Slowly, he began to recover self-control. In the mirror, his gaze became more compassionate, and his mouth lost some of the stern grimness. Instead of bringing his hand down and snuffing out her breath, he surveyed her still form in silent appeal. He briefly caressed her torn cheek before curling his hand into a fist and drawing it away.
"You got in the way," he murmured, "of someone who wanted to punish me. Now you are paying for my mistakes." The barest trace of a smile crossed his face.
But as long as she breathes, he assured himself, there is still a chance.
Rising, he took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. Untying the thongs holding the leather sheath strapped to his right wrist and taking it off, he withdrew the blade, still crusted with blood.
Her clothes, he thought, using the sharp dagger to cut through the layers, I need them off. He drew in a deep breath, steeling himself. No matter how much one saw of mutilations, none were ever pleasant. Those were things he never forgot but wished he could. I am not sure I want to see the damage.
Nevertheless, he continued, pulling aside the layers of rough burlap-like material. How damn much did she put on? He could hardly criticize her survival instincts. She'd done well taking care of herself.
Is treise dúchas ná oiliúint, he told himself. Instinct is stronger than training.
When her naked skin was exposed, his gaze was immediately drawn to the mutant's point of entry. The claw marks under her ribcage were sloppy, the slashing of a ravenous animal. Tendrils of black formed the seams to shut the lacerations, a clue the mutant was at home inside its host. Moreover, tendrils had began to sprout, growing in her veins like the roots of a tree, lacing her abdomen as they spread around her ribcage and up through her arms and legs.
"This is bad," he muttered. "It is growing faster than I thought." His mouth became a tight line as he pressed his open palm to her chest, probing the sensitive area.
Her skin was clammy with sweat, dead white. He could feel the pulsing of the hellish creature inside her, what he himself fancied he'd felt for days. Now and again it moved, causing her chest to heave, as it stretched to find a more comfortable position.
"This beast is a crime against nature," he growled in disgust. "An abomination of sorcery."
He looked upon her a long time, every feature of her body etching itself into his brain with the bitter acid of doubt, blame and failure. It did not take a whole hell of a lot of knowledge to know the creature could not be removed. One look told him that.
Shaking his head, he drew a blanket across Julienne's body to cover her. Having done all he could for the moment, he abandoned her bedside and threw himself where the lamp's light did not quite reach. Sliding to the floor, that place he seemed to feel most comfortable, he leaned back against the wall and rubbed tired eyes.
Though outwardly calm, his mind was racing. Xavier's mutant is not going to come out. For her to live, it has to stay inside, become a part of her without eating her up. The creature is vampiric. They would have to share a hunger for blood.
With a single finger, he traced the black smudge under his left eye. Uncertainty ate at him, and this act was one of the few that betrayed his indecision. Merge her with the beathach, that beast? came the silent dissenting argument. If she survives the change, the life she would be forced to lead is perverse, unnatural. She could come to hate me for taking her into such damnation.
His brow wrinkled in thought, deep lines creasing his forehead. He could change the course of her life. Make her immortal. The idea, the words whispered in his mind. I do not have to let her die.
The sound of light footsteps brought his head up. He had completely forgotten about the rest of the people in the manor.
Melissa knelt, placing a full bottle of scotch, an ashtray, cigarette case and lighter within easy reach. "You said you forgot your cigarettes."
"Am I that damned predictable?" he asked, concealing his start of surprise with harsh asperity.
"Yes," she said, offering a tentative smile. "You are."
For the first time in a long time, he had no desire for a drink, but he doubted his climb onto the wagon would last. Bypassing the bottle, he reached for the case, snapped it open and extracted a cigarette. Filterless, the brown paper was wrapped around a strong aromatic tobacco--tarry, strong, with just a hint of clove. He welcomed the burn on the back of his throat when he lit it and inhaled.
Smoking was one bad habit he'd almost managed to conquer, until Julienne had walked back into his life. The day she'd returned to Virginia, he'd resumed the habit after three years, partly to vex her by taking her last cigarette and partly to try and suppress his own unsettling attraction to her. She was the image of her mother and just as willful as Cassandra. He had sworn to the gods he would not fall for her, and then he'd done exactly that. The defiant spark in her eyes and the femininity of her aura had hastened his tumble.
Melissa's brown eyes curiously searched him. "So, this is how you really are?"
She meant the medieval style clothing.
"Once," was all the explanation he offered.
"It suits you," she commented. "But it doesn't."
"That makes no sense." His sigh was restless. She knew he was not mortal, did not belong to her time.
"I mean to say that what you were then, you're not now. Know what I mean?"
Surprisingly, he did.
She paused a moment, then asked, "Are you all right?"
Taking a long drag off the cigarette, he shook his head.
"No. No, I am not all right," he replied though a heavy exhalation of smoke, conscious he was speaking a little too freely.
"That's the only time I've ever heard you say that."
"It is the only time I have ever been concerned about someone besides myself," he admitted bluntly. Funny, he thought, how guilt blinded a person to all else. For centuries, he'd wallowed in it, hating himself, punishing himself, never once stopping to think how it affected the people around him. He'd been so wrapped up in his own pain that he hadn't cared about other people's feelings or needs.
