by Jess Haines
Chapter 8
The doors opened inward, allowing them entrance into a large reception area. A woman was behind the monstrous teakwood desk in the center, guarding another even larger and more imposing set of double doors set into the back wall. There were no places for guests to sit. Tasteful marble statuary on pedestals and some exotic ferns saved it from being completely unwelcoming, but it was clear that this receiving room was designed to put anyone who ended up waiting in it ill at ease.
The woman tapping away on a tablet behind the desk glanced up, peering over her cat-eye glasses with a single, manicured brow arched high. French tips dotted with tiny rhinestones swept a few stray chocolate strands out of her face as she regarded James with a flat stare.
“You’re too late,” she said, flicking her silky mane over her shoulders with a practiced toss of her head. Lyra envied her that shampoo commercial hair, but wondered what she did exactly that earned her the salary to afford to maintain her look considering that tablet she’d put down was open to a game that looked suspiciously like Farmville.
“How can I be late? I didn’t tell him I was coming.”
“Somebody did. He’s in there with Eddie right now. You might want to work on your excuses now, I heard some shouting.”
James audibly gulped. Lyla surreptitiously edged away from the growing dampness at his collar as he broke out into a nervous sweat.
“Thanks for the head’s up. I’ll buy you a beer later.”
She nodded and went back to playing her tablet, giving him a wave as he went around the desk to the doors. “Good luck.”
One of the doors swung open before he reached it, though no visible hand was behind it. James rolled his shoulders, a hint for Lyra and Moira to get off of him and follow on their own. As quietly and carefully as she could, Lyra spread her wings and loosed her iron grip on his shirt. Together, she and her shadow-cloak drifted to the floor, only a light clatter of her talons on the rock giving any hint they were there.
The low murmur of male voices drifted out, but they cut short as James moved inside, a faint, bird-like shadow at his heels.
The room was huge; much like the marketplace, the ceiling was too high to see clearly. Tiny orbs cast the room in perpetual twilight, softening the hard edges of carved teakwood furniture. The dark brown wood gleamed in the dim light, carved with numbers of runic symbols that were somewhat familiar to Lyla from books she had sold in the past. A hint of old incense was overpowered by the cloying scent of furniture polish and the burning candles set around the huge summoning circle etched into the stone floor.
Some sort of reddish sand filled the grooves of the circle and star. Chalk etched additional symbols inside the circle, and a bowl in the center currently held a bundle of herbs tied with twine. It wasn’t activated, but the buzz of power in her bones told Lyra that this place was a breath away from an explosive influx of magic. It did not escape her notice that James took a wide berth around it, too. Following his lead, she did the same, taking what care she could to be quiet and praying that James’s footsteps were masking the tiny clacking sounds of her talons and the soft hiss of her tail feathers dragging on the stone. If not for Moira’s shadowy presence suffocating her, every feather on her body would have been standing on end.
On the other side of the circle, Edward was looking much like a kicked dog, his head bowed, shoulders hunched, and slitted icy blue eyes following the man pacing just a few feet away as if anticipating a swift blow.
“What unearthly idiocy possessed you to let a gods-be-damned phoenix slip out of your grasp?” the man thundered, Edward cringing back from his wrath.
While she had expected Victor Thorn to be intimidating, James had in no way prepared her for the mountain of muscle stalking like a caged panther back and forth before Edward. The warlock had an unkempt mane of dark hair that flowed down his back and a roughly trimmed beard that did nothing to hide the writhing tattoos seething along his skin. Unlike those on James or Edward, Victor’s tattoos were so dark they were nearly black, sucking in the light rather than giving off any illumination. The marks crept over every inch of skin—even his face, she saw as he turned their way, which gave his already dark eyes a strange, unnaturally shadowed look.
This wasn’t a man. This was a monster posing as one.
A low growl issued from his throat as he spotted James, those dark orbs narrowing to slits as his brows descended.
