by Dy Loveday
She avoided looking at the changing shapes, worried they’d suck her into a vortex. “Where’s Resheph-wa-Khasis?” she asked in an even tone.
“The warrior decides his future,” he said in a singsong voice. His gaze swept over her body and she flushed with embarrassment, feeling filthy.
“What do you mean?” She could smell the sweet-sour smell of sweat dampening her hair and running down her sides. She focused on filtering out the sensory overload and stared at his face instead.
He edged forward slowly, and she jerked back in alarm. “Bound by an oath, millennia ago. Balkaith agreed not to enter the Abyss. The warrior ignored the ancient decree. So there he sits, at my pleasure.” The demon tugged the sleeve of his T-shirt and checked his fingernails.
“Tell me what you want with him.”
Molokh lifted his gaze to her face, nodding in approval. His eyes glowed a deep celestial blue. “I’ll agree to a bargain.”
She squinted as the twirling lights grew in her peripheral vision, flashing a deep orange. “What bargain?”
“I’ll return Resheph-wa-Khasis, alive.” Molokh bared his teeth in a gentle smile.
Clarice’s blurry face appeared behind Molokh. Her mouth was open, but Maya couldn’t hear the words. Maya paused, breathing in the reek of sulfur in the airless circle.
“For what,” she choked out.
“If I asked you to return in his stead, would you agree?”
She wasn’t that stupid and didn’t respond, but he saw the answer in her eyes.
“Draw for me.” The demon lowered his voice to a whisper, but it felt overwhelmingly loud, hissing in her ears, right inside her head. “At a time when I decide.”
Maya’s lips parted. “What are you saying?” Her vocal cords felt tight and she realized she’d been talking in a high register, competing with the popping lights. She was dangerously close to slipping up and making a fatal mistake. She should have listened to Clarice; this was way beyond her abilities. The demon was playing with her and enjoying the fear coming off her in clammy waves. She flicked a glance at Clarice, but the reddish color had deepened to the color of old blood, enclosing her in a world of demon.
“I won’t be your servant,” she said, flicking limp hair out of her eyes.
His smooth face shifted into a frown as if she’d insulted him, such a human pretense that it scared her witless. His eyes narrowed. She adjusted her hold on the dagger, thumbing the blade.
“Daughter of Mist,” he said. “Don’t disappoint me. You won’t like what happens.”
“Why do you want me to draw?”
“How specific shall I be? You crave love and acceptance, but none shall offer it to you. Especially once they discover what you’ve done. Darkness coils in your soul, itching to break free. The djinni hopes to hold it back, but it’s a useless exercise. I could give you the control you desire. I would accept your true nature.”
He lifted his hand and she fell to the ground. Except instead of hitting cement floor she was in a cold sky, flying on the back of a scaled beast, leading a horde of Khereb into battle. In front of her were hundreds of jackal-headed serpents. Below was Balkaith’s fortress, a long line of black stone and ramparts. Tiny warlocks wearing black robes ducked and hid from a rain of fire cast by the Khereb. The sun exploded into a mushroom, leaving an orange glow across the land. Her mind peeled back to reveal a new scene. She stared up at black-robed accusers, standing in a semicircle above her head. One nodded and a rope lowered her into a pond. She gurgled in fear as brackish water gushed up her nose and down the back of her throat. Heavy weights attached to her feet pulled her under the waves and she thrashed, staring up in vengeance at the men of God. Another image appeared behind her closed eyelids. The sky roiled with clouds and she called down lightning with a dagger, sending strikes of blue electricity at a line of feudal huts. Women and children screamed as the sky filled with smoke and briquettes of charcoal fell on the earth with loud thuds.
She fell back into her body with a jolt and, without thinking, leaned forward and stabbed Molokh with the kila. The tip of the blade passed through thin air where his heart should have been.
The demon reached forward in a motion so fast she didn’t see it coming. His finger tapped her nose lightly. Pain ripped through her nose. She lurched back and righted herself. She gasped, face blazing in pain, tingling in such overbearing agony her teeth ached. Something rested on her upper lip and she wiped it away with her wrist. It came back smeared in blood.
