Spellfinder

by Carmen Caine

  I froze. Alarmed.

  Lucian closed his eyes. “Anya,” he murmured through white lips, his tone riddled with defeat. “I never … saw … it coming.”

  My anger roared to life then. Anger at Anya, of course, but anger at Lucian, too. “You’re not dead yet,” I snapped. “I didn’t know Rowles gave up so easily.”

  “Easy?” Strix whirled on me, fury lacing his tone. “Can you not see the profound danger of this situation? Any other warlock would have succumbed, weeks ago. He’s a miracle. It’s astoundingly beyond belief that he could carry on this long! And this curse of hers, it’s ancient. Powerful. Unheard of.”

  Talk about hair-trigger tempers. And I thought that I was bad? “Well, it’s not over yet, Mr. High-and-Mighty,” I retorted, furious myself. “I’m not just going to shrivel up and accept fate right now. I’ll keep fighting, to the bitter end.”

  His fine nostril’s flared with contempt. “Tell me, Mindbreaker’s Daughter, just what is there to fight now?” With a broad wave encompassing Lucian and his nearly defunct ward, he added, “Curses can only be broken by destroying the object that hold them—the key.”

  I knew that wasn’t true, but I wasn’t going to practice my fledgling mana-removal skills on Lucian. That was the surest way to hasten his death. But I didn’t even have to torture myself with that dilemma. Strix delivered his ultimatum with his next breath, and it was an ultimatum that conveniently and neatly might solve everything.

  Towering over me, the blond keeper barked, “So, unless you know exactly which spider of hers holds this curse and just where we can find her within the hour, it’s simply too late!”

  I straightened.

  And smiled out of profound relief.

  “A tarantula,” I said with complete certainty. “She’s wearing it in her hair like a barrette. And she hides out at a town house with a green door on Park Avenue. You’ll recognize it by the door knob. It’s a gargoyle.”

  The Hell Stone

  In the end, Strix went himself. Tying a cloth over the lower half of his face, he slung his bow over his shoulder and disappeared into the darkness. I didn’t put up much of a fuss about going along. Even I knew that I was a loose cannon.

  But of course, that wasn’t the only reason. Dorian’s package lay just four feet away. I’d only moved an inch in its direction when True floated forward to place long, white fingers on my arm.

  “Your imp,” the Night Terror intoned with a mournful expression. “Come. His box is in the next room.”

  Ricky.

  I closed my eyes, recalling how the tornado had sucked him to meet his bitter end. It was a harsh way to go. All said and done, I was going to miss the little pest.

  Moving soundlessly to the adjoining chamber just as dark as the others, True drifted past the standard room-issue iron candelabra to a table holding two black boxes. One large and one small. An enormous, gilt-framed mirror hung on the wall, right next to the arched door. I didn’t see any other furniture. The Night Terrors were apparently minimalists.

  “This pains me.” True lowered his voice, picking up the smaller black box to drop it into my outstretched palms.

  My eyes misted. With a heavy feeling, I flipped the lid open on its hinges. I really don’t know what I expected to see. The room was dark. The box was black. And Ricky was made of nothing but smoke of the exact same color.

  “I’m going to miss him,” I admitted, my voice hoarse with raw emotion.

  True’s brow arched. “Why?” he asked, pointedly. Clearly, he didn’t share my opinion.

  “I guess he was an acquired taste,” I mumbled, closing the lid. “He was a good egg,” I added, thinking Ricky would appreciate the English expression.

  “Poor blighter,” a voice commiserated in my ear. “Was that the rat Lucian wanted to torture with blue ice?”

  I jumped.

  A moment later, I realized that Ricky wasn’t dead in a box but crouched on my shoulder with that wide, ear-to-ear cheeky grin splitting his obnoxious little face.

  “I thought you were dead,” I snapped, the acid in my voice returning with a rush.

  “That we should be so fortunate.” True sighed, frowning at us both from under his brows. “I’ve always found imps so very painfully irksome to deal with. Especially ones who do not stay in their assigned boxes.”

