CarnalHealing

by Virginia Reede

  The impact would have knocked the wind out of her, except that she hadn’t actually had time to take a breath yet. Gasping, she scrambled frantically with her toes. Amazingly, they caught on something that extended from the exterior wall, taking some of her weight. She reached up with her right hand, just as the squealing sound of tires turned into a grinding, screaming cacophony of glass breaking and metal being crushed against concrete. The building vibrated, as from an impact.

  Jeff! Her groping right hand found and grasped a second cable and, with her face pressed against the back side of the barrier, she clung to the wall like a wounded spider.

  The airbags, which had deployed the second the roof of the car hit the floor, flopped over Jeff’s face, and he nearly choked on the residue of the powder that clouded the air and stung his eyes. He pushed the deflated bag aside, then reached for the buckle of the seat belt that held him, suspended, upside down. He automatically pressed the other hand against the roof of the car, barely noticing the sting as his fingertips and palm encountered the glass fragments that rested there.

  Had Leonore really gone over the edge? It had all happened so fast. He pulled himself through the window and onto the floor of the garage, then up on his hands and knees. Something sharp scraped his skin, right through his trousers, but he didn’t have time to worry about that right now. If there was any chance she was still alive…

  He peered cautiously over the bottom of the car, quickly spotting the man who had…done what? Pointed at the heavy Volvo and made it blow back like chaff in the wind?

  The strange darkness that had obscured Jeff’s vision when he’d first turned onto the roof was gone now, and he could see the man clearly in the glow of the garage lights. He had one hand against the concrete barrier closest to him, and he seemed to be leaning against it. The bastard looked winded, as if he was panting. Maybe moving full-sized cars around like toys took a lot out of him. Good.

  The man wasn’t looking at Jeff, but rather at the spot where Leonore had disappeared.

  No, not quite disappeared. Jeff’s heart gave a great leap in his chest as he made out something white, just at the top edge of the barrier, where the cables that held the massive concrete slabs steady were attached to supporting pillars. It was a hand, fingers wrapped tightly around the inch-thick rope of twisted wire. And, as Jeff looked, a second hand appeared, then grasped a higher diagonal rung of cable.

  Leonore was alive. Alive, and climbing.

  The ledge under her stuck out no more than four or five inches, and it was a good two feet below the floor of the garage’s roof. Now that Leonore had a cable in each hand, it was wide enough to abate the sickening certainty of a fall, but not enough to give her the leverage to easily pull herself up far enough to see over the barrier. But the thought of what the Draíodóir had done to Jeff—might be doing to him at this very second—put strength into Leonore’s arms that she didn’t know she had. Her shoulder screamed in protest, but the adrenaline that sang in her veins, so like the familiar buzz of magic, enabled her to ignore the pain as she pulled herself up with her right hand enough to loosen the left and reach for a higher cable.

  Another breath, and another cable. Leonore heard a car horn blare and glanced down. There was traffic on the streets eight stories below, but she doubted anyone would look up and see her. She refocused on the cables. One more, and Leonore would be able to reach the top edge of the barrier. She was tensing to reach for it when a voice colder than the steel and concrete to which Leonore clung froze her.

  “So, witch, you’ve got something in common with your ancestor after all.” The Draíodóir’s laugh made nausea rise in Leonore’s throat. He went on, “She always had some cunt-addled man skulking around, willing to risk his life for another chance to stick his cock into her.”

  “Fuck you.” Not a very creative insult, but the best Leonore could come up with under the circumstances. She looked up at her hands, knowing they were in his line of sight. Why didn’t he just flick her off the side of the building like a speck of dust? He would surely do so if she pulled herself up into full view. Instead of climbing, she cautiously moved the uppermost hand down onto a lower cable. Instantly, the cable she had released broke apart with a mighty twang. As the tension on the ends released, they curled back on themselves, one jagged end flying past her face so close that, for a moment, she thought it had cut her.

  Quickly, she moved down another rung.