“What are you doing?” he asked, so close she could feel his breath against her mouth, though he appeared to be floating several feet away. “They are your memories, not mine.” His eyes were bright with pleasure. “They’re just waiting for you to accept yourself and then they’ll rush free, returning your powers. Agree to draw for me and I’ll give you back the warrior.”
She nodded, tears coursing down her face and dripping off her chin.
Something hot ran up her thigh and she stiffened, looking down. A moment later a hit of crushing pain brought tears to her eyes. Black bruises the size of fingerprints formed on her white skin, spreading into massive contusions. She tried to pull away, but a manicured hand crushed her upper thigh, holding it fast. A fleshy, disembodied tongue appeared on her stomach and licked a wet, sinuous path up her chest.
“You know who I am.” His accent altered, sultry and drawling, right next to her.
She swayed, disoriented by the different views of Molokh; his body reclining above the book, his disembodied hand and pointed tongue brushing her skin. She tried to reconcile the dual aspects, all three images casting confusing shadows in the dim light.
A moment later, there was a loud pop and she lifted clenched fists to her ears. The pages of the grimoire blackened and curled. Molokh’s face filled with surprise before his shape shrank, compressing to a tiny pinprick of darkness. She swallowed hard to equalize the pressure in her head.
In his place, and above the plinth, stood the warrior Resheph had called in her apartment.
She twisted her wrist to repeat the incantation, wishing it would stop shaking so she could see the words properly.
“Don’t tempt me,” Besmelo said, raising a gloved hand. “Summoning Molokh was a mistake.”
Her incantation stuttered to a halt.
“I’d take you to Mithra myself if I thought the strife would end there,” he continued in a droning echo. “But Molokh wants more, always more.” The spirit shifted his feet with a clang of metal. “And then, there are some gods in the pantheon who believe you still might redeem yourself. Take a different path. Little likelihood of that, now you’re bound, but they’re optimistic.” Besmelo’s eyes through his helm were deep gray pools. “Thankfully, a majority want you back behind Mithra.” He sidled closer. “I think you’re pure evil.”
“I don’t understand.” A puff of mist formed in front of her mouth.
“You wouldn’t have come to Molokh’s attention but for your desire for spells. Jhara the mage was a lure and you took the bait. Send a message to the Tribune. For taking you in, no intervention from the gods shall be sent their way. No channels through the Abyss will be tolerated. I’ll tear out the throats of any that call on the gods, magical formulae or not.” He kicked the outer circle, smudging the charcoal with a metal boot, his voice mechanical. “The rips you’ve created in the Veil will take eons to fix. Balkaith will battle its enemies without assistance, though they have a weapon. Whether it turns to ash in their throats is another thing.”
The spirit looked at Maya for a long moment and laughed grimly. “Their weapon is you—daughter of Molokh, Lord of Filth and Squalor. You have seven days to put a halt to Molokh’s plans—send him back behind the Gates of Mithra. The djinni will return you to the Abyss for judgment. If you fail, Earth and Balkaith will be reduced to rubble.”
Oxyhiayal, House of Horus, had called her a mage-whore. Perhaps there were worse things to be.
“You are your father’s child, and bound b
y your word to him. He’ll call on it, you can be sure of it. Your damaged soul makes the same mistakes, over and over. The dagger has found you, yet again. Learn, illusionist. Best hurry before the Khereb find you. Your last life, the djinni warned. Best use it well.” His sarcasm echoed around the Vault.
She couldn’t possibly achieve all that he demanded. For one long agonizing moment she wanted to follow him.
Molokh.
Her vision cleared and the room swung back into view. She didn’t know whether to laugh or scream in fury.
Picking herself up off the floor, Maya marched over to her clothes. The warlock and dryad stared at her as she tossed the dress over her head with trembling hands. It pooled at her bare feet, now covered in dust, blood, and sweat.
Damn it. She might have been forced into a corner, but no one decided her future, let alone two lousy parents, a bloody book, and a callous deity. She’d saved Resh and now she’d try to circumvent Fate. Too bad she had no idea how to do it.
