Night Blessed

by Megan Blackwood

  "You couldn't have." He stood in one fluid motion, the grace of our race somehow wrong when expressed through his body. "The Sun Guard understood so little about what it meant to become a nightwalker." He was at my side in a breath, taking the folio from my hands to brush his own fingers over the ancient ink. "They are still so very ignorant."

  "We have had very little chance to learn." I tried to ignore his body by my side, the closeness of his arm—the sleeve of his shirt brushing mine—the scent of him, the real him, all tangled up in the scents of death. But I had long grown used to death.

  "Magdalene." He set the folio down on a shelf and grasped my upper arm in one hand, turning me to face him, to stare into those silver eyes. A flicker of fear marred his face as he noticed the mote and he stiffened his jaw, resolute. "You should not have let Ragnar reclaim his strength."

  "I could not let Luna ride your mind any longer."

  He looked away, tension jumping in the veins of his neck. "Was it Mother Luna? Maybe. But I do not think so."

  "Then what?"

  His smile was tight, painful. "Even Luna sheds light. What filled my mind was nothing but endless darkness. Her power filled a hole in me, I think."

  "The void we passed through..."

  "An in-between place. There are not mortal words to describe it. But there are minds there, or consciousnesses, waiting in the endless black. They must stay there, Magdalene. They must not be tempted to our world. Ragnar tests these boundaries. He must not."

  "What are they?"

  He shook his head and backed away, releasing my arm, and cupped his head in both hands, a painful grimace ripping across his face. Instinctively I moved to him, gathered him in my arms and pressed him tight against me. Cradling, comforting. A choked moan escaped him.

  "I don't know. The Venefica thought she played with them, but she was wrong, they played with her."

  "Shh." I stroked his hair, swallowing my own strangled gasp as the feel of the fit of his body against mine brought back a rush of sensory memory so strong my legs almost buckled.

  He snarled. Jerked back and shoved me away. I took a staggering step, swallowing a sharp ache, and he snapped his arms out, claws extended, and grabbed me by the shoulders before swinging me against the wall.

  I grunted from the impact, but did not fight back. He pressed his face close to mind, cold breath gusting against my neck, my lips. A shimmer rippled through his eyes—disturbed waters—as his hands tightened on my shoulders, claws biting, but not yet drawing blood. Fangs pushed against his upper lip, creating too pouting mountains. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, whole body shuddering.

  "Every night," he whispered the words in a soft hiss, "I wake thinking I am as I was, mortal and happy, dancing with you under a starlit beach while you masqueraded in the night to pretend at humanity. And every night, the wound again. Over and over. That everything I'd loved was taken from me on those sands. This is the weight of the nightwalker. The core of our rage. To know, every night, that everything we'd had as mortals is gone for us forever. Is it true, Magdalene? Is it true that you remember nothing of being mortal?"

  "It's true. My unlife is all that fills my mind."

  "Ragnar thought it would turn me against you." He dropped his head, pressed his forehead against my neck, his freezing breath chilling even my long-dead skin. "It does, for most nightwalkers. The bitterness of what we lose is too much to bear. But I..." His lips grazed my shoulder where the wound from his bite still healed. I shivered at the touch, taking a sharp breath as my skin stung at the memory of his poisonous teeth.

  "I could never resent you, my Magdalene. God help me, it would be easier if I could."

  I closed my eyes, letting all the tension in my sore and battered body flee in a long, rasping breath. His head jerked up, gaze tracking the stone ceiling as if he could see through to the sky above.

  "The sun rises," he whispered, and took a half step back, wary.

  He was right. The sun had broken the horizon, and my oath beat through my veins to the steady thrum of a war drum. My body tingled, a learned response, expecting the tug of my oath to yank me forward, to extend my claws and shred the nightwalker before me—no matter that I loved him.

  Nothing. No pull, just a gentle tide. A tide I could ignore.

  I grasped his wrist and tugged him against me, chest-to-chest, forcing his head down so he would stare into my eyes—my moon-stabbed eyes.

  "We have more than just the dawn."

