Sebastian

by Anne Bishop

  The male screamed as the lightning ripped through it, burned it, razored through brain and heart.

  Finally it stopped moving. The smell of burned flesh hung in the air.

  Sebastian rolled away from the male and lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling, sickened by what he’d just done. And sickened even more by a loss of innocence—not just because he’d killed, but because he’d seen a truth about himself.

  “Sebastian?”

  Lynnea.

  The sound of her voice got him to his feet. Thank the Light, Teaser had pulled her into the corridor and had blocked her view of the last of the fight.

  He moved to the doorway. “It’s dead,” he said in a flat voice.

  She looked at him, studied his face, his eyes—and relaxed.

  “I have some things to take care of here. Can you get Teaser back to his room?”

  Teaser looked about to protest, then realized what Sebastian wanted. “Yeah.” He leaned on Lynnea, who immediately wrapped her arms around him. “Yeah, I’m a little shaky.”

  “Of course you are,” Lynnea said. “That was horrible, seeing someone wearing your face.”

  Sebastian wanted to touch her, hold her, let her warmth cleanse what was churning inside him. But he felt too vile, too filthy to get even another step closer. So he watched her lead Teaser to the stairs. Then he turned and walked back into the room.

  The male was dead. Unquestionably dead. Sebastian’s stomach rolled as he looked at the body.

  It must have tried to change again, or maybe that had been its body’s reaction to being burned inside by the wizard’s lightning. It was now a twisted blend of bull demon, his own face, and something dark-skinned that might have been the male’s natural form.

  The woman was dead. Not knowing what else to do, he pulled the sheet up over her. She might have crossed over with a friend, might have someone looking for her. If not…

  Humans who came to the Den seldom gave their real names or told anyone which landscape they called home. If there was no one here who knew her, they would bury her in the fields—and her friends and family back home would eventually accept that she was one of those people who had gotten lost in Ephemera’s landscapes.

  Pulling the blanket off the bed, he wrapped the male’s body so no one else would have to look at it.

  When he was finished, he just stood there, rubbing his thumbs over his fingertips. He, too, had the power to kill.

  And he was going to make sure that…thing…stayed dead.

  He walked out of the room, closed the door, and went down to the clerk’s desk to give his orders.

  Dalton stared at the wooden planks that crossed the narrow creek and counted to one hundred for the tenth time.

  Too long. Even if Faran had decided to check the saddle on Koltak’s horse or had been listening to further instructions, the guard had been gone too long.

  “Henley, Addison,” he called without taking his eyes off the bridge. “Cross over and find out what’s delaying Faran.” As the two men handed their reins to the two remaining guards, Dalton held up a hand to detain them. Walking over to his own horse, he removed a lead rope secured to his saddle. “Tie this to your belts. Henley, you cross over the bridge to the other landscape. Addison, you stay on this side of wherever that bridge leads. If there’s trouble, Henley will pull the rope twice. That’s the signal to pull him out.”

  Watching the two men tie the lead rope to their belts, Dalton felt the heat of embarrassment stain his face. He knew it was foolish. No amount of rope would make any difference once a person crossed over to another landscape. But he wasn’t going to let another man cross that bridge without trying to find out what was happening on the other side.

  Henley and Addison moved across the planks that made up the bridge, keeping the length of the lead rope between them. The wood looked sturdy enough, but if the planks broke, the bridge would be gone, and there would be no way for Koltak to come back to Wizard City from that direction. No way to find out what had happened to Faran.

  Henley’s right foot stepped off the planks of wood. The man was still visible, still in the landscape that contained Wizard City. Then Henley’s left foot lifted off the plank—and he was gone.

  A few heartbeats later, a yank on the lead rope threw Addison off balance, had him stumbling forward.

  “Jump, man! Jump!” Dalton shouted.

  Not a controlled jump, but Addison managed to stumble off the bridge and land feet-first in the creek. Another jerk on the lead rope had him dropping to his hands and knees.