Clarice hurried toward Maya and placed a hand on her shoulder. She pulled Maya hard against her chest.
For a moment, Maya slumped into the tight hold, relieved to know someone in the world didn’t judge her. Maybe she could just find a hole and crawl into it until this was all over—except she’d never been one to back down from a fight, even if the djinni let her.
She jerked away on wobbly feet and cracked a halfhearted smile that must have been as unconvincing as it felt, because Clarice just stared back, unblinking.
“Well, you heard the miserable immortal,” Maya said. “Let’s find a way to send Molokh back behind the Gates.”
Clarice looked aged and vulnerable, a lot like Maya felt.
“Hell and damnation,” Alexandr said from his post near the stairs.
Maya swiveled to the plinth.
A dark shape huddled in the middle of the blood-splattered, blackened circle.
Pia.
The bird’s feathers rustled as she lifted her head. “Molokh’s bitch. Still alive I see.”
“Pia, that’s enough,” said Clarice. “Not a word to anyone. She bargained for Resh’s life.”
“It’s fine. I’m glad you’re back.” Maya stared at her hand. The same one she’d cut in the factory. She didn’t feel great. The ground wavered in front of her eyes, flashing and exaggerated.
“A life she lost in the first place,” the bird muttered.
Clarice grasped Maya’s hand. “Well, you evoked a demon. You should thank your djinni,” she rasped. She bent down and tore a strip of linen from her dress, using it to wrap Maya’s blood-streaked palm.
Maya recoiled from her touch. “The djinni?” The reminder of the dark smudge made the hair on her neck snap to attention.
“Called Besmelo and saved you from further stupidity. Look at your body.”
Maya’s eyes widened at the bruises but it was the lines on her arm that pulled her attention. Blue vines twisted around her biceps, forming an intricate pattern down to her knuckles. The tattoos surged, writhing under her skin, shifting the bracelet on her left arm so it tinkled softly.
“What is it?” She extended her arms.
“You’ve inherited a tattoo—one of Resheph’s. It shows you as a bonded pair,” said Alexandr, smoothing his hair back.
Bonded? It was a relief to know Resh was out of Molokh’s grasp and finally coming home, but was she ready to keep the warrior in her life if they survived this?
“Death is too good for her. Let her stinking father take her,” said Pia. The bird hopped out of the circle and launched into flight up the stairwell.
Clarice turned to Alexandr and gave him a frosty stare. “No one must know Maya’s lineage. Understood?”
Alexandr gripped the back of his neck. “In my desperation, I put us all at risk. I shouldn’t have agreed to this.” He spread his other hand wide to include the dark circle and deep scorch marks on the stone floor.
Clarice fixed him with narrowed eyes. “This might be our last chance to ask the grimoire about Maya’s past. What do we know of her father?”
“Well, I didn’t have any deities helping out,” said Maya. “We were poor, just my mother and I.” Drugs, neglect, abuse, and exploitation—it was ugly and they didn’t need the details.
“Molokh’s daughter.” Alexandr pressed his lips together. He walked to the book. “Show us,” he commanded.
The pages flipped, turning rapidly with a whisper of sound. “The same triplets reincarnate in each millennium. They are both his children and consorts.” Alexandr’s fingers hovered above the thin parchment, tracing the script, his voice hushed. “The first is a child of earth, the second rain, and the last fire. Each born to the physical realms, hidden from the celestial spirits.”
“Why hidden?”
Alexandr glanced up, his face white. “There are several names for each child, depending on the epoch. Molokh’s offspring play a role in old magic and contending forces. Their path starts in adulthood, when they come into their powers. Then, they are the most dangerous.”
Speculation swirled in his eyes, but he continued reading. “The first is called the Obscure One. She brings death and sterility to the land. Her powers are lies, secrecy, cloaking, and betrayal. The Obscene One is a temptress that affords pleasure with pain. Her powers are enticement and vampirism.”
“And the last,” Maya said in a low tone, expecting the worst.
“The last is the Breaker of Peace. She brings division, tragedy, and war. Her powers are destruction and reality shifting.” His voice dwindled at the end.
