So many questions. So many missing answers. Through the weeks she'd spent at her childhood home, she had learned a lot, but still not enough to fill in all the missing pieces of the puzzle that was her past. She'd once sworn she would lay Cassandra and her demons to rest, but there was no rest when that demon's name was Morgan Saint-Evanston. As always, he had all the answers, held all the keys.
That aggravating, impossible, irritating man! To think she'd once sworn a silent vow not to get involved with him. Was she weak? Was she stupid? Nope. She had been bewitched; and her responses to Morgan were half attraction, half spell-work and a pinch of an old woman's hope. The combination was, however, a bitter brew to swallow. There were more than a few hard feelings bubbling underneath the surface. All kinds of them.
The little imp of should-have-been resumed its seat on her shoulder. Prodding with its sharp little pitchfork, it sent her brain reeling in a thousand different directions, none of them useful to the situation at hand.
Goddamn it! None of this is helping me. Where have I gone wrong? Where have I fucked up? I made these choices. I brought myself to this place, to this point in time. And a fine fucking job I've done in controlling my destiny, choosing the path to take.
I'm going to pass away. Kick over. Croak. Cease to exist.
She giggled.
That's a fact, Jack.
A frozen carcass, it's only a shell.
Soon, I'll be warm…free. The pain will end.
Though her body was still, her mind rambled on, her thoughts becoming blurred as she slowly lost strength and stamina. A great weight began to descend upon her, a feeling of being very heavy, very sleepy. Eyes closed, she accepted the darkness, welcomed it. It was warm, soothing, like sliding into a pool of hot, steamy water. She imagined herself dipping in a toe, then a leg, wading in up to her thighs, her breasts, her neck. Only her head remained, and soon she would be going under for the last time.
Julienne felt a touch on her shoulder. She ignored it, thinking it a hallucination of her sick mind, the jostling of the wind. A harder push. A pause, and then someone rolled her onto her back and slapped her face, hard.
Slammed rudely out of her numb half-sleep, she opened her eyes to see the outline of a hulking figure looming over her. Floundering, she was far too tired and miserable to feel fear. What could possibly happen to her now? She really didn't care.
As the man bent closer, she could make out bits and pieces of his features. Long blond hair, bearded face…
A feeling of recognition washed over her.
"I know you!" she cried out in disbelief, then fainted dead away.
Chapter Twelve
Nights in the mortal world passed violently. Each fall of darkness upon the Earth brought a siege of beings that stalked the shadows in search of weaker animals to dominate and destroy. Some hunted for the thrill of the chase. Others hunted for blood, flesh or bones to feed the unnatural hunger that drove them into the herd of mankind.
Humans were the prey, and many joined the uncounted souls who were food for the insatiable legions of the damned.
The weak succumb.
The strong postpone the inevitable.
It was the law of an unnatural nature.
But such are the ways of life and death, natural and supernatural.
This night, the sky was hazy, its wide canopy of stars dressed in an indigo coat stretching over the face of the land. Cool but not unpleasantly chilly, a breeze moved the branches of the trees like a violinist lovingly drawing his bow over the strings of a finely tuned instrument.
Other than the gentle flow of the earth's breath, the twilight should have been still, untouched.
So it was, until a subtle change came into the air.
Unrest had arrived, ushered in on silent, dark wings. Where before an atmosphere of emptiness had pervaded, there was presently something else as winding tendrils of vapor wafted in the nothingness, growing dense as a figure emerged from within.
Moving to the security of the shadows, Megwyn cocked her head and listened to the night. How she relished the dark. As her cloak covered her body, so the gloom covered the comings and goings of the Sclydian entities. To walk among mortals was to wander among ripe fruit, an orchard brimming with lives for the taking. Humans were such easy prey. They believed walls and the locks on their doors protected them. That the prayers that fell from slack lips would keep them safe from all harm. But walls had cracks, windows were left open to admit the sweet night air and prayers for protection fell on the ears of a deaf deity who had untethered the devils long ago and had no desire to corral them.
