“I love you,” Gavriel said.
A smile spread across the nymph’s face, a genuine smile.
“I can sense it. It has been … a long time. Do you offer yourself to me, and my tree?”
“Yes,” Gavriel said. “Whatever you want, it is yours.”
The nymph removed Gavriel’s robes. Hands that felt like sunlight and silk stroked his skin and lowered him to the ground. Sylia’s lips touched him everywhere, music made into kisses, and wherever they touched became the entire universe to him; the rest of his body seemed nothing more than mist. Then, Sylia lay on top of him, stared into his eyes, still smiling that knowing, promising smile. And warmth enveloped him.
She moved on top of Gavriel, her body rolling along his like a wave, over and over. His tongue eagerly sought out Sylia’s, trying to lap up more of whatever magic was in her kiss. Gavriel felt something pouring, or perhaps sliding, back down his throat, into his chest. He began to panic, to gag; but Sylia held him tight, and soft reassurance touched his mind, washed away any fears.
Gavriel felt the magical energy being drawn from his locus into Sylia. Payment. No, an offering. Then, euphoria: transcendent, soul-shattering pleasure. It pulsed through him stronger and deeper than the greatest physical sensation, causing his legs to shake convulsively, his stomach to spasm rhythmically, his mind to lose consciousness yet remain aware, over and over. And it did not end. Gavriel wanted to scream his pleasure, to laugh and cry, to tear himself open and pull Sylia wholly inside himself.
Their two bodies joined by Sylia’s kiss, it felt as though their spirits swirled together like liquid sunshine stirred into warm honey.
Gavriel became one with Sylia.
Gavriel was eternal.
Eternal thirst, eternal yearning toward warmth, eternal need.
Long were the ages since he’d felt the presence of another tree spirit, his sapling planted here by the arcana to serve their purposes. Long and lonely were the seasons without the touch of a human soul. Gavriel marked time as a tree marks time, in languid seasons, in years of plentiful rain and years of dryness, in years heavy with the fear of lightning fires, or free of the bitterness of ice. Gavriel slept, and waited, and yearned for another spirit to come and join his.
Suddenly, terribly, the ecstasy ended. The kiss broke, the joining dissolved, whatever had entered him pulled out at the same time as Sylia slid off of him. Then they lay together, entangled, and Gavriel fell asleep, his body trembling with exhaustion and the afterglow of the experience.
Somebody shook him awake.
Father, his face like a stone mask. Geoffrey stood beside him, smirking, and the rest of the men stood on the trail behind them.
“What happened?” Father demanded. “Where is she?”
Gavriel bolted upright, panic rising in his chest. “She’s gone? Where? Why? I need her! I love her!”
A brief moment of silence, then several men burst out laughing. “He drank your potion, Don. The fool’s in love with the nymph.”
Someone else said, “She’s taken what she needs to start a new sapling and fled.”
“We could go to the nymph up in the Moss Cathedral,” Mills suggested.
“That sounds exhausting,” Crawford said. “I’m heading back to the lodge.”
Mr. Flowers slapped Father on the back. “I’ll whip up a cure for the boy, Don. But I have to say, this initiation will certainly be one that is remembered.”
More chuckles as the other men left.
Father’s face turned bright red, a vein pulsing visibly on his temple. Even through Gavriel’s concern for Sylia, he felt a deeper fear.
Geoffrey said, “Don’t worry, Father. I’ll bring that tree bitch back here. If she’s taken some of Gavriel’s energy, she’ll be easy to sense.”
“Do that,” Father said. “And bring her back alive. Mills, go with him.”
Mr. Mills looked annoyed, but nodded, and he and Geoffrey marched off into the night. The rest of the men headed back in the direction of the clearing, and the lodge.
“You have embarrassed me, boy,” Father said. “And shamed the Gramaraye name. You let a beastblood make a fool of you, to use you. I will teach you the cost of that. And when your brother returns with that creature, you will take back everything she took from you, and more.”
