by A. H. Lee
Mal took a threatening step towards her. “Oh, I get it now. You’re spying on me for your demon hunter! Are you his pet now, Lucy?”
“The only person here who could possibly be called a pet is you,” she snapped, “you spoiled, overindulged lapdog.”
Jessica sensed a thickening in the air as Mal and Lucy asserted their magical strength. It was an unpleasant sensation, like two overpowering odors in conflict. Mal described it as “arm-wrestling,” but it felt like something more serious to Jessica. Tod probably couldn’t sense it, but Jessica wanted to clap her hands over her ears. “Stop! Both of you just stop!”
Lucy took a step back. Jessica would have liked to think they were responding to her plea, but she suspected that, in fact, Mal had physically pushed Lucy away with his stronger magic. Jessica liked Lucy, but she didn’t know what the older woman hoped to accomplish by sparing with Mal at the Revels of all places. This really was his territory.
Lucy straightened her narrow shoulders and gave a toss of her gleaming silver hair. Her voice came out cool and even again. “I’m going, I’m going. Gods know, I didn’t expect a civil reception here. Good evening, Jessica.”
Jessica frowned as Lucy moved away. She wanted to have a talk with Mal, but not here in the middle of a party with Tod watching them, and not with Mal so worked up. If he’d been a panther, he would have been bristling.
Is she really spying? Probably not. She probably just doesn’t want to explain herself to him.
Jessica took a deep breath. “So…Capture the Flag?”
Chapter 10
Azrael
Azrael was sitting at the kitchen table, reading in his silk dressing gown and slippers, when Mal and Jessica came clomping and chattering into the suite. Jessica was wearing a man’s shirt and dress slacks, presumably borrowed from two different gentlemen, since they didn’t match. The clothes were much abused and grass-stained. She was still wearing her pretty black boots, although they looked like they would need a brush and a polish. Her golden hair was half-unbraided with twigs in it, her cheeks flushed. She jumped up on the edge of the table, swinging her feet and grinning. “You waited up for us!”
Azrael put down his book and yawned. “Yes. It’s only half past one. That’s early for a Revel.”
Mal lounged in the doorway, his jacket and waistcoat over one arm, his shirt half unbuttoned, his cravat wadded up and dangling out of one pocket. He had a few strands of grass in his dark curls. Azrael could tell that they were both slightly drunk on magic and alcohol.
“We played Capture the Flag in the hedge maze!” announced Jessica. “It was glorious! Also, Mal dropped the flag in the pool.”
“Only because I wanted to see those lunatics jump in after it,” drawled Mal. “They needed an excuse to take off their clothes anyway.”
Azrael rose and stretched. “I trust you are both well-fed?”
“Exceedingly fed!” exclaimed Mal. “Completely fed! Pleased to give you magic in any orifice you desire.”
Jessica snickered. “I have made friends. Mal has made conquests. Everyone had a good time.”
Azrael plucked up a book from the pile on the table. “I found a new story I think you’d both like if you’re not too sleepy.”
There was a flurry of activity as they cleaned themselves up, salvaged what remained of their clothes, and got ready for bed. Fifteen minutes later, the three of them lay curled together, with an image of the night sky in the enchanted picture frame. Mal had turned back into a panther. He stretched out over the covers with his head on Azrael’s chest, one paw extended over Jessica, who’d stretched out on her stomach beside them. The silver collar was digging into Azrael’s sternum. He took it off Mal and tossed it onto the bedside table.
Azrael read them a story of love and war, set in the misty past before the sundering. He hadn’t gotten very far before Mal’s breathing grew deep and steady. Even Jessica couldn’t seem to keep her eyes open. Her blond lashes kept fluttering shut. However, when Azrael muttered the word to turn out the lights, she woke up enough to thread her fingers through his. “Perfect day,” she whispered.
Yes, he thought. It really was.
Chapter 11
Azrael
Azrael woke in his big, empty bed as he always did. He rose, feeling a little foggy from a late night of work, but determined to rise early all the same and continue the preparations for his guests. He bathed and shaved, pausing to stare at himself for a moment in the mirror. He had a bruise on the side of his neck.
