliding over the ridged scars above his lip.
She stared at him, faltering. He cloaked himself, played with others’ subconscious, and created walls of stone. The hilt of his sword caught the light of the moon and twinkled. Right now she needed all the help she could get. She scanned his towering frame in a mixture of aversion and reluctant admiration, wondering what it would feel like to be that big and in control. For a moment she wished he’d fold her into those huge arms banded with muscle and whisper comforting words in her ear. But that didn’t happen in her world and it wasn’t her style to hide from the truth, especially with a mage.
She nodded.
He vaulted into the room with a fluid motion, stepping over rolled canvasses and clothes. She caught a breath and stalked back to the bed. The smell of incense cut through the cool air coming from the window.
“I told you they wouldn’t find you right away,” he said.
She crammed a pile of clothes into the bag. “I’ve got a bad feeling. By the way, why is a high-level mage helping me?”
There was silence for a moment and she looked up, caught a puzzled look on his face before it wiped clean. “I don’t believe executioners should play with their victims.”
She dropped the handkerchiefs she’d been folding and stared at her shaking hands.
He leaned forward, putting a hand on her arm and she stopped, frozen. His skin was several shades darker than hers. Tattoos wound down to his fingers like thick black arteries, along with raised battle scars. It was then she realized she’d been on autopilot, pleating a pile of her grandmother’s handkerchiefs, an obsessive monotonous movement that had clued the doctors in to her troubled past. Her last doctor had told her she was repeating the same grim patterns in an attempt to undo the outcome. She forced her hands to unclench, releasing the squares, and letting them drop into the bag. Despite the nightmares, she wasn’t a helpless child anymore.
“Can you draw another picture like the one in the factory?” he asked, his voice low and steady.
“Maybe.” She walked to the armoire. “Unless it was a fluke last time. I’ve never seen them act like they’re alive before.”
There was a whisper of movement.
“What are you doing?” she asked, watching him over her shoulder. The words came out fast and she cleared her throat to disguise the high note.
He was sitting on her bed, turning the pages of her journal. “These pictures are of old stelae. They’re burial mounds for children.” His voice was calm, and maybe even a little demanding. He pointed at a page with a blunt finger. “This is a bronze statue, or Tophet.”
“So?”
“It’s a roasting place.” He watched her face. “Before the Punic Wars my ancestors sacrificed humans to their gods.” He stroked the cupped hands of a horned god she’d sketched years ago.
She swallowed, hard. “God, that’s horrific.”
He shrugged again. “After a while the practice became unpopular with a small section of our community. When some complained, the elders were murdered and their followers thrown into exile. Have you seen this in old texts?”
“Maybe. I can’t remember. I guess I must have.” She selected a pair of boots from the bottom of the wardrobe and tugged them on.
He ignored her. “He is the repudiated god, the daeuua. The false god still receives worship on Earth. Goes under many names. You’ve marked one such name on the stelae.”
She looked down to the tiny printed name. Molokh. The last letters looked like an X. “I drew it in my teens. I can’t recall the inspiration,” she muttered.
She reached into the armoire and pulled out a leather thong and silver pendant from a hook at the back. Her grandmother had left it to her. Apart from her journal, it was the only thing she had of value from the past. She slung it over her neck, tucking it beneath the T-shirt and seized her old bomber jacket.
“There’s an odd association between you and my people,” he continued.
“Right. Well, I have enough problems without a strange connection with your family. Anyway, I don’t believe in reincarnation. If that’s what you’re hinting at.”
“Believe as you will. But you know more than you should. It’s in the magi’s interest to keep this knowledge hidden.”
Stress was making her hands weak, the tingling in her palms letting her know she was overtired and, despite the medi-charm, close to panic. But as usual, it didn’t stop her mouth from working.
“What do the magi have to do with it?”
“My people share the same genomes. As I said, we divided years ago.” His tone was darker.
The reminder of his casual deflection and head slicing of the officer made her wince. The male was brutal, didn’t seem to care who he hurt. She’d hate to be on his shit list.
“So, are you finally going to tell me where this Balkaith is?” she asked.
“Realms away.”
“Reams away?”
He raised a brow. “Dimensions, realms.”
“Oh, realms. Well, you drop your l’s, so I can’t always understand what you’re saying.”
She walked to the stove and pried at the loose countertop with her nails. Did this guy believe he came from the past? She contained a sigh. “Are you positive the cops can’t find me?”
She stretched her neck, hearing the subtle crack of her spine. The adrenaline had left her deflated, with a killer headache that was trying its damnedest to drill its way out through her eyes. She flicked a glance at the duffel containing her spells.
“Nothing living could find you, I promise. I’ve planted wards around the building.” He inscribed a sigil in the air over her bed. It lit up like burning coals before fading to a smoky cuneiform.
She raised a brow.
“It is the signature of the guardian Besmelo,” he explained. “I’ll evoke him if needed.” By the sound of his tone, the spirit didn’t get called often. “What are your plans?”
“Leaving town.” The heel of one hand held up the stovetop, while the other palm groped beneath, hunting for the package. She grasped rough silk with her fingers and released the top. The counter fell back with more force than necessary. She tossed the package into the open bag on the bed.
“I see you’ve been packing,” he said in a low voice, gesturing to the half-empty boxes leaning against a wall.
She wondered if he was being sarcastic and flicked him a quick glance. He appeared older than she’d first thought, beating her by ten years or so. His shoulder-length hair was tied back with string, and his posture appeared poker stiff and alert. She’d never liked the brawny, muscle-bound type. They were always too confident. This one didn’t seem so wrapped up in himself as aware of everything around him. He was always watching her, his eyes a glittering black and not blinking as much as they should. It was as if he knew something she didn’t. It was irritating.
“I moved in a few months ago.” She had to work to keep the defensive note out of her voice.
The handle on the cutlery drawer compressed her stomach. The butcher’s knife nestled inside, within easy reach. She usually kept a knife close, especially in her apartment where she wanted to feel safe. There was one under her pillow, another in the bedside table, a blade in the bathroom cabinet, and even a serrated steak knife under the mat.
“You shouldn’t have left the apartment. I told you we needed to talk,” he said.
“I didn’t agree to anything.” She zipped her bag.
“I thought you understood your situation. Given the magi’s interest.” His even tone was starting to piss her off. She fumbled with the strap of her bag.
“I don’t need a keeper.”
“That may be the case, but your life has changed. You’ll need all the help you can get. And if that doesn’t appeal, then perhaps think on this. You won’t live long without my help.”
She looked up quickly and saw his lips had thinned to a hard line.
“What do you get out of helping me? The higher magi and military cops are looking for me. At the moment, hiding is my best option—or taking my chances with the mundane cops.”