Will of Shadows: Inkwell Trilogy 2 (The Inkwell Trilogy)

by Aaron Buchanan

  Triolo was choking. I sat him up and patted his back until he started coughing up blood. The cancer, amped up by my magic was killing him. It was reminiscent of our first meeting at the Shadow Mill; the pain he bore; his suffering.

  Joy stood next to me, hand on my shoulder. Perhaps she thought placing her hand there would still the rage within. I was under control, but I appreciated it for the token of friendship that it was.

  His eyes closed. I thought he might have died, but I could hear his wheezing. I was resigned to the fact that he had passed out when he spoke again.

  I knelt over him. His chest heaved, but he no longer licked at his lips or the roof of his mouth. I bent in closer to see brown-black blood at the corners of his mouth. I dabbed at the spittle to ensure none would drip onto the truth spell on his cheek and wiped it on my already bloodied shirt.

  His eyes blinked open rapidly and he inhaled so sharply, I thought I might have just accidently resuscitated him. At some point he trimmed his scraggily, misshapen beard into short, grey and black goatee. It quivered, along with his chin quivered, somehow realizing that these were his final breaths and he could not reconcile his failure and maybe what hell awaited him; what demons might torment him in revenge.

  Cool Luke, and to my surprise, Sean, were standing across from Joy and me. Sean looked woozy, as he clutched Cool Luke’s shoulder for stability, but otherwise was no worse for wear. “Is this all, Grey?” Cool Luke asked. “I will grant him the mercy he failed to give time and again. His suffering only serves as a testament to his own cruelty; that it was worth it to him. He must know that mercy trumps power and extinguishes suffering.”

  “Do it.” I had no desire to watch, yet I found myself looking as Cool Luke poured the entire contents of one of his vials into Triolo’s mouth. Triolo’s chest no longer struggled for breath, and Cool Luke used his hand to shut Triolo’s eyes permanently.

  “Cool Luke—put the body in the driver’s seat. When someone find’s him, they’ll just think he’s a drunk driver or something. If they do an autopsy, they’ll see just see the cancer.” Joy pointed to Sean, beckoning for him to follow her to our car.

  “The blood?” Cool Luke had slung Triolo onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and trudged over to Triolo’s smashed-up vehicle.

  “It’s more on me, than him. Besides, I closed the wound.” Wearily, I, too, went to our car and sat in the passenger’s seat. Absent-mindedly, I checked my phone. Shred messaged me again, Victoria, and Athena, too. Each message told us, in effect, to stay put, they were on their way. There was also a voicemail from Manannán. I did not bother listening to it, as I am sure it was laced with various curses and a litany of vulgar language in a variety of Celtic dialects.

  When Cool Luke got in the car, Joy hit the gas and turned left, I assumed to take the long way around back to the hotel. I dialed Manannán and received the barrage of insults in more tongues than I could have imagined—including several of which I had no idea. At least, on the phone, I could turn the volume down, something I had often wished I had the ability to do in real life. When he finally paused to hear why I had initially called, I assured him that Sean was safe and sound and the alchemist who took him was dead. All I got from him was a “Good. Tell him I’ll call him tomorrow” and then he hung up.

  “What now?” Joy had us back onto US 131 heading south back to Cadillac.

  I was finally willing to acknowledge my own extreme hunger and thirst and utmost exhaustion. “We’re supposed to stay here until Shred, Victoria, and Athena get here. Until then, we need some breakfast, a nap. And a way to explain to the motel manager how Cool Luke misplaced the window glass to our room.”

  Chapter 15

  I consulted the scrying chest as soon as we were back at the motel to divine Gavin’s health and whereabouts. He was, to our relief, still alive. However, as for location, I received only the region as an answer. It was adequate for now: Anatolia.

  By the time our first guests arrived two weeks later, I had scried for the same answer four times. Each time the box told me that he was in Turkey and had not been moved. REVolve was confident I could not find him. I even asked Victoria if she could send someone in to investigate. She complied, though I had yet to hear anything back. I hoped I would when she finally got to Cadillac.