  Z-z-zing! The next cable split, and a stab of pain told Leonore that some of her hair had been caught between twisted wires as the end whizzed past. The slab that the cables held in place shifted about an inch, and her stomach clenched as she realized what the Draíodóir was doing. She looked frantically around for something to grab, other than the cables. There was nothing and, once they were gone, there was no way she’d be able to balance on the narrow ledge.

  Z-z-zing! A third cable, one of the two she’d been holding, snapped, and Leonore pulled her hand back, fast. Not fast enough—the razor-sharp end of the broken cable sliced the back of her wrist, and she shrieked at the sudden pain. She grabbed another cable—only four left now—and pressed her face against her hand, the coppery scent of her own blood sharp in her nostrils.

  Without the upper cables securing the barrier, her weight on the lower cables acted like a lever to stretch them across the end of the slab, and it slid again, so that a few inches now hung out, away from the parking garage and over the empty space below. Leonore tried to push herself closer to the building, but the ledge was too narrow to be of help, and the slab moved another inch. Her hands were starting to feel slippery, as perspiration greased her palms. “Shit.”

  Again, the cold laugh sounded above her. “What’s the matter, Leonore? Running out of handholds?” With a loud twang, a fourth cable came apart and there was a sickening, split second of falling as the concrete barrier slid and then tilted a few degrees outward. The three remaining cables now supported only the bottom few inches of the slab. One more, and it looked as if the whole thing would topple into space. Taking Leonore with it.

  Screw it. Whatever her enemy was going to do to her, Leonore was going to go down fighting. Summoning every last bit of adrenaline left in her system, she pushed off with her toes and sprang, if such a short motion could be called a spring, releasing her right hand from the cable and reaching toward the edge of the teetering slab of the barrier. It moved and, for a stomach-turning moment, Leonore thought it would fall over the edge. Then, she was on it, bent at the waist and pulling herself forward, even as it tilted back and forth, as if deciding which way to fall.

  Jeff eased around the misshapen wreck of his car, sure that the man would turn toward him and toss him away as easily as he had the vehicle. Jeff wondered why he didn’t come over to see if he was alive—maybe he didn’t care right now. Jeff certainly hadn’t been much of a threat to him so far.

  At the edge of the garage, a heart-stopping sight arrested Jeff’s attention. Leonore, her red hair flying around her like the mane of a jungle cat, was clinging to the concrete barrier, which was now almost completely torn loose from its supporting cables. Jeff held his breath as the slab wobbled and fell with a crash, slamming onto the garage floor. Leonore lay flat on top of it, then lifted herself up on her knees and forearms and glared at her attacker.

  The last time Jeff had launched himself directly at this—this whatever he was, it had turned out to be a bad idea. He looked around for cover. About twenty feet to his right, four or five white utility vans emblazoned with Mass General’s familiar blue-and-white logo were parked in a row, probably for the night. Glancing once again to make sure that the man was still turned away, he ran a few crouching steps to the shadows behind the closest one.

  Jeff was sure the man would hear or see him, but his running shoes were quiet against the concrete floor. He skirted the back of the first van. The row sat perpendicular to where the man, his back now nearly turned fully toward Jeff, stood about forty feet away. He quickly moved t
o the other end of the row, then stood with his back against the van closest to the wall and inched toward the front of the vehicle.

  When he reached the passenger window, Jeff peered through it and the windshield. From this angle, the man stood almost directly between him and Leonore. Could he rush him from behind? If the man heard him, and had time to turn and send another of those weird gusts of power his way, Jeff would never stand a chance. He had to get closer.

  The shedlike structure that housed the emergency stairs would provide little cover, but it was better than nothing. The dim light that illuminated the few steps between seemed as revealing as the blazing sun, but the man seemed fully occupied. Jeff dashed to the shelter, put his back against it, and then peered around the corner.