  “What is it?” Dalton fought the urge to race across those planks to reach his men.

  “Don’t know, Cap’n,” Addison said. “It’s not the signal, but I—”

  Dalton watched the rope jerk once. Twice. That was the signal. “Move back this way, Addison. Keep steady pressure on the rope. Guide him back.” He struggled to keep his voice controlled and encouraging as Addison waded to the near side of the creek.

  The rope disappeared into nothing, but they followed its movement. Not the steady movement of a man walking, but the stuttering struggle of someone moving with care and desperation.

  Was it a man coming back over the bridge? They didn’t know what was on the other side.

  “Addison! Get that rope off your belt. Now! Now!”

  While Addison struggled to untie the lead rope, Dalton grabbed his arm and hauled him up to dry land.

  Addison dropped the rope and backed away from the bridge. Dalton unsheathed his short sword and waited for whatever was about to cross over into their landscape.

  “Do you hear that, Cap’n?” Addison asked, cocking his head.

  Something faint but getting clearer. A voice panting over and over, “Guardians of Light and Guides of the Heart, please let me get him to the captain.”

  Henley appeared suddenly, hunched over, his hands fisted on the lead rope he’d tied around Faran’s chest. “I found him, Captain,” he panted as he dragged Faran the rest of the way off the bridge. “He’s hurt bad.”

  Dalton stared at the thing that had been dragged into this landscape along with Faran.

  Almost every night for the past week, his daughter, his sweet little girl, had had nightmares about giant spiders creeping around the corners of her room, ready to eat her. Those nightmares had given him and his wife sleepless nights, because what the heart believed could change the resonance of a person and bring that person into contact with the landscape that matched that belief.

  Now he was staring at his daughter’s nightmare. It existed. It was real. And far too close to home.

  “Captain?” Henley said, his voice full of uncertainty.

  Dalton shook himself. He couldn’t think of his family now. His men needed him.

  Approaching cautiously, he went down on one knee next to Faran’s shoulder.

  Faran opened his eyes. His breathing was harsh, as if it took all of his will to keep his lungs moving. “Can’t feel…my arms…or legs. Trapdoor…near bridge.”

  Pressing a hand on Faran’s shoulder, Dalton studied the dead spider that was as big as a dog. The hilt of a knife stuck out of its head. “Hold on, Faran. You just hold on.”

  Dalton stood up. “Guy, you ride back to the city, fetch a healer and a wagon. Henley, Addison, you wade across the creek and see if there are saplings or branches over in that wooded area that we can use as poles to make a litter.”

  He watched his men scatter to follow his orders. Then he tried to will his pounding heart to calm back down to a steady pace. But his heart wasn’t fooled as he walked around Faran to take a position near the guard’s leg.

  Maybe the best thing would be to cut the fangs away from the jaw. That would separate the spider from the man. But that would bring his hands, his body too close to those jaws, and even though he knew the spider was dead, his body didn’t believe it.

  Cut the creature in half? That would ease the weight and drag on Faran. But his hands were shaking, and there was a chance of
slicing into Faran’s leg. The guard couldn’t afford to lose more blood.

  He felt his courage withering, and he wanted to ride away, wanted to get stinking drunk, wanted to shrug off the weight of being responsible for other men’s lives. And he could almost hear something whispering at the edges of his mind, feeding the shame and the fear.

  “Cap’n? We found a couple saplings. Think they’ll do?”

  Addison’s voice snapped him back. How long had he stood there, doing nothing to help a man who had followed his orders because his men trusted him with their lives?

  Dalton took a step back before turning his head to look at the two men splashing across the creek. He swallowed his fear and gathered what was left of his courage.

  “They’ll do,” he said when Addison and Henley reached him.

  He sheathed his sword and took the cut sapling from Addison. His heart pounded as he used the wood to push Faran’s legs apart and gingerly push the spider’s body in the space between. Then he handed the sapling back to Addison, drew his sword, and hacked at the spider’s abdomen.

