by Carmen Caine
But as the baby, I felt differently and couldn’t prevent from bursting out, “But I’m not going to follow in his footsteps. I’m not the Mindbreaker, True. And that’s the reason I ended up in that pool, consuming his power, isn’t it?” The dots were all connecting on their own now. “Gloria kept trying to kill me, but she only ended up sending me there to retrieve his power, making it all worse by helping him.”
A new horrible thought crowded out all of the others. With a sense of urgency and struggling not to vomit again, I leapt to my feet and gulped, “Just how much did I eat?”
“Sit, little one,” True beckoned in soothing tones. “We can’t know. There is so much we don’t know. There are many players in this tale. Sit, please, sit.”
“Not sitting,” I snapped, beginning to pace instead. “And done talking right now.”
Yeah, I’d learned a lot. Too much.
And these power fragments and their emissaries bothered me. So, there’d been seven to begin with? I’d eaten at least one, and my father had recovered two. That meant there were still four Fallen Ones running around—providing neither of us had indulged in any extra servings in our respective histories.
I spied True watching me from the corner of my eye.
A twinge of guilt rippled through me.
Here he was, divulging the truth—much longed for and needed truth—of my history and trusting me with the knowledge. I should really be sharing what I knew about my father’s little adventure in the cemetery a few days ago. The not-so-little incident of his fetching the second Ping-Pong power ball fragment from the Fallen One. Crud. No wonder the creature had bowed to me in the warehouse. It sensed the Mindbreaker in me. I shuddered. Had it been trying to give me the power fragment?
I froze in horror.
“I cannot follow your thoughts, little one,” True said softly.
Good—that was a relief.
Yeah, I’d wanted answers to questions, but not these kinds of answers. Biting my lip, I decided to forget it all and give denial one last chance.
“Nice story,” I said, letting skepticism force a derisive laugh from my lips. “But does it make sense that this guy’s been hanging around here for almost two thousand years? Can keepers even live that long? No one’s ever really explained how such an old dude could father a child.” Poor attempt at evasion, especially when I’d seen the guy myself. But still. Could there be some other explanation?
To my relief, True nodded and smiled, the candlelight bouncing off his high cheekbones making him look even more ghostly than usual. “It is true that while keepers live long, they rarely last longer than 400 years,” he disclosed.
Smiling myself, I fanned the flames of my denial a bit more. “Then maybe there’s another explanation for all of this?”
“No,” he replied with complete certainty, shaking his thin jowls from side to side. “Your birth is a mystery, but it is a mystery we shall answer when we find your father. There is no denying you are who you are, nor the roots from which you sprang. When I met you in Venice, my child, you were quite the shock. But there is no doubt.”
So much for denial.
“I have shared this information with you for one purpose,” the Night Terror said, sweeping to his feet and gliding over to a cubby to retrieve a lantern. He lit it before adding, “You must train your specter soul.”
“Right,” I said, licking my dry lips. “I’d like to do that too.”
“And now that you know something of your origins, you see why you must not open the gates to the Nether Reaches, even by accident,” he continued earnestly. “We cannot have more Fallen Ones roaming the earth, nor can we have your father reaping his power.”
“Yeah, I get it,” I said, understanding completely. “There’s too much at stake.”
He nodded, pleased, and a proud smile played over his ghoulish features. “Then your education begins now. Let me introduce you to your trainer.”
He pointed a spindly finger over my shoulder.
I tossed a quick glance in the proscribed direction, but upon recognizing the figure emerging from the shadows, every cell of my being revolted even as the barcode on my hand flared into painful life.
“Hell no!” I swore, shocked.
Standing there, with a scarf masking the lower half of his face, was Strix.
Doors You Can’t Open
Strix stood behind me, his blond hair braided back over his ears and his muscled torso covered in the black chain-link armor he’d worn the day we’d met. Yanking the scarf down to reveal his handsome face, he retorted, “Believe me, Cassidy. I’d sooner see you in prison than train you—”
“Confidence inspiring and precisely my point,” I cut in tartly. Whirling back to True, I dangled my hand under the Night Terror’s nose, pointing to the prison barcode Strix had etched into my flesh. “He branded me as Criminal Level Four, just for possessing the audacity to be born. Sorry, no trust here.”