  “Why don’t you give it a go, big chap,” Ricky snorted testily before sliding around my neck to mutter, “Cheerio, duck, time to find a bite to eat. I’m Hank Marvin, er, that means starving!”

  The next moment, I spied his big green blinking eyes darting out of the room.

  True fluttered his fingers in a disparaging gesture. “Imps,” was all he said, but that one word spoke volumes.

  “Thanks for looking after him,” I said, feeling the need to apologize on Ricky’s behalf.

  The Night Terror humphed in reply and then abruptly switched subjects. “We have other, far more important matters to speak of,” he said, waving me closer to the table and pointing a pale, spindly finger to the large, black box.

  I was curious, of course. But my mind was on revenge. And almost as if sensing it, Dorian decided to chat again.

  “’Tis now, my bonny wee glaistig,” the Scottish highlander of a vampire crooned. “Set me free afore the chance is lost. Forever.”

  “Later,” I told the Night Terror. I had a decision to make. It was time. “I’ll just sit with Lucian awhile, if you don’t mind.”

  True wasn’t so easy to ditch. “There’s little to fret over now,” he assured me quickly. “Strix is a keeper, and we keepers never fail our missions. Our mana rivals yours, little one. And Lucian’s as well. Nothing will stop a keeper from attaining his goal. And now that Strix knows her vessel and location, the witch can’t hide. Lucian’s as good as healed already. Within the hour, his power will be restored. Completely.”

  Was it bad that the word completely filled me with relief and disappointment at the same time? Completely. Back to his powerful, strong, sexy self. So completely that I wouldn’t be smelling his mana again.

  But without smelling it, how could I attempt any extraction of it? Voila. No curse-breaking for Dorian.

  It wasn’t until that thought that I consciously acknowledged that I was really going through with it. Betrayal, consequences, and everything else aside. I ran my fingers under the puppet string bracelet still tied to my wrist. Revenge was paramount. Finally, it was time to plunge the first knife into Emilio’s black heart.

  And Lucian? Well, he’d said himself that he’d work with anyone and do anything to achieve his goal. He could add betrayal to that list.

  Sweeping the last twinge of conscience aside, I repeated curtly, “Later. We can chat later.”

  I attempted to step around the Night Terror, but I discovered they were an obstinate bunch. And quick on their feet, or whatever they glided on under those billowing robes. He blocked my path.

  “No,” True insisted. “We speak now.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t respond well to orders,” I replied, rankled.

  True sighed. “Come, come, little one,” he softened his voice. “You must hear me while there is still time.”

  I shoved past him. “I’m in a bit of a time crunch,” I said, determined to make the most of my hour. This chance wouldn’t come again.

  He waited until I was almost at the door before asking, “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  The smell made me turn around. I knew before I saw it just exactly what he held in his hands. I’d never really gotten a good look at Dorian’s marionette before. I’d been too distracted in Venice. And even though the room was dark and gloomy, there was no mistaking the likeness. It was creepy. The reddish-brown hair and the green eyes that perfectly matched the kilt draped over a small, wooden body. The puppet strings fell from the Night Terror’s hands to the floor in a black tangled mess.

  “God’s Blood, lass, ‘tis sweeter than heaven to see your bonny face again,” I heard Dorian’s disembodie
d voice in my head.

  “You want this, do you not, Mindbreaker’s Daughter?” True asked.

  Great. Proven guilty before even committing the crime. I figured I’d better start running. I was going to need that hour lead on Lucian.

  And then, True tossed the marionette into my arms. “You can have it,” he said. “It’s yours.”

  I caught the doll. It felt extraordinarily heavy, like it was made of lead.

  True’s eyes shimmered at me with an expression I couldn’t understand.

  “What’s the catch?” I asked, bluntly.

  “We are specters, you and I,” he replied with a ghastly smile. “If we can’t trust each other, just who can we trust?”

  Yeah. Right.

  “I ask only a few minutes of your time,” he said, folding his arms to hide his bony fingers in the voluminous sleeves of his robes. “I ask only that you listen.”

  I hesitated. What could be the harm in listening?

