Bloodstone d-3

by Nancy Holzner

  By the time I passed through the first checkpoint, I was feeling a little better. I’d take a minute to stop by Creature Comforts and check on Juliet, and then I’d go home and make that call.

  During the day, the New Combat Zone is a ghost town. (Not literally. Although I’d had a run-in a few weeks back with a shade stuck in Limbo, there’s no such thing as ghosts.) When the bars were closed, the only reason to be in the Zone was to pass between Deadtown and the rest of Boston. At this hour, most of the monsters were home, sleeping. Those who kept norm hours, like Kane, were at work. And most norms stayed as far away from Deadtown as they could get, even during the day.

  Except for the vampire junkies. Those norms were a little too fond of the mild narcotic in vampire saliva that made donating blood feel so good. I passed one now, sprawled in the mouth of the alley, sleeping it off. His legs stuck out onto the pavement, and I had to choose between stepping over or walking around him. I walked around—and almost into another guy who materialized in front of me.

  “Got a light?” he asked, feeling in his pocket for cigarettes. His greasy hair, parted on the side, was way past due for a trim. His eyes were dull, his neck ringed with vampire hickeys. Another vampire junkie, this one recently awakened from his beauty sleep.

  “I don’t smoke.” I moved to step past him, but he blocked my way.

  “How about change, then? Spare a few coins?”

  “No.” I shoved his shoulder, and he stepped back. As he did, his hand came out of his pocket, holding not cigarettes but a slim spray can. A cloud of choking mist hit my face. My eyes stung and streamed with blinding tears. I doubled over, trying to cough the junk out of my burning lungs. The ground tilted, and my knees gave way. The greasy-haired guy caught me before I hit the ground. The other junkie, on his feet now, grabbed my legs. They lifted me between them and moved into the alley. I struggled to get a breath but it was like my chest was squeezed by iron bands. Buildings bounced past. The light dimmed. I had a sense we’d entered a small, dark room or tunnel. Then I didn’t know anything at all.

  WHEN I CAME TO, MY FIRST FEELING WAS ASTONISHMENT and gratitude to be breathing. For several minutes I simply lay on my back, appreciating the rise and fall of my chest. A deep ache, like a fresh bruise, swelled with each motion, but I could do it. I could breathe.

  But was I really awake? It was so dark. And silent. And warm. Just like the atmosphere I always chose for my dreams. I wrinkled my nose. There was something—an odor, a sharp chemical smell—that I’d never allow into my dreamscape.

  I turned my head, looking for the familiar, comforting red numbers of my bedside clock. No, I didn’t. I tried to turn my head. I couldn’t. I tried to sit up, to turn on my side. I jerked my arms, my legs. I couldn’t move at all.

  Panic gripped me. I was strapped down, immobile, in a strange place with no idea of how I got here.

  Wait. Those two vampire junkies I’d encountered in the Zone. I remembered the greasy hair, the spray can. They’d brought me here. But what the hell did they want from me? I’d never seen either one of them before.

  Vampire junkies worked for vampires. Most of them would do anything to get their fix. And the only vampires I could think of who had a grudge against me were the Old Ones. I doubted they controlled the junkies directly. The Old Ones used humans solely for food. But the Old Ones kept vampires in thrall—Juliet had said how hard it was to break free of their influence—so they could make their vampire slaves command their human junkies.

  The Old Ones might know how to control vampires, but clearly they didn’t know squat about shapeshifters. Because you can’t keep a shapeshifter captive by strapping her down to a table.

  A shift would snap the bonds like thread. But I had to be smart about what I shifted to. I needed something dangerous—and fast. Something that wouldn’t hesitate to attack whatever came through the door, and then could run like hell to get away. A cheetah—that might work. I’d have incisors to rival the Old Ones’ fangs, and nothing can outrun a cheetah. Well, yeah, a vampire could. But I’d have the element of surprise going for me.

  I drew my attention inward to begin the shift. I thought of cheetah spots, of speed, of jungle foliage blurring at the edges of my vision as my paws beat the ground. I tensed, feeling for the change to begin, trying to make the images more vivid. Hunting. My teeth tearing into hot flesh. The smell of fresh blood . . . The images faded; I couldn’t hold on to them. They fractured, swirling away like confetti. My mind went blank.