“Nor is there trust on my end,” Strix agreed wholeheartedly, striding to my side. “I agreed to give this one try, as True’s friend and—”
“Friend?” I snorted, interrupting again. “You’re in cahoots with Strix?”
“Strix and I are both keepers, charged with protecting the Charmed in our care,” the Night Terror answered calmly. “There is no better Nether Reach trainer to help you, little one. If you do not trust him, then trust me. I shall be here every moment.” He lifted the lantern he was holding, cradling it close to his chest. The light angled up from below to play on his face, making him appear like a jack-o’-lantern.
It wasn’t a trust-inducing look.
Taking my silence for assent, he nodded at Strix. “The perimancer’s heartstring should have allayed any fear you had left, keeper. That and the origin. Now you know why and how.”
Strix grunted.
Whatever that meant. I didn’t worry about it. “I don’t care how much Strix says he’d be willing to help me. I know he’s lying through his teeth,” I said. Making my mind up, I added, “I’m outta here.”
I took about three steps before changing my mind and doing a complete 360. I couldn’t help it.
True cheated by popping the corks off several vials of particularly fragrant mana. “We will start here,” he said, laughing at me as he waved the vials in the air.
Cripes, but what were they? They drew me like a siren’s call.
“It’s simply control.” Strix’s voice sounded so very far away. “Relax your eyes, Cassidy. The eyes are the window to the soul …”
The sound of his voice faded into gibberish as my vision altered, and I floated towards the heavenly scent. I didn’t want to eat it. I just wanted to dance with it.
“Mists,” True’s voice whispered. “Mists from the Valley of Shadows.”
I reached out, touching the mana floating around me. It was beautiful. Dark. Unusual. Positively gothic, perhaps. But there was beauty in its darkness. It fell over me like black velvet.
True uncorked more glass bottles as Strix’s voice droned in the background. Why did he bother talking? I wasn’t listening.
Or … was I?
Bits and pieces began to invade my consciousness.
Relax your throat.
Close your eyes, just a bit more.
Breathe.
It’s control, Cassidy. It’s all control.
Open your mind, but just a bit. Dial it back. There, now back again.
Reach out. Faster. Faster!
And then I felt Strix at my side, his hard fingers guiding my arms, making me move. Fast. Darting through the mana, dancing around it.
Somewhere in it all, I began to remember. I already knew this. It wasn’t new, secret knowledge for me. And with that realization, I began to take control, manipulating the mana around me.
The Nether Reaches called out. I could hear the mists. Singing. Sighing. I was close.
And then I experienced a surge of energy, and the mana in front of me shifted.
I saw a door. I r
eached for it.
Bam!
Everything vanished in a flash. The swirling mana. The joy of dancing. The familiarity. All of it.
When I opened my eyes, I stood in the Night Terror chamber with Strix by my side. He looked as exhausted as I suddenly felt.
“Took you longer to see the door than I thought it would,” he observed grimly, panting, his broad chest rising and falling as if he’d just run ten miles. “Why the resistance?”
“Resistance?” I grated, feeling strangely cold. Isolated. I graced Strix with a particularly dark scowl. “Maybe because you still want to toss me into prison?”
Distrust simmered in his blue eyes as he opened his mouth and began rattling off what sounded like a well-rehearsed Charmed version of the Miranda Rights. “Now that you can see the gates, there will be no more accidental openings on your part. Consciously or unconsciously. This includes in your sleep, if you’re under the influence, and even if you’re spelled. Should you open the gates at any point in the future, it will be viewed as an intentional act of aggression and—”
“You’ll slap me in prison,” I scoffed, finishing his sentence for him. “I know. I’m a criminal.” I jiggled my barcoded hand.
