by Kelly Meding
Brighid. Like the Irish goddess of wisdom and perfection, a lady of skill in healing and warfare, whose face was lovely on one side, and hideously scarred on the other. This Brighid in front of me wore a mask, too . . .
I pulled away from both of them, moving to stand at a respectable distance. Forcing myself to keep still and not tremble. Tennyson hadn’t brought me to see a powerful witch. The bastard brought me to see a goddess.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” our hostess said, her accent coming through more thickly. She indicated the array of floor cushions. I couldn’t bring myself to sit and lower myself beneath her. Symbolically, it gave her power in our bargaining.
“I’m comfortable, thank you,” I said.
Tennyson quirked an eyebrow at me, but addressed Brighid. “Do you wish your favor now, or after we’ve had our discussion?”
“After,” she replied. “I’m quite satisfied at the moment.” She turned to me, her expression mild. “On what business have you come? The djinn are no friends of Ireland, so you risk much in coming to me.”
“I don’t come for myself or my people,” I said. “My needs and Tennyson’s are one and the same today, so I come for his people as well as my human side.”
The fancy speech seemed to impress Brighid. She smiled, and one delicate hand lifted to her face. She stroked a finger down the curve of her mask, drawing attention to its existence. “You both have questions about the black arts. Should I not then require a favor from you, as well?”
Tennyson took a step toward her, creating a minor barrier between me and the goddess. “Your favor comes from me, Brighid, and me alone. Those terms have been established.”
“Spoilsport.” She pouted her lip again. “I’d so enjoy putting a stain on that aura of hers.”
He growled. Good grief, the vampire was standing up for me. A half-blood djinn. It was the final nail in the—no pun intended—coffin of reality. My dad would never believe this story now. Not that I planned on telling him about it. Ever.
“Perhaps we can discuss the topic now?” I asked.
“Of course,” Brighid said, giggling lightly as though the tension had never occurred. “At your leisure.” She danced to a grouping of cushions and sat down, curling her legs beneath her.
Tennyson removed his cloak and let it puddle to the floor. Beneath it, he wore black linen pants that looked painted on, showing off tapered legs and a narrow waist. His light gray, button-up shirt was only a fraction looser than the pants. The outfit dared me to point out a single ounce of extra fat anywhere.
As he moved to join Brighid, I snagged his cloak off the floor, folded it, and put it on a nearby cushion. I ignored his amused look as I settled nearby, keeping an attentive posture without looking as nervous as I felt.
“Now,” Brighid said, “explain how the path of a half-breed connects to that of a Master?”
Ignoring the labels, I fed her an abbreviated version of last night’s events and everything we knew so far about the disappearances. Her eyes lit up when I began describing Julius and his new revenant status, as well as my suspicion that whoever had changed him was also responsible for the kidnappings. She remained silent for several long minutes after I stopped talking.
“Successful necromancy requires talent, precision, and power,” she said, “as well as an understanding of the healing arts.”
“Healing?” I asked.
“Healing and harm are opposites, so for one to work at such a level, a knowledge of both is required.” Her gaze flickered to Tennyson. “I suspect it’s why my friend Tennyson brought you to me, as I am skilled in both healing and warfare.”
“Have you ever practiced necromancy yourself?”
Her lips curled back, not quite a smile. “An impudent question.”
“We came here for answers. I can’t get them if I don’t ask questions.”
“I see why you’ve reserved this one for yourself, Tenny. She’s a bit of a firecracker and you always did like a challenge.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and mentally slapped at the flames of my temper. No sense in correcting her at this point. As long as she believed me under Tennyson’s protection—sexual or otherwise—I was safe from her “favors.” I just hoped I’d be excused while Tennyson paid up, especially if his owed favor fell along the lines of the frat boys.
“Answer her question, please,” Tennyson said.
She glowered at him. “Yes, I have and successfully, but not in the last two centuries. I found the experience distasteful. It is inefficient to kill the same thing twice.”