How did I do that?
The faint circle of mottled green and blue looked almost like…
Azrael felt dizzy. He put his hands on the edge of the sink. I must have done it while I was working yesterday. A splash effect from a spell. I was concentrating. I didn’t notice.
He went to the bedside table and retrieved his magical focus—a necklace with heavy silver links. He put it on and used a tiny bit of magic to heal the offending bruise. An instant later, Azrael’s pale skin looked smooth and unblemished. As it should. As it always did.
He donned one of his severe black suits, left his coat over his desk chair, and went into the kitchen to make breakfast and to read the book. The beautiful, beautiful book with its rich blue leather and embossed night sky. Azrael stared at it reverently while he poached an egg and made toast and tea. He studied the pages while he ate, delighting in his good fortune. He felt certain that this phenomenal artifact would make him the undisputed master of the Shattered Sea.
He considered the complex instructions. Then he went out to choose a location for the gate described in the text. The gardens, he thought. The patio near the entrance to the hedge maze. That will do very well.
Servants were coming and going in gardens, cleaning up some kind of party from last night. Azrael tried to remember what it had been about, then dismissed the question. Anything to keep the courtiers pliant. After all, my creatures must be fed.
There was a white flag on a stick floating in the pool. One of the groundskeepers was fishing it out. That reminded Azrael of something. He felt dizzy again and walked faster through the morning mist. My domain, he thought. My creation. I am lord of the Shrouded Isle, and soon I will be Lord of the Shattered Sea.
He reached one of several entrances to the hedge maze and paused, transfixed by a golden thread of hair on a branch. The world seemed to warp as though through a fishbowl. He couldn’t breathe.
The next thing Azrael knew, he was in the great ballroom, speaking to his master groundskeeper. “I want the hedge maze completely cleansed from last night. Pristine, do you understand? Then I have a project that I will be conducting in the gardens. I do not wish to be disturbed.”
He spent the rest of the morning addressing issues with his staff. Three guests would be arriving early. He would host a welcome dinner for them in the gardens. A larger group would arrive a few days after that. Their welcome feast would occur in the ballroom with the doors open to the garden.
“Will this dinner require couches, my lord?” asked his butler.
Azrael stared at him in confusion. “Couches?”
The butler adopted a tactful expression. “Will the guests be sporting, my lord?”
“Sporting what?”
The butler looked mildly put-upon. “Are you anticipating an evening of carnal delights, my lord?”
Azrael laughed. He couldn’t have said why. The laugh ended in a kind of sob. “No.” His head hurt. He needed to read the book. He needed to lie down.
Chapter 12
Mal
Mal woke in a cold, foggy place. He thought he was outdoors: broken flagstones underfoot, something that might have been moonlight glowing through the drifting mist, everything utterly silent.
Mal stood, shivering. He was a panther. There was condensation on his whiskers. He saw that he’d been lying beside a stone fountain the size of a duck pond. Ink-black water churned within. At the center, a round platform, perhaps five paces across, rose out of the water. It lo
oked like it ought to create a spray of water into the fountain, but it was dry. The platform was encircled by an ouroboros statue—a silver serpent, eating its tail. The water of the fountain moved in a slow vortex, as though the ouroboros were the center of a lazy whirlpool.
Something about the serpent made Mal’s skin crawl. He stumbled backwards, off the flagstones, into wet grass. “Hello!” he shouted. “Azrael! Jessica!” His voice did not even echo. It was simply swallowed by the mist. Where am I?
Mal backed further from the statue and came up against a wall of thorny hedge. He turned and saw a corridor of deeply shadowed green. Mal circled the fountain with a sinking feeling. He found one corridor after another, but no clear exit. I’m in some kind of maze.
Mal shut his eyes, opened them again. I’m dreaming. But he knew that wasn’t quite right.