He slipped into a stony silence that ticked on through long minutes. He was not a man given to easy displays of emotion involving caring, worry or love. It was easier to keep the heart hard and uninvolved. For a long time he had gone through the motions of living without any true interest in what he was doing. His exile had been voluntary, in part a self-imposed penance. He had never considered a future beyond tomorrow, enduring a new day if it arrived, not really caring if it did not.
"You've always been concerned about others," she assured him softly, then looked away from him, biting her lip. They rarely spoke in such an intimate way.
"You believe so?" Brusquely, to hide his feelings, he lit a second cigarette from the remnant of the first and watched the smoke rise. Great. Now he was chain-smoking.
In his mind he interrogated himself. Had he cared when he'd rescued the people who served him? Each of them had a similar story to tell. Their lives were in pieces when he'd found them, each sinking in a mire that would have brought their lives to an end had he not intervened. They were what he needed, though--people severing links to life and loved ones, people willing to walk away from the past. In a way, he offered hope, offered salvation of a sort to everyone except himself. Sadistically, he would mentally beat himself senseless, almost reveling in the punishment--storms of hateful temper, drinking and depressions, all very human failings.
"I do. None of us would be here if you didn't." She indicated the bed where Julienne slept. "You're no longer alone, you know. You could build something here…with her."
"I have thought of that," he said evasively.
"Don't just think about it. Do it."
He took a drag off his cigarette. "I wonder if I can make it work."
"If you want to, you can."
Cha vel fer erbee cha bouyr, as eshyn nagh jean clashtyn, he thought. None so deaf as he who will not hear.
"How simple you make it sound."
&
nbsp; "Maybe it's time you quit packing up and running off every time someone gets close to you."
"Perhaps."
"Holding people at arm's length must get tiring."
He impaled her with his harshest glare. There was no reason to change just this moment.
"Lhig lhiam! Spare me this talk now, Melissa. I have to think." His voice was rasping and utterly unlike his usual tone. Maybe the cigarettes were affecting him after all.
"Fine. So, does this mean you're staying?"
"For now, yes."
"For how long?"
"That depends on her," he said, meaning Julienne.
"You should never have left," Melissa said quietly.
"You are probably right."
Her piece said, Melissa rose and went to Julienne's bedside, visibly flinching when she saw the cruel mutilations. She made a strange sound, half-gasp, half-cry. "What happened to her face?"
"She took a torture that should have been mine."
"Someone must hate you."
"A lot of people hate me."
She let the remark pass. Some things were too easy. "It looks bad." Her eyes found his. "Can you fix it?"
"Her face I can put right." Her soul? I do not yet know.
The black woman pulled back her shoulders. "What do I need to do?"
"Get the box."
She nodded, almost relieved to have something to contribute. "Right."
Melissa left the room and returned minutes later carrying a small wooden chest. Setting it on the bedside table, she looked at him expectantly. "What else?"
Snuffing out his second smoke and getting off the floor, he listed a succession of items.
"You should know. It is not the first time we have put people back together." His crisp words left no room for argument or hesitation. Melissa hurried into the adjoining bathroom, gathering towels, wash rags, alcohol, razor blades and a basin of warm water.
Returning to Julienne's side, Morgan set to work. She moaned softly but did not open her eyes when he turned her face to the light, tipping up the edge of the bedside lamp to better illuminate the area. "They have started to heal."
"Isn't that good?"
He shook his head. "The fresher the wound, the better the leigheas repairs. I will have to reopen them if there is to be no scarring." Picking up a single-edged razor blade, he unwrapped it and poured alcohol over it with a liberal hand. "Sit down and hold her head. Keep her still."
Melissa nodded and sat down, placing a towel on her lap and cradling Julienne's head.
"I know what to do," she said.
Morgan set the razor at the edge of the first slice, reopening the wound in a single exact cut. Blood mixed with pus oozed. Deep in her sleep, a near-comatose state, Julienne felt nothing.
After wiping away the gore with a fresh rag wrung out in warm water, he dipped into the box and lifted out a vaguely flesh-colored powder, more sand-like than soft. He filled the cut with powder, packing it until the blood was absorbed. He repeated the process three more times, treating each wound likewise. When the powder had dried and formed a hard shell, he began to brush it away, revealing unblemished skin. The ugly trenches were gone.
"Why didn't her older scars go?"
"I cannot take away scars already set into flesh."
Melissa set about cleaning up the mess. "She's going to be all right, isn't she?"
Back into the shadows, another cigarette lit. "That is up to her," he said, through a blue haze.
For the first time in a long time, he was truly afraid. He was used to emptiness inside, the sense of loss, of longing for something he could not find. Now, he had found all that he wanted in a woman and more in Julienne. Unless he acted, soon, he was going to lose her.
But was that his only dilemma? No, it was something more, something sinister that reached to his core.
Her face was the easy part. To physically change her…That takes the will of magic.
Something he no longer possessed.
He could again. I have the knowledge to help her. It is within my reach.
But at what price?