"We are gods among them," she whispered.
She laughed, a sound that might have been mistaken for the shriek of a rapacious bird. Silent words came from her lips, words that made her one with the incandescent veils that bore Sclydian beings into this mortal realm. Where the winds could go, a skilled conjurer could, too, for it was easy to merge with the air currents. She gave herself to the silvery embrace of nothingness, and her search began.
Incorporeal, she peered in dark windows with prying eyes, looking for the sacrifice she had been sent to retrieve for Xavier. When she found the right child, she entered through the cracks, coming with the air currents to lift her from a warm bed of innocent slumber. Muffling the child's cries with a smothering hand, she crept away without a whisper or rustle of clothing to deliver her into the cold grasp of the Dragon.
Chapter Thirteen
Morgan sagged against the altar. Blessing the silence, he pressed his hands to his skull. The pain was, mercifully, lessening, allowing him to gain a grip on his senses. He was exhausted by the violent encounter, his weary anger giving way to a dazed lethargy.
Since their last parting, his sister had grown bitter and vindictive. He had no doubt she would do her damnedest to bring her threats to fruition--no matter what harm it did, no matter who stood in her way, she had made a sacred and solemn vow to destroy him.
A tiny glimmer of light stabbed through the tarry darkness around him, offering a bit of welcome illumination. Lynar carried the stub of a taper in his small hands.
"She's evil," he said. He came around the altar, lifting his candle, curiously examining this forbidden place.
Nodding, Morgan scrubbed his hands together, attempting to rub away the stain of her blood. "She practices, as our father did, the rites and deceptions that destroy the soul. You did me no favor, thief, saving this life."
Scores of sacred Celtic symbols drawn onto the surface of the altar caught his eye. He stared at them as though seeing a revelation, slowly tracing each. His parents had practiced intensely sexual rites on this altar, conceiving their twins in defiance of the balance between dark and light.
Like a string pulled too taut, something inside him snapped. He staggered away from the altar. He didn't want to touch it. His fingers curled into a fist in an effort to soothe the quivering in his body. He had never spoken about the event that had revealed he could find no release by his own hand, of the night the ci'biote materialized from the blood he'd shed. He'd seen the inhuman thing inhabiting his shell. Not even his twin knew what it really was. And he would never tell her the truth.
But the thing…
He had the feeling it didn't belong to him. In fact, it seemed to fit very poorly inside him. The more he used its abilities, the more it tortured him. Had his mother, indeed, misread prophecy? Would it truly have been better served assimilated with Megwyn? Going back to the same time and place, would she have served as a harbinger of peace when, in that same time, he had been one of war?
It was a question that would have to go unanswered.
One choice. Two children. How could she have known which? She had believed fervently that Cerredwen granted her special foresight, gave her visions of a savior who would walk as a peacemaker between the dimensions.
But were her visions true, or were they the hallucinations of a woman going slowly insane?
The tingling in his fingers gave hi
m pause. He was clenching his hand so hard his knuckles showed white under the already deathlike pallor of his skin. He uncurled his fingers. Tension. Rejoining with the being would reawaken his psi abilities. Then, a stray thought could unintentionally turn lethal, and the repercussion could disable him mentally.
More than just a means of regenerative, it had granted him the talent to manipulate physical matter solely by thought. It was a faculty he did not regret losing after he'd renounced the occult and separated from witchcraft. The intense push of kinetic energy was draining on his mind and could trigger the migraines that plagued him. The pain could cause irreparable mental damage if not arrested before cellular degeneration set in. It was why the gray in his hair continued to grow thicker, the lines around his eyes deeper--they were signs he'd let the burnout creep up on him.
I must take care, guard myself…I cannot let it consume me. For the first time he noticed it was uncomfortably cold, the temperature previously ignored because his mind had gone astray.