Mal took a deep breath and did something he had not dared to do since he’d fled from his entity. He stretched his essence out into the fifth dimension, towards the astral plane. He should be able to do that easily. He was an unbound astral demon. The collar wasn’t even around his neck at the moment. Reaching the astral plane should have been as effortless as twitching his tail.
Nothing happened.
Mal forced himself not to panic. This is a nightmare. I’ll wake up soon. All I have to do is be patient. This is a nightmare. There was another possibility, but Mal didn’t want to think about it.
He turned and plunged down one of the shadowy hedge corridors. It doesn’t matter which way I go. I’ll wake up soon. However, dream or no, he couldn’t bear another moment beside the ouroboros.
Chapter 13
Azrael
Azrael woke in his big, empty bed as he always did. As he would for all his days. He sat up and noticed markings on his oak headboard. The hastily scrawled words read: “Something is f”
Azrael put his finger out to touch the words, deeply puzzled. The handwriting looked like his own…if he’d been in a desperate hurry. He searched around in the pillows and found a discarded writing pen. Not a bone pen. Just an ordinary ink pen.
Azrael stared at the words. His head hurt. A thought came to him, seemingly at random: Punishment and reward.
He looked away from the strange scrawl, felt instantly better. He bathed, shaved, and dressed. His suite seemed so quiet. I should enchant the picture frame to show the gardens, transmit birdsong.
The frame showed nothing but smooth plaster at the moment. Azrael had a vague memory of having used it to…what? Visit pocket worlds? How long ago was that?
He had an urge to do so again. People in the pocket worlds would be safe to talk to. But why would he need to talk to anyone? He rubbed his eyes. He wanted to read. Not a textbook. Not even the delightful book on his kitchen table. A novel. He wanted to read a novel. To disappear into its pages, to get outside of his own head for just a moment.
Outside his own head…
Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve no time for that now. You’ll have time enough later. All the time in the world.
Azrael caught a glimpse of himself as he walked past the washroom mirror—dark eyes, pale skin, an intimidating stare, thin lips pressed into a fierce line, a flash of silver around his neck. Azrael touched the necklace that lay against his skin, his magical focus.
Collar.
Azrael blinked. A demeaning way to think of his focus. And yet that was the first word that had sprung into his mind when he looked at it. My collar? No. Someone else’s collar.
Blinding pain behind his eyes.
Azrael crouched over, hissing with discomfort. He was suddenly filled with rage. He couldn’t say why or at whom.
The other magicians. The enemies you’ve lulled into a false sense of security. Warmongers, power-hungry, murderers, self-righteous pricks. You’re going to burn them all.
Azrael felt unsteady, but he straightened anyway. Eat. I need to eat. He made his way to the kitchen. As soon as he arrived, he forgot about anger, fear, and even hunger. Because there was the book. Of course! There was his reason for living. Such a spell it contained! Such a marvelous work of art. Everything made sense now.
Azrael sat and read. He lost track of time. Finally, he got up and went out to the gardens. They were pristine, without a trace of past frivolities. He ordered supplies brought, then went to his tower to get special ingredients.
The tower was a bit of a mess. Azrael remembered that he’d been working on a magical airlock up here. But that won’t be as important as I thought. My guests won’t be here long enough for it to matter.
He paused halfway across the room and frowned at a fine layer of salt he’d forgotten to sweep off the floor. In the middle of the salt, lay an enormous pawprint.
Azrael’s skin prickled with heightened awareness, eyes darting around the room for a threat. He spoke a spell of revealing, but no monsters showed themselves. But dear gods, the thing that had made that print must be the size of a pony. Did I summon something to help me yesterday? Or was that the day before?
He rubbed his eyes. I must have.
“Did I leave handprints all over your body and pawprints all over your heart?”
“More like teeth marks all over my heart.”
Azrael felt as though he were seeing double. He remembered those words, but he could not put them into context. Did I say that? To whom? Why?
Azrael felt like a drowning man who’d broken momentarily to the surface of the water. This is not me. I am never confused. Something is wrong. Something is being done to me. I have to fight it. I have to remember… To remember… What?