  In the meantime, at last, we were able to move into my cabin on Island Lake. Victoria’s people, or people’s people, or whatever, had done an excellent job at remodeling the place. It did not look like the same place at all. If Victoria had not used the word remodel, rather than rebuild, I would have guess it was entirely new. As it was, an additional 2000 square feet or so was added, and that meant an additional three bedrooms to the two that were already there. Even more of a relief, the electricity and plumbing were updated, and a bathroom was even added. There was even a hot tub. When I saw Victoria, I was going to kiss her.

  Yet, there was the lake. The lake was, uncannily, exactly the same as the very last time I stepped foot in it.

  Hell is empty and all the devils are here.

  I found myself again recalling Triolo’s words about hearing the voices of demons. He believed it was true, but was it?

  Having faced down the darkness of The SUB, I knew the evils perpetrated by the bumps in the night more than most. But sitting on my new, cushioned porch swing overlooking the lake, I reconciled the fear of whatever resided in the lake as something distinctly separate from humankind. That was where Triolo was wrong. For most, evil ever done by a person was not because a devil whispered in someone’s ears. Humans could be vile and evil without any help from The SUB.

  And Shred had told me time and again that the Cthonic spirits were very much like people. Some of them were wholly good, while some were very much the yin to that yang. Most, like people, fell somewhere in-between. Zala had taught me that much was true. She seemed wild and dirty, and even evil thing upon our first encounter. However, she had proven herself a much more complex spirit than a simple a passing judgment could quantify. There was yet more to her story to discern.

  Also, wondrously, the cabin was furnished with a library of over 200 books, some of them treasury editions, and a number of other assuredly rare and expensive first editions. On this day, I was on the porch swing, reading Anna Karenina for at least the tenth time in my life. It was definitely a Tolstoy-kind-of-week.

  Joy and Sean were inside watching television from the newly-installed satellite dish. I could hear the canned laughter of whatever show they were watching through the opened windows of the cabin. I did not mind the extraneous noise, in fact, I found it oddly comfortable.

  Cool Luke was proving the exception to John Donne’s words about no man being an island. He was quite content to be by himself most of the time. I thought it might be because, with Triolo dead, he felt obligated to find his family, but also to us to help ensure that Triolo had no surprises for us beyond the grave.

  He spent most of his time in his room, or walking through the woods for hours at a time. He was not sullen, but he also did not seem as affable as he had in the days leading up to our arrival.

  A few days after we moved in, Shred arrived with someone we were all (well, save Sean) cautiously excited to meet.

  I laid claim on Shred first, crushing him as much as I could in an embrace. I whispered in his ear, “We need to talk.”

  A forlorn, dour expression replaced what just looked to be casual indifference.

  Usually clean-shaven, he was letting his beard grow. If he did not take such exquisite care of his hair, he might have actually looked like a bum.

  Moving on from his appearance, I stood there examining Shred’s companion.

  The geomancer was elderly and Caucasian. Tall and thin, he was the very picture of what you think would happen if you found an old wizard in a storybook, shaved him, cleaned him, cut his hair and put him in loafers, khakis, and an Oxford. It was like looking at Gandalf in a Sears catalog. For all I knew, Shred was the one who groomed and clothed him.
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  Shred gestured with his hand to the old man in an attempt to introduce him. I offered my hand, “Grey Theroux. Pleased to meet you.” He shook it, and did not reply. I grasped the upper part of my arms uncomfortably, realizing that, perhaps, the day was not quite as warm as I had initially thought. And I just always felt cooler in my scuba jacket.

  “Lou. Sunderlin.” His smile, too, was delayed and I wondered if his age made everything with him work like this. I sincerely hoped that was not the reason it took them two weeks to get to Island Lake. Instead of offering his hand, he embraced me in much the same fashion I had Shred. It was not necessarily unwelcome, but it made me think that his social skills had dulled to the nub. It was very obvious Lou Sunderlin was used to being alone and on his own.

  “Come on, I’ll introduce you to my apprentice and the son of a god. Adoptive son, anyway.” Shred had driven his van and began unloading its cargo as I led Sunderlin into the cabin. Luggage was inconsequential, as the first items he grabbed were guitar cases.