“You,” he said. The muscles in James’s shoulders had gone tense enough to snap, but he didn’t flinch or cringe like Edward. If Moira hadn’t been tightening her grip on Lyra, locking her in place, she probably would have cowered back enough for the both of them. “If you haven’t brought that bird with you, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t have time for your latest line of bull.”
James took a deep breath, then inclined his head in a show of respect. “She gave me the slip.” The blatant lie flowed like honey, thick and sweet with promise. “Honestly, sir, I was hoping to beat Edward here. I see he’s brought you the book I was going to bring you myself, given a bit more time.”
“Save it, Pierce. I wanted results, he got them. You have yet to earn your keep, but thanks to little Eddie’s desire to get ahead, you have one more opportunity to make things right.”
“Yes, if I can borrow the book for a short while, I can turn her back...”
The laugh started as a low rumble, but soon grew into a roar of dark amusement that echoed off the walls.
James fell silent. The only sound as the laughter faded was the scrape of Edward’s shoes as he took a couple of steps back while Victor sized up James anew. Moving out of the potential splash zone.
“Why in the nine hells would I want to do that? Don’t you know why I wanted the book? Bring her to me. This idiot had no idea about the odds of that spell actually working, or how much of those components he was supposed to be bringing to me that he wasted in the process. It’s sheer luck she’s not a pile of ash herself.”
Edward had turned a rather interesting shade of brick. Lyra wished it was because she had her hands wrapped around his throat. Not only had he shown callous disregard for her condition, but he could have killed her with that spell and hadn’t shown the slightest hint of remorse. All he cared about was getting ahead with his boss.
His boss who was currently stalking towards them like he intended to throttle James the way Lyra wanted to throttle Edward. From her vantage on the floor, it was like looking up at a dark, hairy giant.
“That bird is the key to immortality. My immortality. I need her before someone else gets any ideas about using her blood and bones. Those belong to me.”
The warlock studied James, who had taken a fraction of a step back. It was enough. Suspicion brought a few frown lines to the surface, twisting the tattoos into a whirl of thorny, spectral energy that sent needles of icy terror twisting through Lyra’s veins.
“Listen to me, Pierce,” Victor said, his voice gone silky smooth. “I know this girl meant something to you, but she means a lot more to me. She knows you, so she’ll probably trust you enough to follow you. Bring her here.”
To his credit, James held his ground again. He was rigid as stone, but nonetheless kept his voice steady as he tried another tactic. “I don’t know where to find her, and even if I did, she doesn’t trust me. After I tried to take the book from her the first time, she cut all ties with me. Maybe with the book, I could convince her I needed to take her to a special location to undo the spell. Without it, I don’t know how to get her to follow me.”
Victor paused, glancing at Edward, then back to James. “Not my problem. Though I suppose we could take the easy route...”
The warlock snapped his fingers. A swirl of black smoke stinking of sulfur appeared beside him, slowly forming into a towering shape, horned and with bat-like wings that wafted the stench of death over them with every movement. Eyes the size of saucers that glowed from within with a hellish, green light formed in the shadowy oblivion of a face, scanning ov
er the room. Lyra knew without a doubt that the creature had seen her despite her camouflage, for its gaze lingered on her and Moira for an agonizing moment before it regarded the one who had summoned it.
“What is it now?” the beast asked. The voice did not match the body; despite the obvious irritation, it was smooth and sensual, the deep tones the sort that might have driven a woman to fantasize what the owner of such a low-pitched voice could do with that mouth. If only said mouth wasn’t filled with fangs and stinking with the rot of spoiled meat. “You’re the only summoner I’ve ever had who has no respect for tea time.”
“I’ll buy you a box of scones to make up for it. Do me a favor, would you? Save us all some time and tell these two where to find the nearest phoenix. Let me know what ingredients you need for the spell.”
The creature stared at his summoner. “Tell me you’re joking.”