“Have you ever passed your wisdom in necromancy to another?”
“Only once have I spoken of such forbidden knowledge, and in my regret, I sought to kill him soon after.”
Crap.
“How soon after?” Tennyson asked.
She lifted one slim shoulder in a shrug. “Four years, give or take.”
“Four years?” I repeated. “You waited four years to kill him?”
“Measures of years have little meaning to an immortal, child.” She didn’t bother hiding her disdain. “I was otherwise occupied, and I did not immediately see his corruption.”
“Occupied? Sure. I bet it’s hard to see what’s happening on the mortal coil when you’re flat on your back with your legs in the air.”
Her eyes blazed with emerald fury. Energy snap-crackled in the air.
Bad Shiloh, don’t piss off the Irish goddess of warfare.
“You understand nothing,” she said. “Your entire race is a pestilence to this world and should be destroyed.”
I didn’t know if she meant human or djinn, but I was past caring. All words of caution given to me by Novak and Tennyson flew out of my head with her insults. What could I do, though? My abilities were fairly static, not really defensive powers. Besides the Quarrel and a hearty constitution that made me hard to kill with such simple things as bullets and knives, all I could do was walk through solid objects (nonmetal, natural material solid objects and with quite a lot of searing pain) and sense power coming at me. My magical abilities to grant wishes were bound by the Rules of Wishing, and it was unlikely Brighid knew the words necessary to bind me to her for three wishes.
I did have a gun, though, which I pulled without thinking. “Look, can the insults, Red,” I said, aiming at her uncovered cheek. “Someone I love is dead, people Tennyson cares about are missing, and you’re giving us shit? If you want your fucking favor, how about a little cooperation before I put a hole in the pretty side of your face?”
Brighid stared at my gun as though she’d never seen one before. Or she couldn’t process the idea of an insignificant half-breed like me drawing on and threatening her. I couldn’t believe I’d done it—threatened to shoot a goddess in the face. Fit me for a straitjacket and toss me into the padded room—if I lived that long. I stayed calm, however, even though my insides were pudding, and waited for her to kill me with a snap of her manicured fingers.
Chapter 6
She surprised me by throwing her head back and laughing.
Deep belly laughs reserved for truly hysterical jokes and stand-up comedians. I gaped at her as I lowered my gun. I didn’t tuck it back into its holster, though. Rather, I held it loosely, my thumb still on the safety. Tennyson seemed caught between amusement at Brighid’s reaction and wanting to snap my neck himself.
“Oh my,” she said. She fanned her face with her hand as she collected herself. A spot of color darkened her cheek, and her eyes glittered with tears. “I can see why this one interests you, Tennyson, but you will never have her.”
“Huh?” It came out as a grunt, part surprise and part disgust. No kidding, he’d never have me. Gross and ew.
Did I mention yuck?
“You assume much, Goddess,” Tennyson replied. Not a hint of emotion.
“No more than you assumed in coming here with your queries.”
“And yet you have answered them.”
“For you, not her.”
“In this matter, we are the same.”
She sniffed. “As you wish.”
I recognized the gesture—her way of giving in without backing off. I had no desire to show off in front of a goddess. All I wanted were answers. Clearing my throat, I decided to try again. “Goddess, please,” I said. “In the four years before you killed that man, could he have passed along the forbidden knowledge?”
“The knowledge, yes, but not the skills.” She extended her hand and examined her perfectly manicured fingernails, effectively saying I’ll answer these questions as I see fit. “Also, I said I sought to kill him, not that I had. I discovered he had moved to St. Petersburg, Russia, and died there of influenza. Once I learned of Lord Robert Adelay’s death, certain rumors came to my attention. Rumors that he had transcribed the knowledge and hidden it away. No such tome was discovered amongst his considerable estate holdings.”
“So this Lord Adelay wrote and hid a how-to manual on necromancy?”
“Such is the rumor, yes.”
That book would be worth a fortune on the paranormal black market. “How long ago was this?”