  There were four steps up to the cabin, and though I anticipated having to help Sunderlin up them, by the time I turned around he was on my heels, having no difficulty navigating the terrain nor the steps. I found myself eager to know his exercise regimen, and his age. Stuck inside with books wasn’t exactly the best way to stay fit. Surprisingly, I kept in reasonable shape, but feared that whatever lay ahead, I would not be physically up to the task. Still, I would always be able to augment my strength when necessary. It was those times that I would not that I feared. Not for the first time since seeing Shred’s tongue cut out, I wondered what I would do without my hands. What magic could be wrought without them?

  Joy and Sean met us at the door. “Joy Hansen, this is Lou Sunderlin,” Sean was already a few inches taller than Joy, but all I could see was his eyes staring at us from over her shoulder. “Sean Cannell is standing behind Joy.”

  Joy hesitated, maternally blocking access to Sean, she moved out of the threshold and hugged Sunderlin. She must have been watching us from the window and saw that this was his preferred method of greeting. “I am very pleased to meet you, Master Sunderlin.”

  “Lou. Just call me Lou.” Sunderlin eye-balled Sean and finally decided to offer his hand. He was definitely rusty at the social niceties.

  “C’mon in, I’ll show you around.” Sean was back on the couch watching the television. Joy, however, stayed with me as I gave him the tour of the cabin. I showed him everything but the second story and the so-called Michigan Basement—a cellar with a dirt floor that did little more than give me case of the creeps. The second story only took up the space above the living room and was a part of the original structure. Now it was one large bedroom, complete with two full-sized beds, work space, shelving (though, for now, it remained empty), and a long, oak table, stained and refinished. It was definitely an antique, artisan piece and was my very favorite thing Victoria added to the cabin, save for the library. And hot tub.

  “So, Lou, how is it that you’ve remained off the grid all this time?” As a rule, I found the art of small talk irritatingly difficult. Joy, on the other hand, was expert. This question, though, could not possibly be construed as such. It was a question I was not yet comfortable asking. Lou Sunderlin did not know her and she probably banked on Lou would misunderstand her directness for youthful zeal, and not the shrewd intellect she truly possessed.

  Lou digested what she said, turning over her query as meticulously as every other time we had spoken to him directly. “I am sure there is a great deal you would like to know about me!” He smiled courteously, but he seemed amused by Joy. Men of most ages tended to think Joy was very attractive, so coaxing information was a skill she was honing even further lately. I was told that I, too, was attractive, but I lacked the social awareness and intuitive recognition of physical cues. Lou, eventually, decided to answer Joy’s question, at least in part. “There was a great need to stay hidden, so I hid. We have much to discuss when the other,” he paused to choose his words carefully, “members of the committee arrive. I’ve been sitting for a great, long while, but if we’re really going to talk about anything, you’d probably be more comfortable sitting. And I would like nothing more than to fold up the cuffs of my pants, take of my shoes and socks, and stick my bare feet in the dirt.”

  Completely out of context, it would have been a very strange request, however coming from Sunderlin it was almost charming. As a geomancer, I would wager it was how Lou communed with the earth and even replenished himself.

  “Deal. I’ll help get the rest of your luggage inside, then we can do lemonade on the porch in 20.” I stepped between Sunderlin and Joy and headed back toward Shred’s van.

  He had already set two suitcases on the porch by the front door, along with his two guitar cases, an amplifier, and a black leather attaché case. Shred was leaned up against the open doors in back of his van. He was smoking. “Thought you quit, old man?”

  He flicked some ashes from the cigarette and took in a drag. Shred did not answer me, just smirked lightheartedly and shrugged.

  “Hell of a couple weeks?”

  He shrugged, pinched the cigarette filter between his lips, and typed out something on his tablet. “What do you think?” It was a rhetorical question, because he immediately faced the tablet toward him and started typing once more. “Heard you had enough of your own shit to deal with.”