  The spider didn’t move, didn’t twitch.

  Encouraged, he shifted position to slice the spider’s body, working carefully, always aware that a careless move with the sword could harm his own man.

  Finally he stepped back and nodded at Henley, who grabbed Faran under the arms and dragged the man away from the remains. The head, part of the torso, and four legs remained attached to the guard.

  Addison studied him. “It’s a hard thing, Cap’n, to know the bad things in the world are close enough to touch us. I reckon we’ve got some evil days ahead of us.”

  Dalton rubbed his sleeve over his face, wiping off sweat. “I know.” Using the bottom of his jacket, he wiped off his sword, then sheathed it. “Come on; let’s make that litter.”

  Sebastian watched everyone who had gathered at his command—the bull demons, who had dug the deep fire pit; Hastings and Mr. Finch, who covered the bottom of the pit with kindling; two other residents, who gingerly lifted the blanket-wrapped bundle and lowered it into the pit; Philo, who opened a jar of lamp oil and poured it over the blanket.

  He watched everyone—and wondered if the people he knew were behind those familiar faces.

  When Philo stepped back, Sebastian held out his hand. He didn’t see who handed him the torch. It didn’t matter. He walked up to the pit, stared at the bundle for a long moment, then dropped the torch onto the oil-soaked blanket.

  Despite his efforts to keep the creature covered up, a few of them had seen its face, frozen by death in the process of change. No one had asked how the thing had died—but all of them were acting wary around him.

  They had more reasons than they knew to be wary.

  “Daylight,” Philo said as he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “I didn’t know there was a demon that could change shape and disguise itself as human.”

  You’ve known, Sebastian thought. You just never realized it.

  “What kind of demon was that?” Mr. Finch asked.

  Sebastian watched the fire, trying to ignore the sick churning in his guts. He had to tell them. They had to be warned. A few days ago Teaser had told him five newcomers had arrived at the Den. Which meant there were four more of those things out there, able to wear anyone’s face.

  “Sebastian?” Philo shifted his feet, then glanced at Hastings and Mr. Finch. “What kind of demon was it?”

  He had to tell them. But it would change things.

  He turned away from the fire and looked into Philo’s eyes. “It was an incubus. A pureblood incubus.”

  Koltak let the horse wander. Maybe the animal would have better luck finding its way out of this thrice-cursed landscape. Where were the towns, the roads, even a farmhouse with some doltish landgrubber who might have enough wits to point him in a direction?

  How many miles had he traveled? How many hours had he wandered around these green, rolling hills?

  He should have made some inquiries in Wizard City. There were bound to be a few citizens who knew how to find the Den. Of course, none of them would have been willing to admit it to a wizard, but if he’d sensed any evasion, he could have brought them up to the Wizards’ Hall for questioning.

  Too late for such thoughts. He had to find his way, alone, and bring Sebastian back to Wizard City. And once he’d accomplished his part of the plan to save Ephemera, the wizards in the council wouldn’t look at him as if he’d stepped in manure and hadn’t wiped all the stink of it off his boots.

  The horse snorted, pricked its ears, changed its stride from an amble to an active walk.

  Koltak tensed as he gathered the reins, then relaxed again when he spotted the black horse standing at the top of a rise, just watching him. He’d seen a handful of these horses since he’d crossed the bridge. The first two times he’d expected to find a farmhouse or some kind of estate, some indication that the animal belonged to someone. After that, he’d come to the sour conclusion that whoever lived in this landscape just let their animals run wild.

  Or had already been crushed by the monsters Belladonna had unleashed in the world.

  Prodding the horse with his heels, he deliberately turned away from the wild horse standing on the rise—and from the west, where the sun was making its journey toward the horizon. He had a bedroll and some food, and there was grain for the horse, but he hadn’t considered that he might not find the Den quickly or, barring that, find accommodations in a village. He didn’t want to sleep out in the wild.