A muscle on his jaw ticked as he looked down at me.
I eyed him. He was a handsome guy. Stern, ascetic features, but striking ones. He reminded me of an elf from Lord of the Rings. And his intentions? They weren’t bad—toward anyone but me, and that thought rankled. “You know, Strix, it’s not fair to hate me just for existing,” I said in my defense.
He tensed. After a moment, a pained expression suffused his face. “I don’t hate you, Cassidy,” he said flatly. “It’s just that you’re … an endless skein of misfortune.”
“Yeah, well, never been called that before,” I retorted. “Is that a Nether Reach insult?”
He wasn’t done. “And you’re risky. An unknown.”
“If I’m an unknown, then why are you treating me like a known criminal?” I growled, spinning on my heel.
He caught me by the forearm and spun me back around again. “Be careful,” he cautioned.
Was that genuine concern in his eyes? A subtle softening of those granite-hard lips?
“Maybe you should be careful, Strix,” I retorted. “We can’t have you revealing a little humanity, can we?”
He expelled an exasperated breath, but I swore there was a momentary gleam of appreciative humor in his eyes. Heaven forbid, did he actually have a heart under there somewhere?
“Don’t go out alone at night.” He continued his strict warning. “The Fallen One is still here. It will hunt you down.”
“Why? What does it want?” I asked, but I regretted the question the moment it left my lips.
“It has something to deliver, does it not?” he queried tersely. “And then, no doubt, it seeks some form of payment. Be careful of the shadows.”
I suppose I should have told them then that the Fallen One had already delivered its power fragment, but the fact that it was hanging around, waiting to be reimbursed shocked me into silence. What was it expecting? And was it going to try to squeeze it out of me?
“Thanks for the warning, Strix,” I mumbled. Feeling exhausted, I turned away. It had to be long past the hour or two that True had promised Lucian. “I’m done for the day.”
“Yes, it is late,” True agreed. “Lucian waits for you above.”
“Great,” I said. I think. I might have just thought it.
I left then, feeling off-balance. All I wanted was a hot bath. I was too tired to even hunt for mana.
I don’t remember much of the journey back up the stairs. It seemed to take forever. I filed into the ranks of the chanting Night Terrors exiting their domain, each carrying a lantern and swathed in dark robes that flurried around their skinny legs. They floated up the steps, appearing weightless, up to the city above to wreak their nightly terror.
After what felt like a century—maybe more—the cold New York night air blasted my face, jolting my lashes apart. The smell of snow was in the air. I squinted at the dark sky above me. It was late. I stared at the inky darkness. There is beauty in the night, a seductive kind of pull. I’d never really taken the time to admire it before.
True was right. Lucian was waiting for me, lounging cross-armed against the black SUV.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, hopping into the backseat.
To my surprise, he slid in next to me. I didn’t think to ask why. I just took immediate advantage of his broad shoulder and leaned tiredly against it, allowing my eyes to close at last. I felt, more than heard, his deep voice rumble the order to the purple-lipped driver to head for home.
I looked tiredly out of the window. The last time I’d left the cemetery, Dorian had been chatting in my mind and calling me a glaistig.
I was going to have to look that up soon.
A Mystery to Unravel
I stretched and yawned, enjoying the softness underneath my tired muscles and the sun’s warmth on my face. I stayed there, soaking it in and flexing my toes in pure delight and feeling relaxed. Rested. A long, dreamless, restoring night. I hadn’t felt so incredibly comfortable in a very long time. But then my brain awoke and started wondering where I was and how I’d gotten there.
I lifted cautious lashes.
White leather couch. Gray shag carpet. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a bright New York City sky. Imp tiptoeing across the floor, dragging a black power cord towards the kitchen.
Yep, I was in my apartment.