  I sat on the back end and put my head on his shoulder as he put out the butt of the cigarette and threw it to the ground. “More than I wanted to, that’s for certain. And the world is not your trashcan. Pick that up before you head in. Sunderlin is willing to chat with us. I guess he figures we’d want to anyway.”

  He grunted a closed-mouth mmm-hmm.

  For the first time I looked at him, top-to-bottom, since pulling in the driveway. Shred was vain-glorious enough to continue dying his hair well into his…well into whatever age he was. Until recently, he always did an excellent job appearing more youthful than he actually was. He looked healthy, but agitated. What would have him so spooked that he would smoke his first cigarettes since the Clinton Administration?

  “Is he to be trusted?” My brow must have furrowed, because Shred pushed on the skin between my eyes that was starting to crease.

  He tapped on the tablet: “I think so.”

  At least there was that. “That means whatever else he’s told has you smoking again?”

  There was no need to answer. He gathered up the keyboard behind him in the van. I saw its stand next to it and grabbed that to cart inside.

  Joy was pulling a few chairs out of the cabin and putting by the porch swing. “Sean! Help a sister out!”

  Sunderlin was sitting on the steps and rolling up his pant legs as Joy maneuvered behind him and into the cabin.

  “What?” Sean stood up and finally realized that there were things to carry inside.

  From the island in the kitchen, I mixed some lemonade and gathered up several glasses. “Sean, I want you to come out on the porch with us. Master Sunderlin is going to talk to us.”

  He threw the second piece of luggage through the door. I glared at him so that the next one was walked gently over to the wall and placed there. “Aye? What is ‘e wantin’ ta talk about?”

  “Honestly, I’m not entirely sure. But I think he has a lot to tell us. And my friend Shred is actually starting to look his age. That is not good. Something is going on. You’re going to need to listen.” I grabbed three glasses between my fingers and carried the pitcher in the other hand. Sean graciously carried three more glasses to the small round stone table on the porch. I poured each of us a glass, irrespective if everyone wanted one or not.

  Shred leaned up against the posts that surrounded the porch after having set up his keyboard. It remained powerless, but he tinkered on the keys, working out something in his head as he moved his fingers back and forth over the soundless keys.

  I hoped Cool Luke would return from his walk soon. Still, Sunderlin looked per
fectly content walking around barefoot in the meantime. Even at that moment, he stepped across the ground with little regard for all the pine needles and cones.

  Sean and Joy took up on the swing and were swinging vigorously.

  Sunderlin was out of sight and I was on my second glass of lemonade when Cool Luke came back. “Nice walk?” It was a question I did not necessarily expect an answer to, but figured it was good to help gage his mood. “Poured you some lemonade. Any glass that isn’t in my hand can be yours.”

  He climbed the steps and took a seat in one of the empty chairs on the other side of the table. He grabbed one of the unclaimed glasses, took a few gulps, before saying, “Yes.” He let out a long ahhhhh. “Grey. In Somalia, it’s difficult to even have discussions about the future. Here, contemplating the future is a part of life. Learning how to adjust my way of thinking was one of the most shocking parts to me. Very jarring. Yet, now, I often think of what can be; what might happen, what should be. In Somali, we don’t often express words like would and could and should.”

  This was the most he had talked in days, probably even weeks. Dealing with Triolo’s demise was surprisingly difficult for him. I wanted to ask him what about it troubled him, though it could have been any or all of the circumstances. I decided to let him work through it on his own.

  “Got something on your mind, Cool Luke?” Maybe he was finally ready to speak about his experiences. Joy and Sean slowed their pace on the swing, listening intently, and probably fearful of intruding.

  He finished his first glass of lemonade and poured what remained in the pitcher into his empty glass. "Why is it that this culture—Western Culture—is so much in love with this idea of the future? I mean, while the idea of an apocalypse occurs in many cultures, so why is Western Culture so preoccupied with this idea of apocalypse? I’ve seen the TV shows. You know I read the comic books. I watch the news from time to time. Everyone seems to think everything is falling apart all the time, but the world keeps going. It never lets up.” He took a breath and sloshed ice around in empty glass, and then swallowed that too.