Go back, and he could lose his very sanity. Refuse, and Julienne would die.
It was a choice not even Solomon could wisely make.
I am a fool, he thought. But the heart wants what the heart wants. And his heart said he wanted his lover alive, even if she must live in shadows.
Immortality.
He could give her that.
Despite the idea, guilt still ran a deep river through him. Long ago, he had accepted the forces the occult levered into his life. Accepting her as a lover, he had, in essence, accepted it for her as well.
Go back to his legacy and train Julienne in hers. That was his plan. Smooingaghtyn ooasle, lathair. Noble sentiments, indeed.
Time was against him. He needed to plan, prepare, study the casting of Xavier's mutant. Everything must be perfectly in its place for the change inside her to happen. There would be no time to rest. There was much to do.
Outside, the wind kicked up, rising into an eerie moan around the walls of the old manor. Go back to what you were, Morgan, it warned, and you might need a healer…one who can restore the insane.
* * *
Later in the night, well past the midnight hour, Morgan made his way downstairs. After a shower, his medieval garb had given way to modern attire: dark gray slacks, crisp white shirt, silk vest. He had a confident walk, a purposeful stride that seemed to propel him effortlessly forward.
Closing the door to his den, he quickly built a fire in the hearth and lit several candles. He needed to work the old way, in a room brightened only by nature's light. Pulsing with heat, it whispered of the ages of man, of the mysteries of the unknown, the unexplained. The pungent scent of wood smoke ushered him back to another time that was long gone. Ancient.
A time he once belonged to.
He lit a cigarette. His gaze wandered to the bar.
No booze, he warned himself. Need a clear head.
Later. Yes. Later he would indulge.
But not now.
Self-discipline was his strongest asset. Too bad he rarely used it these days. Through the last few decades, he had grown lazy and self-indulgent.
Time for that to stop. He needed to concentrate. Think. Plan. Consequences.
For every action, there is a reaction. A law of physics. A law of magic.
He'd had it.
Could have it again.
Would have it again.
His gaze skimmed the room. The silence rang in his ears. Undisturbed since the day he'd left. He'd intended never to come back.
Or had he?
What he needed was here.
He walked to a bookshelf. The hollow echo of his footsteps followed, mocking him. Instead of taking down one of the books, he pressed a secret lever. The whole shelf slid silently aside, revealing a small cubicle. No one but he knew of its existence.
You can no longer avoid it.
More shelves in this space. More books. But these books were different from the others. Older…forbidden…secrets untapped. As he himself had been conceived in a foul blasphemy of legitimate magic, he understood the darkness was something he could never escape as long as he drew breath. Before he'd escaped Sclyd those many centuries ago, he'd taken great care to preserve these books within the mortal realm. It would have been too dangerous to leave them behind, though he suspected it might have been better if they had been destroyed and the ashes scattered to the four winds.
Use them again? It is all here for the taking.
He retrieved a crumbling manuscript out of a deep recess, a book he had not opened since he turned from his legacy. Once beautifully leather-bound and decorated with pure gold, the volume had long ago lost its luster as it surrendered to age and neglect. Time's depredation had exacted its toll.
But between the dilapidated covers were the writings of a heritage too long denied--the finer arts of conjuration recorded in a meticulously fine script. The magic thes
e books could unleash was malignant--evil--the kind of conjuring that could suck a soul dry of all humanity, a mind of all sanity.
It had been a long time since he'd practiced seriously. There would be no second chances, no room for mistakes. His casting must be letter-perfect or the spell would fail, and Julienne would die. However long she was unconscious was how long he had to study, decide his course and weave the spell.
He knew the casting for Xavier's mutants. Could make one--or a thousand--if he wished. Trouble was, no one had ever dealt with a mutant inside a human body. It was a crazy idea, one he didn't even know if he could pull off. But no one had said it could not be done, and there was the key. Magic was not about limitations. It was about exploration and what could be. He was determined Julienne could be restored to health. She would be unique, a species unto herself. A living vampire. Through his blood, he could grant her immortality, allow her to walk through the ages untouched.
She could be his equal. His priestess and lover. An rud is annamh is iontach. The rarest thing is the most wonderful.
Morgan sucked in a breath. He didn't know what was wrong with him, why he couldn't walk away and be done with the foolish woman and her silly notion that she loved him. He supposed he could attribute the whole thing to the bonding spell Anlese had initiated. He decided to settle on that. It was better than admitting he loved her, too, and for the first time was letting his desires rule his head.
He wanted to dismiss his feelings, send them away, but found he could not. Julienne meant something to him. His mind was filled with entangled visions, memories of words said and words left unsaid between them. Regrets, retributions, what might have been, what should have been and things yet to be. Most people regarded him as a bastard. Immovable. Unbending. Never letting anyone get too close, too familiar. Julienne had broken that barrier, gotten closer than any woman, including Nisidia. This fragile woman had done what he thought was impossible. She had made him care.
I am not supposed to be human, he tried to tell himself, to act like them. Or to love one.
She changed that. In fact, all the rules are changing, and I am just now realizing the fact.
Descent of Demons Page 18