The elf tugged at his leg, jarring him out of his thoughts. "You should leave here. This is not a good place, and it isn't safe."
"I know," Morgan blearily surveyed the chamber, most of it concealed in a shroud of shadows, "but not yet. I have things to do."
"A fire would help." Lynar shivered, and the candle he held flickered.
"It would," he agreed, thinking that a pack of cigarettes and lighter would also be useful. "Bring your light." A bottle of whisky and a gun with a single bullet would also be welcome, was his grim thought. Too bad suicide wasn't painless or easy.
The chamber was neither large nor small nor of an exact square shape. The walls angled forward from the entrance, progressing toward a beehive of tunnels that went even deeper underground. A pile of wood was heaped in the far corner, and he stacked a few musty logs in the nearest of the twin fireplaces. Lynar hurried to help, gathering smaller pieces for kindling. He set the flame of his candle to it, blowing gently to encourage the fire to spread. When it grew stable, the elf settled down, drinking in the warmth, though shivering no less.
Morgan sat, too, his back against the wall, out of the direct light. The aura was eerie, a forbidding place seething with tenebrous secrets. He clasped his hands together, thumb of one rubbing the palm of the other, as if attempting to rub away a stain. The vivid flames could provide light but not warmth to the gray walls. Nor could the fire drive away the pungent reek lingering in the shadows.
Dampness hung around the edges of the walls. A thin stream of water issued from the open mouth of the stone head embedded in the wall, the twin of the lion decorating the altar. The water filled a circular stone basin several feet wide and about three-and-a-half feet deep; a drain carved around its edge prevented overflow. The water was clean, clear and ice-cold.
"You should have something to eat. I am a good hunter. I could--"
He shook his head and made a gesture toward his torn and filthy clothing. "I should clean up."
It was one thing to accept a certain amount of grime when living in a medieval world, but he was rank with sweat and dried blood. For the first time he began to think of the long term. If he were going to remain here, he'd need supplies. This would mean trading in the villages. He hated to admit it, but he had gotten used to the conveniences of the modern world. In a way, it had made him lazy. It was too easy.
"How?"
Reluctantly getting up, he retrieved a small chest out of one dark corner. Constantly on the move, he was accustomed to keeping caches of clothes and money in various hiding places; this was only the first of many.
The chest was cedar-lined, the items inside well preserved, untouched. Scavengers had plundered the levels above, but they were too superstitious to venture below. Looking at the clothes, he thought about how much the mortal world had changed, and how much Sclyd had not. He must remember that he belonged to the darker side and its shadows, not to the mortal realm.
In a way, he almost pitied humans. For all their technological advances, how could they resist an enemy they could not see or understand? Soon, if not already, their people would begin to disappear--a few, at first, and then many as the Sclydian entities grew bolder. Mortals were like sheep--prime, fat and ready for slaughter.
With the alliance, there is no one to stand guard between our world and theirs. Why does the council not see Megwyn is misleading them, that allowing Xavier to rebuild his legion was a grave mistake? Moreover, why had he not seen it? Was it because he was one of them himself, more than he cared to admit? I am not human… Yet neither was he wholly of Sclydian origins. Somehow, he had ended up in the middle of the two.
What if I had not left? What if? But what was the sense of thinking about what might have been? What was done was done. The three worlds were back in alignment, Xavier was still alive, Julienne was dead, his sister wanted him that way. What a fine fucking mess. A regular Greek tragedy.
He gave himself a stern mental shake, dragged himself out of his thoughts and returned to the task at hand. He must take care of himself; no one else was going to do it.
He stripped off his bloodstained shirt. Tossing it aside, he sat down to unlace his boots.
"I am going to have to do some trading to replace these things." Not a minute passed before he paused, acutely aware he was under close scrutiny. "What are you looking at?" he snapped testily.
"You're not so very big," Lynar observed matter-of-factly. His standing height of three feet made them near shoulder-to-shoulder. "If I stood a bit higher, I'd be just as tall, I bet."