  Shelter, he thought. An inn with warm food and a bed with clean sheets. That’s all I ask. All I ask.

  A few minutes later he found a bridge. Not just planks over a stream, but a proper wooden bridge wide enough and sturdy enough to take a farm wagon.

  Which made no sense, since there was no road leading to it or away from it. But he wasn’t about to ponder the logic of a bridge that had no purpose. It was the first sign of civilization, the first hint that he might find a place to stay before the sun went down.

  The horse crossed the bridge…and stepped onto a dirt road that followed the curves of the land.

  Koltak jerked the reins, bringing the horse to an annoyed stop. Twisting in the saddle, he looked back over the bridge. The dirt road continued on the other side.

  But it hadn’t been there before.

  He’d crossed over into another landscape. But he hadn’t felt the warning tingle of magic, hadn’t had any warning that the bridge was more than a bridge.

  His heart raced as he straightened in the saddle, wincing at the protest of muscles that had spent too many hours riding.

  Urging the horse to a trot, he followed the road and felt relief when, a few minutes later, he caught a glimpse of rooftops and the smoke from chimneys.

  By the time he reached the village, the shops had closed for the day, and most of the people had gone home to have their dinners, but he followed the sounds of voices and laughter to what was, undoubtedly, some kind of inn.

  He groaned when he dismounted, then felt a flash of annoyance when no one hurried out to take his saddlebags so he wouldn’t have to carry them himself. Leaving the horse tied to a post, he hauled the saddlebags over his shoulder, stepped into the main room, then walked up to the bar, bumping into people who didn’t have the sense to step aside for him, as was proper.

  The man behind the bar gave him a hard look and a cold smile. “Good evening to you.”

  Koltak grunted. “What’s the name of this village?”

  “Dunberry.”

  Not a familiar name. “Give me a glass of your best ale.”

  The man drew a glass of ale and set it on the bar. But he didn’t release the glass. “Let’s see your coin first.”

  Deeply insulted, Koltak gave the man his most formidable stare. Then he tapped the badge pinned to his robe. “You dare insult someone who wears this badge?”

  The man leaned a little closer to get a better look, then shrugged. “Could be a family
trinket, for all I can tell. If it’s not but brass or copper, it might fetch enough to equal two glasses of ale and a plate of whatever is left in the kitchen. If it’s gold, it’s worth that and a room for the night, plus stabling for your horse, if you have one.”

  “You think I would barter this?” Koltak shouted. “I am a wizard!”

  The man cocked his head to one side and considered. “A wizard, is it? And what would that be?”

  Koltak stared at the man, then turned and studied the other men standing at the bar and sitting at the tables.

  “A wizard,” he repeated, growing uneasy when the blank looks didn’t change. “A Justice Maker.”

  “Like a magistrate, you mean?” someone asked. “You set the fine if someone’s pig gets out of the pen and tramples the neighbor’s garden?”

  “How dare you insult me?” Koltak whirled toward the sound of the voice but couldn’t tell who had spoken. “I am a Justice Maker. I can call down the lightning of justice and kill you where you stand!”

  “Well, Mr. Wizard, sir,” said the man behind the bar, “around here we call that murder. And we don’t care if you do murder with a knife or with this lightning of yours. You kill a man here, we’ll hang you good and proper.”

  A sharp-edged ball of fear rolled in Koltak’s belly. Not his part of the world. Not any of the landscapes he knew. He was powerless here, because any use of the power he controlled would have them hunting him like a common criminal.

  “I have some money.” He fumbled with the money pouch tied to his belt and put three gold coins on the bar.

  The man behind the bar moved one coin away from the others. “This will get you a meal, two glasses of ale, and a room.” He moved another coin. “This will get you a bath and stabling for your horse.”

  “Yes,” Koltak said softly, humbly. “The horse is outside and…a bath would be welcome.”

  “Most likely you’d like to have the meal in your room.”

  Most likely you’d prefer me out of the way. “Thank you.”