  As I waffled, he floated to the table and, opening the large black box, took out an object roughly two feet tall and one in circumference. I recognized it immediately. The large gray cylindrical stone, a series of intricate Celtic circles carved into the top of its unpolished surface. The Hell Stone. I’d touched it in Venice. It had been surprisingly light, like a feather. And the screams. I could still hear the weeping, hideous screams I’d heard then, when I’d put an ear to its mana-infused surface.

  “Your birthright,” True whispered softly, almost reverently.

  My … what?

  I glanced up at him sharply. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Mindbreaker brought the Hell Stone to Earth, over a thousand years ago. It was his safeguard, his contingency should he fail in his desire to eradicate those who fought against him,” he answered with a story instead. “The Hell Stone is his anchor, Cassidy. With it, he can still win. With it, he can call the Fallen Ones to his side and retrieve that which he has hidden in the domain of demons—that which he must not retrieve.”

  Alright. I’d tried. “Sorry,” I said. “You’ve lost me. Do we have to speak in riddles?”

  A curl of amusement graced his lips. “There are no riddles here. I, True, Keeper of the Old Wisdom most certainly cannot allow the Mindbreaker to return. Not now. It’s no longer his right.”

  “Alrighty then,” I said when he didn’t continue. “Good luck with that.”

  He just stood there, grinning at me.

  I gripped Dorian’s marionette tighter. There had to be a catch here. Somewhere. “So?” I prodded when he made no move to explain himself. “What kind of deal are we talking here? What are you expecting from me? You know …” I trailed off and wiggled the puppet a bit.

  “Lord Rowle will never know that I gave the doll to you, nor will he know that you took it,” the Night Terror answered at once, his eyes glowing brighter.

  Uh-huh. “You know, Dorian told me that Night Terrors are loyal only to the highest bidder,” I said, searching his face closely.

  “The specter kind are loyal to themselves, little one, and to none other,” he replied, as if that explained everything.

  “Does that include kissing cousins?” I asked, still looking for the catch.

  True floated up to me, his eyes, two glowing points of gold. “How can I remain loyal to the Mindbreaker when his daughter is of my kind?” he asked softly.

  Hmm. I didn’t like the way this plot was twisting. I had my own issues. I didn’t want to inherit a ton of my so-called father’s as well. Especially since he sounded like quite the mentally-deranged, genocidal tyrant.

  “Remember, Cassidy Edwards, when you call me, I will come.” True bowed with deep reverence. “And the Hell Stone, I will protect it well, guard it safely, for you and you alone.”

  Uh. What?

  He didn’t wait for my response. Floating past me, he disappeared into the darkness beyond the archway, taking the Hell Stone with him.

  I stood there, a bit unsettled by the peculiar conversation. But he’d gone and my clock was ticking. As I moved for the door, I caught my reflection in the gilt-framed mirror and paused. I looked beyond exhausted, the evidence of the hellish night apparent in the purple rings under my puffy eyes housed in a pinched face. My lips were chapped and my hair a ratted mess of dark, auburn locks. I attempted to rake my fingers through them a few times, but gave up. It was time to go.

  As I stepped into the corridor, a new voice instructed, “Take the stairs straight ahead to exit this place, little one.”

  It was another Night Terror. Right. This place was filled with them. I couldn’t very well waltz out there carrying Dorian for all to see. One of them would squeal, kissing cousin or no. Darting back into the room, I stuffed the marionette into the black box that had housed the Hell Stone, and tucking the thing under my arm, sprinted towards the exit.

  As luck would have it, I passed right outside Lucian’s door. His unexpected moan made me pause. But only for a moment.

  Gritting my teeth, I forced my feet away, down the hall, and up the winding staircase leading to the world outside. There were a lot of steps, just as many as there had been in Venice, but finally, I reached the top and taking a deep, steadying breath, opened the door to the world outside.

  A Scottish Highlander of a Vampire

  I stood in a graveyard, in the mouth of a crypt. It was old. I couldn’t read the writing engraved above the entrance. Wind, rain, and time had rendered it illegible. But I really didn’t need to. There was a family crest chiseled in the very center. I recognized it at once: the Rowles of Castle Llewelyn.