  I tried again, but the same thing happened. I pulled up images, focused, tried to make them real. But before my imaginings had any effect on my reality, they dimmed, broke into pieces, and dropped from my mind.

  I couldn’t shift.

  Now the panic really hit. I struggled and pulled against my bonds, bruising my own flesh but not feeling the slightest give. I bit my tongue to keep from screaming. My heart pounded like it would leap from my body and gallop across the room.

  The door opened, and light flowed in. I stopped struggling and listened. Footsteps approached. Two sets, it sounded like, though I couldn’t turn my head to see who they belonged to. All I could see was the stained ceiling panel directly above me. I shifted my eyes right, then left. On my left side, an IV bag hung from a metal frame. A dark head blocked my view of the bag for a moment, as a hand adjusted the drip. Then a face loomed over me. A man who looked to be in his early thirties, with black hair, pale skin, and eyes that seemed to suck in the light.

  It couldn’t be.

  “Oh, good. You’re awake,” he said. The familiar voice had a strong Welsh accent.

  I blinked, I squinted, but the face didn’t change. The only thing different from the last time I’d seen him was that he now wore a beard.

  “Pryce?”

  He huffed, sending a blast of foul breath across my face. His teeth were rotted, and I realized the face didn’t look like Pryce after all. Not really.

  “Close,” he said, “but no. I am not Pryce, though Pryce is of me. The poor lad remains an empty husk, a spiritless shell. Soon he’ll return, but not to you. Of you, yes. To you, no.” He laughed, a high-pitched giggle that made my skin crawl.

  So there I was, strapped down in a windowless room, listening to a lunatic spew riddles. My day was definitely not looking up.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I tried to sound defiant, but my voice seemed far away. An echo, not the sound itself. “Who are you? And what the hell do you want from me?”

  He seemed delighted with my questions. “My name is Myrddin Wyllt. I’d say, ‘At your service,’ except for the fact that it’s so clearly untrue. If we’re talking about service, you’re indisputably at mine, wouldn’t you say?” Another high-pitched giggle.

  I barely listened to his gibberish. I was thinking about the name: Myrddin Wyllt. The name Myrddin is threaded throughout Welsh mythology; several different legendary characters with that name come together in a composite to create Merlin, wizard and adviser to King Arthur, in stories about the Knights of the Round Table. But Myrddin Wyllt was no kindly old man with a long white beard, a pointy hat, and a twinkle in his eye. Myrddin Wyllt was insane.

  That Myrddin was a prophet and bard who’d gone mad with grief when a devastating battle slaughtered his lord, along with most of his army. After witnessing the carnage, Myrddin tore off his clothes and ran screaming into the woods, where he lived like a wild animal. Later, he foretold his own triple death: by falling, drowning, and impalement.

  Myrddin Wyllt was crazy, wild, and as dangerous as a hungry predator. And my host had picked him as a role model.

  “I’m not in any mood for riddles, ‘Myrddin.’ So why don’t you just tell me what you want?”

  Another face appeared over me and snarled, revealing vampire fangs. This one was gaunt, with bruise-dark circles under his eyes. “Where’s Juliet?”

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  He slapped me, hard. I couldn’t turn my head to dissip
ate the force of the blow. My cheek burned and throbbed.

  “Peace, Piotr, peace.” Myrddin placed a calming hand on the vampire’s shoulder. “We’ll know soon enough. Pryce will give you whatever information you require from this one.”

  “Pryce is here?” Juliet had said the Old Ones called him “the sleeper.” This “Myrddin” must be the wizard they’d allied themselves with.

  “Here, here—is Pryce here? In a manner of speaking, yes. Although I’d hardly say that half-corpse of a man is ‘here.’ Poor lad can’t even open his eyes and say, ‘Welcome back, Papa.’ ”

  Pryce’s father. There was a family resemblance, as long as Myrddin kept his mouth shut to hide his bad teeth.

  I searched my memory. Some stories claimed Merlin was the child of a demon father and a human mother. A demi-demon.