"Not a near chance," Morgan said, peeved that the elf had to voice his every observation. It was like having a small child underfoot, questioning, testing and giving a running commentary.
"How tall are you?"
"Quite tall enough!" The elf was poking close to the one thing he was self-conscious about. His father had towered well over six feet in his prime. Morgan had apparently inherited his shorter five-ten from his mother's side. "Besides, I have the extra inches where they count."
"Where?" Lynar immediately wanted to know. He sidled closer, looking for the extra.
"Bloody hell! Have you not something better to do than ask stupid questions?" he exhaled in a rush of annoyance. He hadn't meant for the remark to be taken literally.
The elf continued to explore. He reached out to trace one of the lash marks crisscrossing the assassin's back. "I saw your newer injuries heal without marks," he observed. "Yet you still wear other scars."
Morgan sat up straight, startled by the probing fingers against his naked flesh. "First you kick me when I am down. Now you poke like a blind old woman." He swatted at the Danarran. "I had another life, a very long while ago. I still wear the marks."
The elf looked at him, golden eyes slanted in appraisal. "You saw much trouble then."
"Aye, it was a merciless time." He offered no further explanation.
"You'll tell me the stories?"
"No. And I will hear no more from you. You make me think too much, and such can bring me no good."
"Thinking is something you don't seem to do much of," Lynar returned, emboldened by his earlier successes.
Morgan abruptly rose and snatched the elf up by its scrawny neck. "I have had quite enough of your smart-ass comments!"
Arms flailing, the little being wriggled and twisted, kicking his small feet, but could not get loose. "I meant no harm."
Morgan considerably tightened his grip. Air cut off from his lungs, the elf squeaked as he helplessly dangled. In a few swift steps, he crossed the chamber.
"God damn and good riddance," he cursed. "I need ten minutes alone, or you shall rue the day you got out of Xavier's dungeons!" He tossed the elf out.
Lynar landed hard on his backside.
"Ouch!" Scuttling to his feet, he rubbed his stinging bottom, backing away from the larger figure. "That hurt!"
"Be gone for good!" Morgan snarled after the small figure scampering up the tunnel to disappear from sight.
L
eft thankfully alone, he finished undressing. Despite the chill of the water, it was a relief to wash away the blood and clinging filth--he doubted the stench would ever leave his nostrils. He dealt with his body in a mechanical, necessary way. He had been taught to regard it as a machine that had to keep going. He had learned to ignore hunger, cold, injury.
He couldn't help but turn one of his wrists up. The long vertical scars marking his forearm were thin, but deep. Looking at them turned his mind to a phrase: a self designed to be destroyed.
How often had he thought this as he plunged into unknown danger at every chance? How far could he push luck before he crossed the line of no return?
The answer was, at last, revealed. He had pushed chance farther than he should've been allowed to. However, chance was now pushing back and he was stymied. He hated feeling trapped, helpless. I have finally discovered just how vulnerable I am. Nailed down and almost hung like an ornament by Xavier, he now knew what true weakness felt like. To have been utterly at someone else's mercy mortified him.
It would not happen again.
His mind turned to the occult ways he'd forsworn. Within his reach was a force his enemies coveted; but to possess it, a dear price must be paid. He'd never been willing to take the final step that could propel him into madness. Could he go back to what he had been and survive?
A strange ache in his chest resonated through his body. Although his wounds had mended, he fancied he could still feel Azoroath's blade inside him. It felt much like what he imagined Julienne must have experienced when Xavier's mutant burrowed into her chest. Do not think of her. It hurts too much.
Almost every thought was of her: how she looked, walked, talked, the inflections in her laugh, her smile, her touch. Ah, her touch. Like water to a thirsting man. If he closed his eyes he could again see the anticipation in her green eyes as he claimed her mouth, his hands sliding around her slender hips when he pulled her supple body close.
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