“In a time before this country was claimed by the Old World, when the Ancient World was still free to roam as it wished.”
I cast a help me look at Tennyson. He said, “Fifteenth century, or thereabouts.”
“So the book could be anywhere,” I said, incredulous.
“Or it could have been destroyed long ago,” Brighid said.
A hopeful thought, but one I seriously doubted was the case. “Was Lord Adelay from Ireland?”
“Devonshire. Though his origin does you little good. His descendants have traveled a great deal in the spanning centuries since his death, spreading to many countries, from America to New Zealand to Russia.”
“So any one of them, or none of them, could have the book in their possession.”
“Precisely.”
A technical question occurred to me, and while I doubted she would reveal any specifics of the spell itself, I hoped she would at least answer this one. “How long does it take to successfully create a revenant?”
She arched a slim, auburn eyebrow. “Once death is achieved, the spell takes no longer than one hour. Death is the variable. Ensuring a revenant spirit remains behind requires a long, agonizing process, often employing methods of torture.”
The second part I knew. The first part shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. Julius had been missing for roughly sixteen hours. Take away one hour for the spell, and a minimum of one hour for torturing him to death, the spell location could be anywhere within three hundred miles of his home. Which meant whoever did it could still be nearby.
Hell, Brighid herself could have done it, only I fully believed she’d been occupied at the frat house for quite some time. “Is a specific location necessary for the spell?” I asked, toeing the line here. “Near water or across a ley line?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Your query requires speaking of forbidden magic, and I will not. It is too specific.”
Bless it. One last question, though, before we headed home. “Goddess, are there others who may possess knowledge similar to yours? Knowledge that could assist them in performing necromancy successfully?”
Brighid folded her hands neatly in her lap and tilted her head, pondering the far side of the room. Her eyes remained still, giving me the impression she was stalling, rather than thinking. She had the names in her head. Either she didn’t want to give them up, or she liked seeing me squirm. Probably both. Minutes passed in silence; I stayed so still that my back ached.
“Brighid!” Tennyson said. “We are immortal, but the girl is not. An answer, please.”
She jerked her attention to him, eyes blazing emerald. “I’m sorry. My knowledge of the living is my own, and I will betray the trust of no more dead men. Forgive this rocky ending, Tenny, but I must ask for this audience to end.”
“That’s it?” I asked. “We get a dead guy and a book we’ll probably never find?”
“I have answered your questions, child. Be grateful you are here under Tennyson’s protection. The next time we meet, you will regret threatening me with that pitiful weapon.” The chill in her accented voice sent ice water down my spine. My poor stomach would develop an ulcer after today.
“Very well,” Tennyson replied. He stood gracefully, as though sitting on the floor for so long hadn’t affected him in the least. I didn’t do as well and stumbled over one of her beaded floor cushions. He caught my arm, and I yanked out of his grip.
Brighid rose and practically danced to the large bed opposite us. She perched on the edge, the skirt of her sundress rising up above her knees, which she then parted suggestively. “My favor, Tenny.”
My eyebrows shot up to my hairline. “Please tell me I can wait outside for this.”
“It won’t take long,” Tennyson said.
“What? No stamina?” I regretted the barb the instant I let it loose.
He pivoted to face me, multicolored hair flying. His eyes blazed with annoyance, though curiously devoid of any residual glow, blue, red or otherwise. I wanted to meet him glare for glare, but remembered Kathleen’s warning. I knew about vampire gazelocks, and I couldn’t give him any chance to manipulate me—not even to see what color his eyes really were.
Still, in the curve of his mouth and set of his jaw, he seemed almost . . . disgusted. “It’s not what you assume, child.”
Brighid hitched her dress up to her waist, baring shapely thighs and a hint of pink panties, and laid back on the lush bed. Tennyson stalked to her—actually stalked, which surprised me into watching awhile longer—then knelt on the floor between her legs. When he reached up to caress the inside of her left thigh, my brain screeched at me to look away. I didn’t need to see him do this to her. Yet . . . I couldn’t look away.