“Gee. I guess the seductress isn’t me.” Maya was too drained to cry. She wanted to see Resh. For a moment she couldn’t catch her breath. “And how do we push Molokh back behind the Gates?”
“Only the spell caster who summoned him can repel him.”
“If Jhara summoned Molokh, we’re out of luck.” The others look at her and she briefly explained the mage and his defunct factory. The mage would never help anyone except himself.
“Molokh’s powers are growing,” said Clarice. “He shouldn’t have been able to break through the circle to touch you.”
“Besmelo has his hands full, keeping Molokh on a tight rein,” Maya guessed. The slimy feeling of Molokh’s tongue made her skin crawl. “Resh mentioned a Circle of Eight. What is it?”
“A Circle of Eight—a representative from each race—will evoke the Enim warriors and force Molokh and his Khereb back,” Clarice said in a thoughtful tone. “We need a mage as well. Wild magic threading through a shared vision.”
“And we have seven days before Besmelo decides on my punishment,” Maya said. “Why seven days?”
Alexandr looked back at the grimoire, and his finger hovered above the page as he traced the words. “At twenty-five Earth years your appearance changes. Molokh will want you with him to mark the transition.”
Didn’t she have a choice in this? “He thinks I’ll turn bad, give Molokh access to the physical realms?”
He huffed. “How old are you?”
She thought for a moment. “Let’s just say that in seven days we’re out of time.” She turned to the book. “Show me Earth.”
The grimoire flipped, facing her. The pages opened to a desolate scene back on Earth. Khereb in the sky, tossing fireballs at humans and magi. The people and buildings were dragged toward a dark circle in the top right hand corner of the page and disappeared. “They’re gone,” she said. “Did you see that?”
“An empty page. What of it?” Alexandr asked.
“The people disappeared.”
A hand appeared on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Maya,” said Clarice. “I didn’t see anything.” She looked as worried as Maya felt.
If this was the present, millions on Earth would die. Time was ticking; she could see the big hand winding around the face of a clock in her head.
There was an ominous creak from the plinth, and the grimoire trembled and snapped shut before disappearing into thin air with a bang. The pil
lars trembled and hairline fractures appeared on their marble surface. The astrological symbols burst into flames and dissolved into the stone with a hiss and smell of sulfur.
Clarice jolted into action. “Besmelo has closed the Pillars. We need to leave.”
Chapter 13
Tribune
Maya followed Alexandr back into the curtained alcove, each step bringing her closer to an echoing boom that resonated overhead. She reached the top only to find Lucient standing upright before the mirror, rolling Maya’s necklace back and forth between finger and thumb and revealing more than a hint of rage in his eyes.
He stared at Alexandr. “You abused your position.” He tucked the pentagram into his cloak pocket, out of reach. “A breach of trust before we decided what she’s about.”
The boom had to be Balkaith’s answer to thunder because the small window in the alcove flared with lightning. A rumble shook the walls and Maya flinched. She glanced at Clarice, who was sidling out of the alcove. The dryad disappeared into the fortress, her heels tapping a rapid retreat on the stone floor. Maya slumped back, wishing she could grab the necklace and edge out of the tiny room as well, but the two warlocks stood between her and the only exit.
“There’s more important things here than Council sensibilities,” Alexandr said. “Resheph is my friend.”
So, Alexandr played the loyalty card. She hoped he would find a way to explain because the necklace was the only thing left of her grandmother and she wanted it back.
Lucient didn’t even glance at Maya. He stepped closer to Alexandr. “Mind your tongue. Your father is dead and so is the influence he carried.”
“Bastard son of a whore.” Alexandr lunged forward.
Power ramped up and the mirror leaning against the wall shivered, the glass rattling in its heavy frame. Maya couldn’t seem to get enough air in her lungs; but advising them to break it up didn’t seem like a wise choice of words when two warlocks were in the middle of a ball-busting mind curse. She wanted to help Alexandr, but she didn’t get a chance to form a coherent thought before Lucient beckoned Maya with one finger, his expression smug.