Strange that I had no memory of crashing there. Judging by the late afternoon sun, I’d been out for some time. The last thing I could remember from the night before was sliding into the SUV and leaning my head against Lucian’s broad shoulder. Oh, and wondering about the word ‘glaistig’. I slid my palm along the soft leather couch, searching for my phone to finally look it up when a nasty, suspicious thought rose. I scowled. Had Lucian spelled me again? He must have. I couldn’t remember anything. What a pompous jerk. He and I were long overdue for our chat. I’d have to—wait a second.
An imp doing what? And with a power cord?
I sat up and, craning my neck towards the kitchen, promptly did a double take.
What the—?
A strange contraption met my astonished gaze, some kind of tunnel network comprised primarily of pillows and cushions propped up on a glossy black barstool I hadn’t known I owned. Some kind of pulley system was balanced at the top of the mound, driven by an eggbeater, to which my wayward puff of smoke was in the process of attaching tongs with the power cord.
The target?
The open freezer, spewing frost into the air.
Of course, I knew what he was after. The turmeric.
“For being one of the elite, fabled imps, you’re awfully short-sighted,” I judged, stomping into the kitchen.
Ricky didn’t even bother looking my way. “Afternoon, duck,” he murmured, patting the tongs and absentmindedly scratching behind his ears. “There. That’ll do. Tallyho!”
Yeah, he hadn’t heard me. Curious, I leaned back against the black countertop and watched him. “Why build all of this? Can’t you just dash in?” I asked.
He did look at me then, in complete and utter shock. “An imp? Touch ice?” He mouthed the last word entirely, as if giving it voice would bring misfortune upon his head.
I snorted and shook my head, amused. “Well, I owe you one,” I admitted, heaving off the counter. I reached over the cushions and fished the turmeric out of the freezer. “I know what you did for me, and I’m grateful.”
His eyes grew as round as saucers. As I slowly twisted the lids, his drooling mouth fell open in utter shock.
“All four?” he asked, shivering in anticipation from head to toe. His eyes rolled back in pure ecstasy. “I’ve never done four at once. It’ll be a stretch. A real—”
With his eyes rolled back, he didn’t see me dumping the turmeric into the sink, not until I began washing it all down the drain.
The huge draw of his breath sounded like a hurricane’s roar. “What are you doing?” He froze on the counter in complete shock.
Then he lunged. I barely caught him from slithering down the drain after the yellow goo.
This fight was far worse than the last. But I found a solution for the biting: oven mitts. The kitchen was proving handy after all. After a significant amount of caterwauling, screaming, and weeping—all on his side—I had him safely ensconced in the blender once again.
“This is owing me?” he screeched, staring up at me from the bottom of the glass carafe. With an almost feral gaze, he leveled a thin, accusing finger my way and cranked his voice up an octave. “Have you gone whole bat barmy ?”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, chill out. You’re an ungrateful little mutt,” I said. “I’m going to help you, and that means helping you detox—for good this time.”
He drew his lips back and, exposing tiny rows of sharp teeth, hissed at me.
I slammed a heavy pot on top the blender, sealing the lid shut, and then surveyed the mess he’d made. He’d tossed kitchen appliances everywhere. How had I slept through it all? Turning back to him, I lifted a menacing brow. “You’d better not try to escape,” I warned. I knew the blender was virtually useless as far as containment went. The only thing that could keep an imp restrained was his own bottle. And where elites were concerned, I didn’t know if the same rules even applied.
I needn’t have worried, though. Ricky proceeded to melt to the bottom and widen his eyes into that pitiful Puss ‘n Boots style. “Pleeeease,” he sobbed in a broken whisper.
“Not going to work on me,” I retorted, amused in spite of myself. “Now that you think about it, it makes sense that you’re an elite. The exceptionally gifted often get themselves into trouble because they’re bored, right? Probably what happened to you.”
He just focused on looking pitiful.
I started to clean up and, tossing the eggbeater into a random drawer, grabbed the tongs out of the freezer, jerking the bottom of its door to flip it shut. As it closed, I added, “Well, I’m upping your game, Mr. Fabled-Elite-Imp-Who-Can-Heal. You’re gonna to have to start pulling your weight around here and I’m gonna—”