He was pacing around his tower, panting. And suddenly he wasn’t sure why.
We need to hurry. Why did he tend to think of himself as “we”?
“I need to hurry,” he said aloud. I need to work on the spell. There will be many problems. Lots of problems to solve. I need to get everything necessary from my tower, because I don’t want to come back up here. Too many distractions.
Azrael seized the broom with shaking hands and swept up the salt. Relief washed over him as the pawprint disappeared. He’d probably been mistaken. It wasn’t a pawprint at all, just a trick of the light.
He leaned over his desk to retrieve a vial of ambrosia and caught sight of the toad-owl skull where he kept his pens. To his great irritation, there was a crack in it. My toad-owl!
My...
“Mine, mine, mine.”
The room was spinning. Azrael leaned heavily on the desk.
You belong to no one, whispered a voice in his head. You are complete in yourself.
Yes, of course that was true. Azrael of the Shroud belonged to himself and no one else. Ever since he’d escaped alone from the fires of Polois. Ever since he’d erased Laurence Crowley. Ever since he’d severed his last tenuous ties to the human race. Azrael of the Shroud needed no confidants, no peers, no friends, no lovers, nothing but his work. He belonged to no one.
The room had grown blurry. Azrael touched his face, felt a bewildering wetness.
He was suddenly tired, so tired. He needed to go lie down. He needed to read the book again. Then everything would make sense.
He felt calmer as he left the tower room, calmer still as he walked down the stairs, his arms full of supplies. However, as he stepped from the entrance, he found himself muttering over and over, “I need to remember, I need to remember, I need to remember… What? Salt? No, that wasn’t it.”
Chapter 14
Jessica
Jessica woke to a complete absence of sensation. She’d felt this once before, when Azrael had used Lucy’s one-way jump to take them from Faerie to the High Council courtroom in Bethsaria. The sense of utter void had only lasted a second—not enough time to panic, but enough time to give Jessica a healthy respect for magical traps.
This time lasted more than a second.
Jessica was blind and deaf, with no sensation of air or clothes against her skin, no sense of where her limbs were in space or even if she had limbs. She was a consciousnes
s suspended in the void with no understanding of how she’d gotten there or how long it might last.
If Jessica had had a heart, it would have been hammering out of her chest. If she had had a voice, she would have screamed herself hoarse. If she had had a body, she would have thrashed. But she had only her thoughts, and those were going mad.
“Help me! Help me! Help me!”
She was an animal in a trap, and she had to escape, she had to. Then Jessica saw…something. A hole, a pinprick. The only way out. But it was too small or the wrong shape or the wrong direction. She could not get through it without turning herself inside out. And so, in desperation, she did.
Chapter 15
Azrael
Azrael woke, walking beside the sea on a moonlit night. Fog was rolling off the land, but the sea breeze blew it away.
The shore. Azrael thought he recognized it. Have I ridden here recently?
He wasn’t dressed warmly enough. He shivered. It did not occur to him to feel anxious, only vaguely annoyed. Where am I?
The land to his left seemed overgrown with a dense hedge. Now and again, he saw breaks—dark trails winding away inland. None of them looked inviting. That did not seem right, though the shore still seemed familiar. Am I on my own island? What has happened here?
The silence was profound. No night birds sang in the hedge, and even the noise of the surf seemed muted. At last, rising out of the mist, Azrael spotted a tumble of rocks. To his surprise, another man sat at the peak, staring out to sea.
Azrael stopped to contemplate this person. He’d gotten quite close in the drifting mist, silent in the fog and sand. The stranger obviously had not seen or heard Azrael’s approach. He was a big man, broad-shouldered, well-muscled, but huddled over with one knee drawn up to his chin. He wore a shirt and trousers that looked too thin for this weather. Moonlight shone on skin the color of milk tea. A tangle of black curls blew around his head. He was a remarkably attractive man, Azrael thought, with a twinge of distraction, but he looked so sad. After a while, the man rubbed absently at his face and then dropped his forehead against his knee.