The tingle of magic being worked, and then Gavriel’s entire spirit exploded in pain every bit equal to the pleasure that Sylia had given him. His nervous system burned.
The pain felt like it lasted an eternity before Gavriel became aware of someone shouting, “Don! Damn it, you need to listen!”
The pain stopped, and Gavriel flopped on the ground, drenched in sweat, his muscles on fire from clenching so tightly.
“What!” Father demanded.
“It’s Geoffrey,” Mr. Mills said. “He cornered the nymph, and she … she fought back. You need to come quick.”
“What are you talking about?” Father demanded.
“Your son, he’s been impaled. There’s nothing I could do for him. You need—”
Father ran off into the night.
Gavriel lay on the moss, sobbing, afraid of what Father would do to his beloved, his Sylia. And Gavriel felt betrayed by her. She had abandoned him, and mortally injured his brother. She must have good reason, Gavriel knew, but he could still feel that sense of betrayal settling deep into his bones. Betrayal, and the horrible feeling that Gavriel had not been worthy of her love.
And somewhere, beneath the haze of his concern for Sylia, Gavriel howled for the loss of his brother, and trembled at the thought of the punishments to come.
38
KILLING IN THE NAME OF
“Finn,” Alynon’s voice interrupted the flow of memory.
What? Are you okay? Our barriers continued to hold off Grandfather’s attempts at exorcising Alynon, and if anything the attempts were getting weaker.
*La. But these memories, they are becoming part of me. And I truly do not wish them a part of me.*
I’m sorry, Aly. But if there’s any chance these can help us stop him, help us save your Realm, we have to try.
Silence. Then, *I had better get a damned ballad for this.*
The memories swept over us once more.
* * *
I—Gavriel, my mind adjusted—came down the stairs to find his wife Gwendolyn stepping back inside from the front porch, dressed as if to leave the house, with hat and shawl.
Irritation flared, and Gavriel said, “If this is your way of pressuring me to go to the dance tonight at Foster’s, I don’t appreciate it.” Gavriel continued past her, heading for the hallway. In the five years since Father had died, it had been a constant challenge to keep the necromancy business successful, leaving little time for pointless dances with mundies where there would be few if any arcana customers.
“You appreciate very little, Gavriel, least of all me.”
Gavriel stopped at her tone, and turned back.
“Excuse me?” he asked.
“You heard me.”
“I did nothing but brag about you last night at bridge.”
“Because it makes you look good to have a wife who won a Good Gardens award,” she said. “And it gave you an excuse to mention the damn business again.”
“This damn business is what paid for your garden, dear. And that lovely outfit you are wearing.”
She laughed. “Pennies compared to the four hundred and fifty dollars you paid for that fancy car of yours, and it just sits there collecting dust. We never go anywhere.”
“Four hundred and thirty-five, and that car was an investment. You have to look successful to be successful. Half this nation is out of work, the other half starving. Would you rather we were living in one of those so-called Hoovervilles?”
“I would rather be happy,” Gwendolyn said. “Which is why I am leaving you. This is good-bye.” She took a half step back and flinched slightly as if Gavriel might strike at her, though she did her best to hide it.
; That irritated him even more.
“And where will you go?” Gavriel asked in as dismissive a tone as he could muster.
“I—I have fallen in love with someone else.”
Gavriel stared at her, as the sound of rushing blood filled his ears. “Who?” His mind raced over the possibilities, but he could think of no arcana in town who he would believe her attracted to, or at least none that would so betray him.
“She’s a euterpe.” At least she had the decency to show a modicum of embarrassment as she said it. Or was that simply anticipation of his reaction?
Gavriel stared, heat flushing up his neck now. His brain locked up in a battle for which of those words to be more upset about. “She?” he exploded finally, taking the offenses in order.
Gwendolyn sighed. “For someone who complains about mundies, you have always been quick to take on their prejudices.”
Gavriel dismissed that with a wave. “A muse? Merlin’s balls, Gwen, a gods damned feyblood?”