  He could see Leonore’s face clearly and, although her attention on her captor never wavered, Jeff sensed some flicker of change. He was sure she had seen him. Would the man notice? Jeff pulled his head back into the shadows and stood there, listening to the rushing of the blood in his ears.

  As Jeff’s face disappeared into the shadows beyond the exit sign, Leonore struggled to keep her gaze locked on that of the Draíodóir. She’d seen the motion in her peripheral vision only, and it had taken every ounce of resolve Leonore had not to focus on the movement, but even that blur had been enough. It was Jeff, and he was alive and moving, not trapped in the twisted heap of metal that had been his car.

  The man’s eye’s narrowed—had he seen something in her expression? Leonore needed to keep his attention.

  “How,” she asked, her voice coming out as a croak, “do you know so much about me? And why are you so much stronger than I am?” That last bit was intended to stroke his ego. She didn’t know if he’d take the bait or not. With the concrete barrier down, Leonore figured he could probably send her over the edge with no more effort than swatting a fly. She was hoping that, given the opportunity to gloat, he might start swaggering like the villain in a James Bond novel and buy her the time to—what? She hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  “It’s my business to know about you,” he said, and Leonore felt a tiny mote of relief. Just keep talking, asshole.

  “Your business?” she asked, trying to put a pathetic note into her tone. It didn’t take much effort.

  “The business of all Draíodóir. Our sworn business.”

  “Are there…a lot of you?” Again, Leonore caught movement in her peripheral vision. To keep herself from glancing toward it, she looked down at her hands, hoping it looked like she was cowering.

  “There are enough,” he replied, scorn plain in his tone. “And we don’t stumble over one another by accident, like you and your so-called sisters. No wonder your powers are so diminished. Your blood has been diluted by centuries.”

  “And yours isn’t?” she asked, looking up again. “Are there female Draíodóir, then?”

  “No!” he spat, and Leonore feared she had gone too far. She wanted him to feel superior, not angry. “Our women are vessels, nothing more. They carry the blood, not the power.”

  Leonore sensed his impatience, and sought desperately for another question. “Do you each have different powers? Or are you all the same?”

  He laughed, and Leonore felt whatever interest he had in taunting her evaporate. “They won’t do you any good, you know, all these questions. You’re going to be dead before you have a chance to tell anyone what you’ve learned.”

  “But—”

  “Enough!” he thundered. “You’ve been enough trouble, and taken enough of my time, witch.” He pulled himself up to his full height and, at this proximity, Leonore could feel the power crackling off him like the mild buzz of electricity one felt when standing too close to a transformer. As she watched, he seemed to gather power from the very air, and she could see a shimmer forming around him like an aura. She knew that, in moments, he would send that power toward her in a wave that she would be helpless to fight.

  The hair on Jeff’s arms rose as the very air around him filled with a charge that was horribly, tangibly malevolent. As he once again peered around the corner, the same sparkling, wavering light that he’d seen holding Leonore suspended was now gathered around the man. As Jeff watched, it seemed to pull inward, to coalesce into something solid. It was as if it was being gathered and formed into something compact and lethal.

  With no further thought, Jeff ran toward the pair. As he drew closer, the man drew back as if to throw something, and the concentrated energy flowed and coiled into a glowing ball of pure evil, and seemed to roll itself into the upraised hand.

  He’s going to throw it at Leonore.

  The thought gave wings to Jeff’s feet and, at that split second, he knew that he didn’t have time to stop the missile from being hurled. Instead of launching himself at the man, he threw his body into the narrow space between the juggernaut and its target, the still-kneeling Leonore.

  Chapter Eight

  This can’t be happening.

  The Draíodóir’s magic was like nothing Leonore had ever seen or imagined—more powerful than anything mentioned in any of the writings she’d studied. She had no defenses against it. Her own magic buzzed around her helplessly. Even if she had known how to force it to coalesce into some sort of shield, it would have been like holding up tissue paper to block a bullet.