  His thumb stroked my face, tracing the curve of my cheek bone to my temple, where it lingered, pressed alongside the silver mote. He shook, but not out of fear. His trembling was something else entirely. He closed his eyes, body falling against me, all wary tension released. I tangled my fingers in his hair to draw his lips against mine and, under the unsteady gleam of the gaslights, it mattered not which celestial body mounted the sky.

  Nineteen: Another Kind of Home

  Though the day would not see me raise my hand against Lucien, the night was no guarantee of his restraint. I left him in that cave of a room, far beneath the streets of London, and made my way back to the surface of the world to find the sky bruise-black, the clouds having taken on an eerie purple sheen. I wondered at the third power—the darkness, the void—that Lucien had intimated existed, and prayed that the mote in my eye was only the touch of Luna, and nothing more ancient than that.

  There was no returning home for me. Not after last night. To serve my own desires I had let Ragnar regain his power, and no amount of trying to justify the act as reducing the thing that Lucien had become, and thus taking a greater threat out of the world, would ease that crime.

  Again, I deserved the oubliette. But this time... This time, if I went to that dreamless rest, I would wake up to a world not only changed, but malformed. What lurked in the darkness had cast its eye upon the world, and some instinct deep in my bones warned me that if it was not stopped—not turned away—that this world would break beneath the burgeoning of it.

  When I had thought Lucien lost, some secret part of me craved that destruction. But now... Now my skin carried the scent of hay, and maybe there was something on this rock worth saving beyond mortality.

  No, I would not accept the punishment for my crimes. Would not stay stony faced while DeShawn called me too far gone, broken from the leash of my oath. I may not have the whip of my blood to guide me, but I knew what was right. I knew that, for this world to know peace, Ragnar and his make must end.

  The night was fresh, the Sun Guard would just now be sending out the sunstriders to control the ghoul infestation, to investigate what had happened last night. I wondered what Talia would tell the others. Everything, more than likely. The girl, for all her bravery, didn't have a duplicitous bone in her scrawny body. Maybe they would think me dead. Emeline would know otherwise, however. Through our blood-bond, she would be able to sense my existence, but it would be too weak for her to find me.

  Gods, but I needed rest. A place to hole up and think, regain my strength and lick my wounds. Part of me craved Lucien's lair for that purpose, sang to me that if I went back and explained I was homeless, he would let me stay. But that was a fairy-story. What he wanted wouldn't matter in the slightest in the face of what his blood demanded of him once the night was full, and my mere existence made me his enemy.

  I walked the streets of London, my scratched-up bare feet stinging with every step, until I caught myself on the outskirts of the warehouse district, where we had discovered Ragnar's hive. The narrow strip of hostel across the street was still standing, despite the flames that had devoured the hive. The planter box in the window had withered summer blooms dropping their heads as the first chill of autumn rushed in. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  The same woman who had greeted us the first time peered up at me over horn-rimmed glasses and snorted. "You. He said you'd be coming, but I didn't believe it. Thought he'd cracked in the head I did, but he had coin for the floor so I didn't mind. Third level up
, same as last time."

  "Who?" I asked, bewildered.

  "The young lad."

  Hesitantly, I sniffed the air, seeking a hint of anyone I knew. Sunshine and stone, bright mortal scents, no hint of the undead. Seamus.

  "Thank you," I said to the woman. She grunted at me and went back to pouring out a cup of tea.

  I mounted the steps in silence and pushed aside the curtain that cordoned off the third floor. Seamus sat on the foot of a bed, facing a window that overlooked the street. His earpiece dangled around his neck, partially hidden by a rumpled collar. He'd rolled his sleeves up, and clasped both of his hands together, bouncing one leg nervously. The faint light of the room gave him a soft glow, as if he were a living oil painting.

  "You should be working," I said.

  He startled and whipped his head around, eyes widening. I must look quite the sight—spattered in blood and wearing the same rumpled clothes I'd been wearing when he'd last seen me. I didn't even have Ben's shotgun anymore, that had been lost to Sonia's garden when Lucien swept us away.