  Bile burned my mouth.

  Whatever.

  I didn’t owe Lucian anything. And really, I’d just saved the man’s life, hadn’t I? He couldn’t begrudge me a bit of my own vengeance.

  Lifting my chin and gripping Dorian’s box even tighter, I forged ahead.

  It was cold, but the sky was clear. I’d apparently slept almost the entire day away again. With the last streaks of sunlight painting the horizon a blood red, I picked my path through several mausoleums to a large pine at the edge of the cemetery. A large black iron fence ringed the entire perimeter of the place.

  Dropping to my knees between the tree and the fence, I dumped Dorian out of the box.

  My pulse accelerated with excitement. Emilio was about to have a horrible night … providing I succeeded.

  “This just might kill you,” I addressed the marionette, propping it into a sitting position.

  “What’s this? Words? Speak to me properly with your thoughts, lass,” Dorian ordered in my head.

  I shot him a look. “Sorry, clan mindreading doesn’t work for my side of the conversation,” I said.

  “Sweet Mary, how can this be? A Terzi who canna speak in the mind?” The Scottish lilt of his voice rose in shock.

  Great. I didn’t need his constant chatter chiming in my head. With a scowl, I grabbed the puppet strings controlling his mouth and tied them tight.

  He got the message.

  An unnatural quiet fell over the graveyard then, a silence free of the usual backdrop of sirens, traffic, and other things.

  It was time.

  Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath.

  Anyone watching would’ve most likely thought me a crazy woman with my rat’s nest of hair and begrimed clothing, and the way I waved my hands over the marionette—searching for mana strands—would’ve only confirmed it. But it didn’t matter.

  It was time.

  I started with the puppet strings, figuring they’d be the most forgiving should I blunder in removing the mana. The process was easier than I expected. Lucian’s mana was delectable. Tasty. It rolled right off into my fingers. I couldn’t resist absorbing it. That set off a frenzy. It was addicting. But the faster I consumed it, the clearer I saw his image in my mind, lying ill, tossing in pain. There was no pretending here, no feigning ignorance. Each nip rubbed my betrayal right into my face.

  But there was no turning back for me.


  Gritting my teeth, I doggedly forged ahead until the last thread of his mana fell free from the puppet strings.

  To my astonishment, the black string itself vanished in a shower of sparks.

  Crud. That couldn’t be good.

  Exercising greater care, I started on the next strands of mana, thrilling at the taste, at the strength surging through me while doing my best to ignore Lucian’s suffering. It was the ultimate conflict of interests. I continued tenaciously, but as time marched on, I began tossing all caution aside to consume the mana as fast as I could.

  The puppet grew lighter and lighter as I removed thread by thread. Piece by piece.

  Finally, there was nothing left.

  Nothing happened.

  The marionette just lay there on the withered grass next to some illegible tombstone. Lifeless. Motionless.

  Yet, still in one piece.

  Doubt surged. Had I missed something? I took a deeper, analyzing breath. I couldn’t smell anything. That was worrisome. Had I failed? Or worse yet, had Strix broken Lucian’s curse? Had his wards snapped back to full strength? Even now, were they making their way up from the bowels of the Earth to find me, curse me to some tortured existence for eternity?

  I cast a worried glance over my shoulder, wondering if I should start running. It was almost dark now. Shadows moved around in the darkness behind me. I shuddered.

  Really, what part of this had been a good idea?

  I really was too green.

  “At last! God’s Blood, at last!” Dorian’s voice thundered in my ears the exact instant arms of corded muscle caught me up, lifting me to my feet to whirl me around.

  I sucked in a huge gulp of air. Stunned.

  The large hands holding me up were real.

  The square-jawed handsome highlander of a vampire holding me over his head and looking up at me was real. His jade-colored eyes sparkled and his white teeth flashed in a wide grin.

  I matched his grin.

  I’d really done it. I’d removed Lucian’s curse without the key—and most importantly, without obliterating my victim.