Annoyed, Victor waved a hand at him. “Have you known me to have a sense of humor about this? You were able to figure it out last time I asked.”
“Yes, well, last time you asked it wasn’t standing but a few yards away.”
Chapter 9
Lyra, already frozen with fear, found herself deeply regretting her life choices as the eyes of a demon burned into her.
Victor’s gaze followed that of the demon, landing on the patch of shadow cowering behind James.
A brief flicker of magic from both Victor and Edward, followed by the widening of their eyes as they adjusted to the Sight, was their only chance.
“Lyra, run!” James shouted.
Before the wizard and warlock’s vision had adjusted to the Sight, giving them the ability to see the pair, Moira was already moving in a pitch-black blur, wrapping herself tight around Victor’s face. His fingers tore at the living shadow that adhered to his skin, but no more than muffled shouts could be made out.
James lunged for the book. Edward jumped in the fray, his hands glowing with power as he went for it, too.
Meanwhile, the demon simply watched, its inky features twisted in a shark’s grin of yellowed teeth as it folded both arms and wings as it waited for a command. Its grin widened as it winked at Lyra while she back-winged, scrambling for the exit.
The receptionist, peeking in to see what the commotion was about, gasped and fell back as a wave of heat and feathers blasted her out of the way. Lyra had no idea what it was she had done, but before she even reached the door a wave of power had thrown the poor woman out of her way, sending her glasses skittering over the stone.
Driven by pure panic, she fled the way they had come.
* * *
And as she made her escape, the battle between James and Edward continued while Victor fought to remove Moira from his face.
Edward shoved his palm, glowing with power, against James’s chest. Gritting his teeth against the searing pain, James countered with a trick of his own; a right hook that sent Edward staggering back, releasing his hold on the book to clutch his gushing nose. A follow-up jab to his solar plexus sent him gasping to the ground, flopping in agony like a landed fish.
Then clawed hands grabbed his shoulders, the tips of talons digging deep into the muscle. With a low cry, James fell to his knees, dropping the book as pain rocketed through his nerves and down his spine.
His features twisted in anger, Victor wiped at the inky black blood on his face, smearing it across his tattoos. “You little traitor,” he hissed.
The only sound James could make was a howl of pain as the demon’s talons sunk deeper.
“I wasn’t expecting this. I’ll give you that.” Victor turned and gave Edward a vicious kick in the ribs. “Fool! What good is a wizard who doesn’t use his Sight at all times? That’s the second time you’ve failed me!”
Edward’s response was a thin whine in his throat, blood trickling through his fingers and moisture spilling from the corners of his closed eyes.
The demon loosed a dramatic sigh that made James gag. “Good help is so hard to find.”
“Shut up, Bazriel.”
Yellow fangs clacked together in warning. James yelped as its grip on him tightened. “You may have me bound, boy, but your dominion over me only goes so far. You’d do well to remember that.”
“Save the dramatics.”
Victor crouched down in front of James, who glared up at him, teeth clenched against the pain. The warlock licked a taste of Moira’s blue-black blood off the back of his hand, staring into James’s eyes as he did it. He followed that up with running a fingertip along one of the trickling rivulets of blood that poured from the wounds in his shoulders.
The few drops that collected on his finger were used as ink to trace a pattern on the ground between them. It was done absently, keeping his eyes locked on James’s the entire time, as though the actions were second nature to him. There was little the sorcerer could do to stop the hex being cast; if he moved, the demon would tear him apart.
“I’m very disappointed in you, Pierce. I thought we were beyond the point of needing a geas to keep you in line.”
James sucked in a quick breath, bracing against the pain as he reached out to catch Victor’s wrist. “That’s not necessary,” he managed between clenched teeth.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to agree to disagree,” Victor replied, jerking out of his grip and continuing to paint a series of symbols on the ground. “I bind you by blood, James Robert Pierce, to the task at hand. You will find the phoenix and return it to me, dead or alive, but whole. You know the consequences of breaking a geas, I assume.”