  “Pryce doesn’t like to admit it,” Myrddin went on, “but there’s a touch of the Cerddorion in him, as well. Of course, there’ll be more soon. Much more.” He rubbed his hands together and giggled again. The sound, plus the stench of his breath, washed over me in a nauseating wave. “You’re going to help wake my sleeping son, you see. By donating your life force to him. I’m eager to see which parts of you will manifest in Pryce. He’ll know the contents of your mind, of course.” He tapped my forehead with a long, thick fingernail. “There may be a useful tidbit or two in there, although I’m not expecting much. He’s already a better swordsman than you, so you’ve nothing to offer him there. But shapeshifting . . . Now, there’s something that could be quite useful to a demi-demon. Our two forms, demon and human, are so limiting, you know.”

  He turned to the IV bag. “I need a little more time to prepare for the transfer. Hence this drug. It’s a mild sedative to prevent you from concentrating enough to shapeshift. But doubtless you’ve already discovered that.”

  His words extinguished any last glimmer of hope I held. He must have seen the despair in my face, because he smiled.

  “Victory. An odd name for one so completely defenseless, is it not? I’ve been watching you for years, you know, even though I couldn’t come out to play. Pryce misread the prophecy, thought you were fated to bear his sons. No, no, no.” He wagged a scolding finger. “You’ll join with him in a different way. In just a few hours, I’ll transfer your life force to my son. You’ll be number three of the required five. Soon Pryce shall walk again, and Victory shall be no more.” His insane giggle ricocheted around the room. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  12

  I WASN’T USED TO FEELING AFRAID. UNCERTAINTY, WORRY, anxiety—those were emotions I knew well. But not fear. I didn’t like fear. It tingled under my nails, convulsed my limbs, sent adrenaline charging through my veins. Fight! Flee! Whatever you do, don’t just lie there!

  I willed my heart to calm its wild beating. I would not lie in this room, stewing in fear. If Myrddin’s sedative prevented me from shifting, I’d make it work for me instead. I’d rest. I’d sleep, even. And I’d use the dream phone to contact Aunt Mab.

  The Cerddorion can communicate psychically through the mental pathways that open in sleep. A dream phone call would require some concentration, but not nearly as much as a shift.

  I didn’t know what time it was, but Mab was powerful enough to detect a dream-phone call even while awake. I needed to talk to her. I had no hope Mab could do anything to help me. I was beyond help—alone, immobilized, and without the vaguest clue about the location of this dark, locked room. Still, I wanted my aunt. I wanted to say good-bye.

  The sedative stroked at the edges of my consciousness like a calm lake gently lapping the shore. I relaxed into the sensation, let myself sink into sleep. In my dream, I wasn’t strapped down; I was free. I drew upon the image of the lake, picturing myself sitting beside still water. The day was sunny, the sand was warm. Thick woods grew around the lake, and the air was fragrant with scents of grass and pine. I leaned over and drew my hand through the water. It was warm, like bathwater, and I made patterns with the ripples. Tiny, rainbow-colored fish, attracted by the movement, followed my hand.

  When my dreamscape felt real, I was ready to make the call. I pictured Mab in various contexts, as if I were paging through an old photograph album. Mab dressed in her fencing outfit, practicing swordplay on the back lawn at Maenllyd. Mab at the kitchen table, pouring a cup of tea. Mab reaching for a book from the top library shelf. And the image that always arose when I thought of my aunt: Mab sitting by the fireplace in her library, a book open on her lap. I recalled lightly—no anxiety, no straining—that Mab’s personal colors were blue and silver. And I let those colors tinge my mental image of her. They formed a mist across her image, rising up in billows of blue and silver that swirled across my mind’s eye, and then subsided. Mab sat in her wing chair, a fire crackling beside her, just as I’d imagined.

  She put a finger in the book to hold her place as she closed it. Her gaze was alert as she waited for me to speak.

  “Mab—” My voice cracked as the fear rushed back. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Mab, I’m in trouble.”

  Her expression didn’t change, except for a sharpness in her eyes. “What is it, child? What’s happening?”