“She makes me happy, Gavriel. We are going to Olympia, to take advantage of the Arts grants being offered.”
“Do you realize what this will look like?” Gavriel shouted. “The damage this will do?”
Gwendolyn shook her head, and gave a sigh. “Thank you for making this easier.”
“I—I won’t let you go.”
“Do you really think you can stop me?” Gwendolyn said, standing a little straighter.
Gavriel opened his mouth to laugh, then stopped. Gwendolyn was a strong necromancer. That was one of the main reasons he had married her, to strengthen the business and bear children guaranteed to continue the family traditions. She had been a complete disappointment on the children front. But Gavriel had never really considered what would happen in a fight between them. Not in a clash of powers.
“Bah, go,” he said. “But when your beastblood bitch turns on you, don’t come running back here.”
“Oh, I won’t.” She turned to go, but stopped in the doorway, and looked back. “By the way, you may need to hire a new ‘assistant.’ I’m afraid you’ve gotten Camila pregnant.” Then she left.
* * *
Gavriel sat in the library in the throne-like armchair once favored by his father, facing a row of three men and one woman.
Katherine Verona stood, setting her ever-present knitting back into her handbag. “I’ve heard enough. I appreciate your ambition, and your concerns, Gavriel, but you are headed down a dangerous path, and I wish no part of it.”
Gavriel stood, as did the other men. Out of proper decorum, not from any intent to try and stop her. He would not have been surprised if she could overpower all four of them if it came to that.
“Katherine,” he said. “You yourself have already proposed formalizing a new kind of ruling council. Surely this is not so different.”
“It is very different,” Verona replied. “And you should think on why that is. When you have the answer, maybe you’ll understand the folly of this crusade of yours.”
“I trust I have your discretion on this matter, at least?” Gavriel asked.
Verona stood silent a minute, then said, “I won’t destroy your reputation based on parlor talk, Gav. But I urge you to reconsider. Should your plans come to threaten the peace we are trying to build, I fear for the outcome.”
“Thank you,” he replied.
Verona shook her head and gave an exasperated sigh, then left.
Gavriel and the other men retook their seats.
“If we are committed then,” he said to them, “we must recruit. We current Arcanites shall remain the leadership, but we need an army of true arcana followers. Many of the arcana here in town will join us, I feel certain. But we should start only with the pure arcana to form the core of our movement.”
“Not all arcana are as pure as others,” the portly man in the center muttered over his drink. The other two looked uncomfortable at the statement.
Gavriel slowly steepled his fingers. “And what might you mean by that?”
“It is one thing to get your ‘assistant’ in an unfortunate way, understandable even when your wife has proven to be … lacking, but to marry her, a Mexican Sorceress? Do you know the kinds of rituals—”
“Chadwick,” Gavriel said, making his voice as cold as the corpses in his necrotorium downstairs. “I advise you to pick your next words with care, and RESPECT!” He slapped the arm of his chair.
Chadwick raised an eyebrow, but said, “Of course. Apologies, Gavriel. Clearly it is more than a matter of convenience or decorum for you, my mistake.”
Gavriel leaned back. “Apology accepted. And you were not mistaken. Marrying Camila was, in fact, a matter of convenience and decorum. But to be concerned about the, shall we say, quality of any pure arcana based on gender or even race is the last thing we should be doing in such a critical time, when we have arcana breeding with mundanes, or worse, gods-be-damned feybloods.”
The other men murmured agreement.
“Good,” Gavriel said. “I think we know what must be done. I suggest we each form proposals for realizing our mission, and we will discuss them at the next lodge meeting.”
The men understood a dismissal when they heard one, and made their good-byes, then left.
As Gavriel stepped out into the hallway, he found Camila there, crying. She tried to hide it, turned quickly away and rubbed at her face.
Gavriel sighed, feeling annoyed as he foresaw the long minutes he would now have to spend soothing her feelings, when he had so much work to do, and when he had already explained to her why he had to say such things about marrying her. Reputation and respect were everything.