The goddess sighed, practically purring at the touch of his hand. My heart jackhammered in my chest, and I knew I was about to witness something intimate.
Tennyson leaned closer to her thigh, until his nose barely brushed her flawless, pale skin. He bared his fangs. My breath hitched. He sank his fangs into her inner thigh, and Brighid let out a wail that rivaled any porn star’s climax. Her free leg came up and draped across Tennyson’s shoulder, as if to keep him in place. Her delicate hands gripped the silk sheets, clawing at the fabric, holding herself down. He continued to drink.
I turned away. It was something more intimate than sex, more pleasurable than an orgasm—at least for Brighid. I’d read a magazine article once about tantric sex, and wondered briefly if it had just found its rival in a vampire bite to the thigh.
It continued for several minutes, until Brighid gasped, “Enough! Enough, please,” and then muttered something I didn’t understand. Gaelic, probably.
The sheets rustled. I felt Tennyson approaching. I didn’t turn around. I waited until he collected his cloak and slipped it on.
“Take her hand, Tenny, and I’ll send you back.” Brighid’s voice was low, sultry, a well-satisfied woman. I wanted to slap her. I really didn’t want to hold Tennyson’s hand again.
His skin was warmer than before; I half expected blazing heat, since he’d just sucked the blood of a Gaelic goddess. I closed my eyes, avoiding all eye contact, until the sense of displacement ended. The heavy odors of sex and herbs were replaced by familiar earth and grass.
I blinked several times, expecting afternoon sunlight and getting only faint streetlights. I pulled away from Tennyson, overwhelmed by the need to wash my hand. And maybe scrub my mind out with brain bleach.
“Why is it nighttime?” I asked.
“Her home is between this world and the next,” he replied blandly. “Time—”
“Yeah, is different, I get it.” I fished out my Raspberry. Three new missed calls. It hadn’t rung once while—oh wait. No cell phone service between worlds. Of course.
One from Novak, one from Kathleen, and one from Vincent, plus the one from Weller. The digital clock sa
id it was after eight o’clock.
“My apologies, Ms. Harrison. I didn’t expect her to require the favor immediately, or I would have bargained for the option to return at a later time.”
I strode down the sidewalk toward the parked Element, cheeks blazing for no good reason. “Why? Don’t like giving sexual favors in front of an audience?”
He was in front of me, an immoveable object in my path before I registered him. I slammed into his chest, then stumbled back. He reached out, as if to grab me, but stopped himself. Red sparks dotted both eyes. “I do not trade sexual favors.”
“No? You just gave Brighid a ten-point-oh orgasm by sucking on her thigh. I don’t care if your lips never touched hers, it was sexual.”
His nostrils flared as the red in his eyes swirled dangerously. “Do you know what the blood of an Ancient World goddess tastes like?”
“No, and I’d really like to keep not kn—”
“Like the sty of a swine in the summer sun.”
Okay, he really liked the powerful visuals. My stomach twisted, his open fury and disgust affecting me as much as his description. “Are you lying to me?”
“No.”
“You just sucked on someone who tastes like pig shit.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“For your answers.”
I felt like the world’s biggest bitch. Getting in his face when he’d just done something fairly nasty to help me. I stepped around him and walked to the Element. He followed. Within spitting distance of it, reality set in. He was manipulating me again, the bastard.
I whirled around, nearly clipping him with my elbow. “They were our answers, Tennyson. Ours, not mine, so don’t try to make me feel guilty because you had to go down on Red.”
He snorted laughter, his lips drawing back to show off his gleaming fangs. “You are a fast learner, Ms. Harrison. As a goddess, she requires more than most in order to achieve satisfaction, hence the three boys servicing her. A vampire’s bite on the inner thigh achieves a sexual high unparalleled by intercourse. For her.”
“Doesn’t do much for you, huh?”