  "So should you," he shot back and pushed to his feet, pacing in a quick circle. "What happened last night, Mags? Talia was less than clear."

  "Sonia is a puppet of Ragnar's," I said, easing into the truth.

  "She told me that much." He frowned and shook his head. "Emeline is working with Raina to intervene, to get Sonia help of a mortal sort, but... I don't know. My dad thought like her. It... It didn't end well. I'm not sure that minds like that ever end well."

  "I'm sorry," I said, genuinely, and would have reached to comfort him if he didn't look as wound-up as a coiled spring.

  "But when we got to the garden you had vanished! Sonia was still lurking about, and she said—she said you healed Ragnar. That you'd come to your senses and because of you, she'd get to join the host of the night."

  I flinched. "Ragnar took back what Lucien had taken. Sonia is right, I did not intervene, though perhaps I should have."

  He sat back down on the foot of the bed so heavily the wood creaked and buried his face in his hands. "This isn't good, Mags. DeShawn is furious. He says it's proof that your oath-bond is broken. He wants you back at the estate so he can evaluate you."

  "You mean imprison me."

  He looked up, scraping his palms across his cheeks. "Emeline is talking about the oubliette."

  Well. I shouldn't be surprised, I'd had the same thought myself, but hearing it said out loud by those I'd counted my friends stung me all the same.

  "DeShawn is not wrong. My oath is... still there, but reduced. I can ignore it, if I so choose."

  "That is not helpful."

  "I am not trying to be helpful. I am trying to be honest."

  "I wish the truth were better, then."

  He stood and centered himself, taking a long, hard look at me. I let him take as long as he needed, watched in passive silence as whatever internal war he held raged beneath the surface of those otherwise coy and curious green eyes. After a while, he nodded to himself.

  "Mags. I need you to answer me this honestly: Would you ever hurt an innocent?"

  "No." The word came without resistance, from deep within me, not at all compelled by the whip of my oath. Strange, to speak in such a way without feeling compelled. Somehow the word felt truer this way.

  "All right. Okay." He laced his fingers together and stretched out his arms in front of himself. "Then we gotta go."

  I blinked at him. "Go? What do you mean?"

  He raised both eyebrows at me. "You can't honestly think I'm the only one who remembers this place? I begged off tonight, saying I need a mental break, and I'm pretty sure Emeline knew what I was really thinking of doing. And DeShawn, that gob-shite, tried to have me followed. It won't be long until you're found here. And you want to be free to hunt Ragnar, don't you?"

  I cracked a small smile. "I promised him he would be dead within the week."

  Seamus snort-laughed, then brought a hand up to rub his nose and look away. "Well you can't do that if DeShawn's got you locked up, or Emeline shoves you in the oubliette."

  He ducked down and picked up two helmets from the floor on the other side of the bed. Both were matte black, covered in a few stickers from tech conferences and bands, the visors heavily mirrored. I couldn't help but smile as he tossed me one and tucked the other under his arm.

  "You were confident about all this." I turned the helmet over in my hands, tracing a few scrapes with the side of my thumb. Not enough damage to ruin the integrity of the helmet, but enough to show it was well-used.

  He rubbed the back of his head with his free hand, fluffing up his hair. "Yeah, well, let's just say that I've learned a lot about loyalty in the past few weeks. Come on. Let's go."

  Twenty: Other Paths

  Seamus had stashed his motorcycle behind a dumpster in a thin alley a half-block from the hostel. Compared to the bike Adelia had rummaged up for me out of her garage, his felt like little more than a toy underneath me, but somehow more real for all of its lack of power. The well-worn fenders and tank had been sprayed primer black, as matte as the helmets, and left to dull as if he'd forgotten to do whatever the next step in the painting process had been.

  It didn't look large enough to outrace a thoroughbred, but when we mounted up—Seamus at the controls, me huddled behind him with one arm around his waist, the other at my side should I need it—it purred to life with surprising strength. This wasn't a pretty toy kept locked up in a garage, this was a working bike, one that would be loved and used until it finally fell apart.