“I love you,” he said. She started to cry again. Gavriel threw up his hands and turned to march away, but stopped.
Her crying hurt him, damn it.
He turned back, and pulled her into a hug. “I’m sorry. I really do love you, sweet Camila. If you forgive me, I promise not to say such things again.”
* * *
The battle at Fort Worden was not going well. Gavriel could tell. Everyone could tell. The Fey were winning, chasing the arcana down, wiping them out. Gavriel stumbled across the rain-damp grass to the edge of the woods, where one of the Knights Arcana rallied survivors for another attempt to contain the Fey here, and not let them spread into town.
“Come on, Katherine, damn it,” Gavriel muttered. Whatever her grand plan was to close the breaches between worlds and stop the Fey, it had better be damned good, and come damn soon.
Maybe if she had listened to him in the library—gods, what was it, almost ten years already? If she had listened about the need to eliminate the Fey and feyblood threat, maybe they wouldn’t be in this mess today.
As he reached the group, his heart clenched.
“Camila!” he shouted, striding over to her. “What are you doing here? The children need—”
“Our children are at the post office with the others,” she said in her still-thick Mexican accent. “I was needed here.”
“I don’t want you—”
Someone at the other end of the group shouted in alarm, and suddenly a wave of enemy feybloods crashed out of the woods and into the arcana. The screams of the dying filled the night.
“Camila, run!” Gavriel shouted, then rushed around the back of the group toward the nearest fallen. If they were alive, he could give them a boost of life energy to get them back into the fight. And if they were dead, he needed to extract any magical energy left in them before the Fey reclaimed it. Wizards, thaumaturges, and sorcerers could do little good if they ran out of magic.
Before he reached the dead body, a faint shimmering form lifted off of one of the berserking minotaurs and flew down into it.
The body twitched, then rose to its feet in front of Gavriel. Chadwick, one of his most trustworthy Arcanite partners and friends. Even from here, Gavriel could smell the stench of released bowels.
A Fey had taken possession in that brief window between when the human soul had departe
d, and the body shut down beyond reviving.
Chadwick turned toward him, and smiled, pupils slightly hazy like trying to see the night sky through the halo of a streetlamp.
Gavriel extended his arcana senses, tried to find something within Chadwick’s body to grab on to, something he could use to incapacitate the body long enough to strike this changeling down somehow. But Chadwick’s human spirit had departed, and necromancy did not work on Fey spirits—because the bastards weren’t spirits, they were abominations.
Gavriel would need to touch him, try to work directly with the body’s nervous system. And somehow do so without getting beaten down in the process by a man already twice his weight and now possessed with the strength and speed of a Fey spirit.
Easy as stealing the Maltese Falcon from the Invisible Man.
A scream behind him froze his blood. Gavriel whipped around, and saw the Knight Arcana stab his long sword through Camila’s heart.
“NOoo!” he shouted, the sound tearing at his throat.
The knight looked toward him with eyes that had the same hazy glow as Chadwick’s.
“Camila!” Gavriel ran toward her as the knight slid his sword free. Camila slumped to the ground.
Gavriel had no better way to stop this Fey than the last, and this one held a sword. But he charged toward the changeling knight screaming in fury regardless.
A sudden flash lit up the night sky. The two Fey-possessed bodies fell to their knees, clutching at their heads. Gavriel’s momentum carried him to the knight. He blinked against the spots in his vision, and managed to wrestle the sword free from the distracted changeling.
With a shout, Gavriel chopped at the Fey bastard’s neck like at a log of firewood.
The sword cut deep, but not completely through, and as the knight twisted away and fell, the sword wrenched out of Gavriel’s hand.
Gavriel fell to his knees beside Camila, pressed a hand to her wound, felt for her spirit.
She was gone.
Her beautiful brown eyes stared up at him, seeing nothing.
Smells Like Finn Spirit Page 41