“Oh, and have him pick me up some scones while you’re at it. Ones with currants.”
Victor shot a look of disdain at the demon hunched over James, its forked tail wagging and twisting like a startled serpent in its excitement.
A jerky nod was all James could manage.
The claws slid from his flesh with a sick, wet pop. James cried out and wrapped his arms around himself to clutch at the wounds, hunching forward on his knees.
Bazriel patted the top of the sorcerer’s head, smearing blood into gelled blond spikes. There was a low purr of pleasure in his smooth voice. “Don’t forget the jam.”
Victor sighed, briefly rubbing the bridge of his nose between two blood-smeared fingers, leaving an even bigger mess on his face. With a shake of his head, he placed his palm on the geas, shoving power into it and activating the binding spell.
That done, he clapped his hands together as if dusting them off, then rose in one easy motion to his feet. He nudged James’s hunched form with the toe of his designer loafer.
“Consider this your last chance to make good. I’ll give you a few hours to bring her here. If you don’t, I’m sending someone else to look. For both of you.”
Chapter 10
The mage marketplace was a hell of a lot scarier without James or Moira around to give Lyra a safe perch or camouflage.
While she hadn’t quite achieved flight, she had figured out how to give herself some lift and glide a few feet to give her aching legs a rest. The click-clack of her talons on the stone felt like it was far too loud and would draw even more unwanted attention, possibly from some of the freaky rooms she was passing.
No one appeared to take note of her headlong rush, or her whistling, wheezing breaths. As soon as she made it out of the corridor with the doors and back into the main cavern, she realized what a terrible idea it was for her to be alone out in the open. Huffing and puffing, she darted over to one side, avoiding the crowd gathered by a food booth at the end of the nearby row and approaching what she hoped was an empty stall so she could get her bearings.
Luckily, the stall was without a door—and, more importantly, occupants. It was dark, dusty, and the ghosts of body odor and mothballs lingered, but at least she would be alone long enough to rest and come up with a plan.
While she thought she could find her way back to Moira’s tent, there was no way to get there without passing by a couple of hundred onlookers. Considering she had no idea how to defend
herself, and she no longer had camouflage as Moira had stayed behind to fight, she needed another way out. There were things in those tents that would happily capture and sell her to the highest bidder, or perhaps chop her up and use her parts, and she was not in the mood to have any more unexpected bodily changes that put riding the cotton pony to shame.
A low sound of frustration escaped her. If she could fly, she could get out of the cavern no problem. With all the gaps in the ceiling, she could easily find her way to their meeting spot by the lighthouse once she was outside.
She looked around the booth, examining her surrounds. There was a shelf built into one of the walls high above her head with a faded, yellowed, and hopefully empty, KFC bucket. Eyeing the shelf, she spread her wings and gave a few experimental flaps.
As before, all she managed was to push herself back a few paces. Clearly she was doing something wrong.
Closing her eyes, she envisioned the hundreds of pigeons and seagulls and other various birds she’d seen over the years. Living so close to the ocean, perhaps that number was closer to the thousands, or even the tens of thousands—but it was like trying to remember the exact curvature pattern of a particular wave, or the make, model and color of a car that had parked in front of her store months ago. When one had seen so many, they all blended together.
This body had to come with some advantages. Perhaps she was thinking about what she was doing too hard to let the instincts of the bird take over. So far all she had tried to do was force it to move the way she had moved as a human. That clearly wasn’t working out. Time for a new tactic.
Driving all thoughts out of her mind aside from a desire to get from the floor to the shelf, she shut her eyes, took a breath, and spread her wings one more time. As she let go all of her preconceptions of how she was supposed to be flying, she also felt a niggling sensation of heat blossoming in her chest. It had happened earlier, too, when she’d lost her temper, but this time felt a bit more natural.