  As the dark orb flew from the man’s hand, there was little Lenore could do but throw up her hands and brace herself for the blow that would probably kill her.

  Then, a blur of motion rushed at Leonore from her right and an impact made her fall back. Her elbows and the back of her head connected with concrete, just as a deep, visceral scream rent the air.

  For a moment, Leonore thought the scream had been her own—that this was the moment of her death—but something wasn’t right. She was breathing, and a weight lay across her knees. She was looking up at stars. Leonore lifted herself up onto her elbows and saw, with horror, that the weight that pinned her legs was Jeff.

  Or his body.

  “Jeff!” Leonore pushed Jeff’s legs to one side and got onto her knees, then tried to reach for his face. Something was wrong with his chest. Leonore tried to make sense of what she was seeing in the dim light, then froze at the sound of the Draíodóir’s voice, colder than ever. She looked up, and gasped at the way hate had twisted the handsome face into a ghastly mask.

  “How touching.” The scorn was so palpable that it seemed to burn Leonore’s skin, like liquid nitrogen. “Another fool sacrifices himself for his witch whore. Useless—all he’s done is buy you a few seconds of life.”

  Fear left Leonore—there was no room for it, she was so filled with rage. She looked down at where Jeff lay on his back, awkwardly supported by the edge of the barrier, and saw that something protruded from his chest. It was the gleaming end of one of the broken cables—in throwing himself between Leonore and the Draíodóir’s missile, he had been impaled. She looked up at her enemy, who was already gathering another of those deadly, shimmering globes of power, and, as she stared, Leonore’s magic…changed.

  The familiar, sensual buzz she wore as casually as her own skin reared up, seeming to pull Leonore along with it. It was as if a calm sea was suddenly invaded by a tidal wave, and she rose to her feet as effortlessly as flotsam on the ocean’s surface. As the dark orb sped toward her, Leonore—or the magic, she couldn’t tell—reached for it and…caught it, as easily as if she were catching a lightly tossed ball.

  Time seemed to stretch and the world moved in slow motion. As Leonore held the Draíodóir’s projectile in her hands, she realized she could perceive his power. It was dark and bitter, and, although Leonore’s magic recoiled in distaste, it also surrounded and absorbed it. She looked up at the man’s white face and suddenly knew—knew—that she could use his power against him. As if the knowledge itself had incited the action, the orb began to glow with a new, brighter light in Leonore’s hand, asking her to hurl it.

  Leonore saw the moment that the Draíodóir understood what wa
s happening. His hate turned to terror and, with a glance behind him, he turned and fled.

  Leonore hurled the malevolent ball toward him, but her aim was wild, and it exploded against one of the parked vans, just as the Draíodóir dove behind it.

  Leonore laughed and, to her ears, the tone sounded hysterical, insane. Maybe she was crazy. She didn’t care. She stalked toward the point where the man had disappeared and started gathering her own missile. It was easy, as if she’d done it a thousand times, and somehow she knew she was channeling the Draíodóir’s power and experience. The evil was palpable, and she still didn’t care. This bastard had killed Jeff.

  “Not as much fun when you’re the target, is it?” she said, marveling at the sound of her own voice. It was hers and yet…not. “Come on out and die like a good little sorcerer.” Leonore reveled in the cruel tone, even as part of her shrank from it.

  As she rounded the first van in the row, Leonore saw movement at the opposite end of the garage. The man, running. He was heading for the barriers at the edge. Did he think he could fly? Laughing, Leonore tossed the orb toward him.

  Her aim had improved, but she still missed her target. One of the concrete barriers exploded into shards and powder and he swerved away from it.

  “There’s nowhere to go,” Leonore taunted, forming yet another power globe. She paused, realizing this one was more difficult. It was as if she were reaching into a well and finding it almost empty. The foreign magic was still there, but she had to work harder to pull what remained into her hand, to make it stick together.

  She returned her concentration to her foe and saw he had reached the edge of the garage and stood, panting, one hand on the top edge of the barrier.