  “I’m being held captive—I don’t know where. There’s a man. He says he’s Pryce’s father.”

  The book slid from Mab’s lap to the floor. “Myrddin.”

  “That’s what he called himself. He . . .” I swallowed. I had to stay calm, keep fear from throwing me out of my dream. “He’s going to transfer my life force to Pryce.”

  “Child, you must get out of there at once.”

  “I can’t, Mab. I can’t even move. I’m strapped down to some table, and Myrddin has given me a sedative so I can’t concentrate enough to shift.”

  Mab jumped up from her chair and paced in front of the fireplace, both hands pressed against her face.

  “It’s okay, Mab. I’m not expecting you to solve this for me. It’s hopeless. I called you because I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. To say good-bye.” I paused. “To say I love you.” Those were words I’d never said to my aunt. Love wasn’t part of the vocabulary of our relationship, even though it was something I’d always felt for her. Not long ago I’d thought Mab had died, but even after I got her back I still hadn’t managed to say the words. Saying them now gave me a measure of peace.

  Mab didn’t reply, but that didn’t matter. I wasn’t finished yet. “I want you to end your feud with Gwen. I don’t care what caused it—you and she are family. It looks like Maria might become a shapeshifter. If she does, she’ll need guidance. Promise me you’ll give that to her.”

  Mab paced silently.

  “Give Jenkins and Rose my love. And . . .” I took a deep breath, thinking about Kane. For a moment, he was next to me in the dream, his lips nuzzling my neck, his warm hand covering mine. His image faded. “Please contact Kane for me. Please tell him—”

  “Stop it!” Mab’s sharp voice cut me off. “Just stop. I don’t want your farewell messages, because I am not going to let you die. Do you understand?”

  “There’s nothing you can do. So don’t go blaming yourself.”

  “There is something I can do. However, it would be dangerous to you. And I’m not certain it will work.”

  Did she mean it? My aunt’s expression was dead serious—and deeply worried. But a spark of hope flared inside me. “Whatever it is, let’s do it. I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  She pressed a hand to her chest and spoke softly, as if to herself. “If you didn’t survive . . . and I were responsible . . .”

  “If we don’t try it, I won’t survive.”

  Mab gave me a long, searching look, like there were things she wanted to say to me and didn’t know how. Then she nodded briskly. “All right,” she said, sounding like herself again. “I’m going to get you out of there by pulling you through the dream.”

  “You can do that?”

  “In theory. I’ve never attempted i
t in practice.”

  “Why not? You could’ve saved me a fortune on transatlantic plane fares.”

  “This is no joking matter, child.” She put a hand inside the neck of her dress and pulled out a necklace. She reached back and unfastened the clasp, then let the pendant slide from the chain and drop into her palm. “Now, pay attention. I’m going to test the process by sending you this bloodstone.” She held up the pendant. It was an oval stone, about two inches long, highly polished but irregularly shaped. The gray stone, mottled with spots of green and dark red, didn’t look like jewelry—more like something a jeweler would toss onto the reject pile.

  “Hold on to the bloodstone,” Mab continued, “and whatever happens, don’t let go. Do you understand? Do not let go. It will guide you safely through the dream regions.”

  I nodded. “What’s so dangerous, Mab?” As a demon fighter, I was familiar with the dream world. I’d been in other people’s dreamscapes hundreds of times.

  “The danger is in traveling from your dreamscape to mine. You must pass through the collective unconscious.”

  Shit. Now we were talking dangerous with a capital D. An individual’s dreamscape is generated from the dreamer’s subconscious, the mind’s basement that stores all the emotions, symbols, themes, and archetypes that emerge in dreams. That subconscious can be a terrifying place. I’d once fallen into a client’s subconscious during a Drude extermination—and it was an experience I never wanted to repeat. But if the subconscious is bad, the collective unconscious is a hundred billion times worse. It’s the storehouse for all the fears, nightmares, fantasies, and terrors of everyone who’s ever lived. Worse, it’s populated by forms. A form is an amalgam of essences—basically, it’s a big blob that absorbs everything it touches, then burps out those essences in new configurations.