  I placed my torn and bare feet carefully on the passenger pegs as he maneuvered us out into the main road and cut straight toward the heart of London. He was a careful rider, doing his best not to draw attention to us, but I felt eyes track me all the same. Though I was grateful he'd brought a spare helmet, I wished he'd had the insight to bring shoes and a jacket.

  Traffic clogged the main roads, and though my experience with such things was minimal, even I could figure out that this was more than usual. Seamus slowed, carefully weaving between stopped cars, garnering more than a few honks for his efforts. I peered over his shoulder, leaning tight against him to get a better view of what was going on. Up ahead, pedestrians filled the road, swirling in a chaotic mass. No, not just pedestrians. Protesters.

  A few of them carried signs that would have been fodder for conspiracy theories just a few months ago:

  Blood Suckers Beware!

  Coppers On The Bite

  Truth or Riot!

  As Seamus approached a thick knot of people, he was forced to stop, and stood tall to see if there was any way through the mess. I tapped him on the shoulder.

  "What the hell's going on?" I asked, pushing up my visor just enough so that my voice could escape, but not reveal my eyes.

  He killed the bike—we weren't going anywhere just yet—and pushed up his own visor. "The veil's pretty much dead. DeShawn's people are running themselves mad trying to cover it up—saying it's that new drug, blood—but people aren't stupid, and cameras are everywhere, not just above." He tipped his head up to a CCTV camera lurking under the eaves of a bank building.

  "People are missing, and on the off chance they're found they look and act a whole hell of a lot like vampires, or zombies I guess. People are asking questions and they're not getting good answers. Other nations are asking questions, Mags. France has already closed its borders to the UK—shut down the tube, even—and the rest of the continent looks likely to do the same. They're saying it's because of the new drug, that they don't want it smuggled in, but unofficially everyone knows it's because it looks like we've got a disease outbreak going on over here. The WHO is all over it, and I heard the Americans even sent over a delegation from the CDC."

  "This is bad, Seamus. Very bad."

  "For Emeline, yeah. DeShawn has all but taken over."

  "I don't mean for the Sun Guard."

  "You were out in the open in your day, weren't you?"

  "Mor
e or less. The people were superstitious then, and séances were becoming popular. We could be in the open without being flagrant, if you catch my meaning. Those who knew, knew, and those who suspected mostly crossed themselves at night and hung garlic over their thresholds. It helped that there weren't many of us. But this... The ghouls Ragnar released are too much. I cannot allow this to continue."

  "And how in the hell are you going to stop it?"

  I thought of that other-place, the plinth in the mist, and the endless blackness through which Lucien had dragged me. The Sun Guard stood against the night, that was true. We put our blades and our bodies on the line for humanity against our greedier kin, but there were greater threats lurking in the shadows beyond—things not even we had names for.

  Long ago, before there was ever such a thing as the Sun Guard, our species and the magic users of the world had gotten together to hide away the stickier parts, to lay the biggest monsters—for they were, though they often wore human faces—to rest in the folds between realities.

  We knew so little. If such cages were to break, if humanity cried out against the supernatural forces of the world so loudly they drew unwanted attention, we were lost. All of us. It may take ages, but the end would come soon enough. I could taste it on the tip of my tongue, a future like charred roses.

  "We start with Ragnar," I said, for he was the thread I could break, the thing undoubtedly causing the spread of ghouls across the city. "Then we seek out the crèches and break them. Then..."

  I trailed off, and Seamus nodded understanding. Then Lucien. All paths lead to Lucien's destruction, if the world were to hold at the seams.

  I pushed my visor back down, signaling I was done talking, and Seamus pushed his own down and revved the bike—not aggressively, just a warning to those nearby that he was about to move, despite the congestion. With a thump of the suspension he forced the bike up a curb onto a less-than-packed sidewalk, drawing a few curses from protesters nearby. He angled us down a narrow side lane that had been blocked off from vehicles with bollards just wide enough apart for the bike to slip through if we pressed our legs tight against its body.