Ice Cold Death

by Razevich, Alexes

The man behind the long black counter looked up as we walked in. He was around Dee’s age, late twenties, I guessed, tallish, with sandy-brown hair and bright green eyes. Honestly, was every magical man handsome beyond the bounds of normality?

  I glanced around the shop. Four green faux-leather and chrome chairs were pushed up against the street-side wall. Four thick black binders lay on a coffee table in front of the chairs. The beige walls had sheets of paper with drawings of available tattoos randomly Scotch-taped on them. The air had a slightly medicinal smell.

  The man—Gill, I assumed—grinned when he saw Dee and came around from behind the counter. The two men clasped hands and then drew each other into a tight bro hug.

  “Long time,” Gill said, turning Dee loose. “How’ve you been? How’s the ink holding up?”

  “I’ve been good, and you know your ink never fades or fails. How have you been?”

  “No complaints,” Gill said, and then eyed me, curiosity plain on his face.

  “This is Oona,” Dee said. “Oona, meet Gill—best tattoo artist in the western hemisphere.”

  Gill smiled. “You are too kind. Are you here for yourself or the lady today?”

  “For Oona. Something for protection from beasts of the Brume.”

  Gill’s eyes opened wide. I felt him simultaneously scanning me for something and worrying over what Dee had said. I felt him decide I was okay, or worthy, or whatever, and shift his concerns completely to the Brume.

  “Do you know what a klim is?” Dee asked him.

  Gil nodded and muttered, “Bad shit.”

  “Yeah,” Dee said. “There’s one here. Came through a rift between worlds. It’s got a thing for Oona.”

  Gil tugged at a lock of his hair that had fallen over his forehead. “You need to talk to The Gate. He’s in back.”

  I followed Dee through a hanging black curtain, past the chairs and massage-type tables for customers, past the small tables with tattoo guns at the ready and drawers full of inks, down a narrow hall to a small office. The door was open, and we walked in. The magic in the room roiled over me like floodwaters. I grabbed Dee’s arm to steady myself, and then let go—determined to find my balance myself.

  The office held an old, scarred wooden desk and chair, three small visitor chairs, and some large pillows on the floor. The walls were painted black and covered in glowing signs and runes. It was a stark contrast to the light, cheerful front workspace—and a little creepy.

  The Gate was nowhere to be seen.

  Dee settled into one of the chairs and nodded for me to take another. I lifted my eyebrows at him in question.

  “He’s here,” Dee said. “He likes to observe new people before he meets them. Wants to know if you sweat.”

  Which, now that I knew, I refused to do. There was a stubborn streak in me that rose up at the oddest times. Likely enough it was just another way of protecting myself, but it worked. I took a breath in, let it out, relaxed, and smiled at Dee. I let my gaze wander around the room again, trying to read the runes.

  I spotted one I recognized as a match to a tattoo on Dee’s arm. The sign for strength. I found earth and air nearby. As I watched, the runes slowly changed, morphing into something entirely different. Where the rune for water had been, now was the rune for life. I wondered if The Gate was trying to say something or just messing with me.

  A hidden door behind the desk opened and an older man who must have been drop-dead handsome in his youth—what was it with these magical men?—walked in. His hair was silver and grey, cut short on the sides but longish on top and worn swept back from his forehead. He was a bit stocky, but looked good in the black trousers, button-down gray shirt, and polished black Florsheims he wore. Hand him a briefcase and he easily could be pegged for a lawyer or senior executive in some large corporation.

  Dee rose to his feet and made a small bow. “Sir.”

  The Gate smiled broadly and threw open his arms. “Diego! How wonderful to see you.” The two men embraced, then broke apart. The Gate took the chair behind the desk. Then Dee sat back down.

  “The Gate was my mentor,” Dee said, his gaze on the man.

  My eyes widened. The man with the psychic niece. The one who might be able to tell me how to build a filter for myself.

  The older man laughed. “You know, usually a wizard of his level kills his mentor when he’s gotten all he can from him. The wizard kills the mentor and steals his magic. It’s sort of a Rite of Passage. Either Diego feels there is still more I can teach him, or he just hasn’t gotten around to dispatching me yet.”

  My gaze flickered from one to the other.

  “I’ll never know everything you have to teach,” Dee said quietly, and with clear affection in his voice. “I think you’re safe for a while more.”

  The Gate smiled, then turned his attention to me. I felt him examine me, searching my core, peering into my soul. My throat felt dry, my hands clammy. So much for my stubborn streak keeping me calm and strong. I forced myself not to turn away from his gaze.

  “Artist,” he said, as though having discovered something delightful. He broke his bond with me and rummaged in a desk drawer. He drew out a stubby Number Two pencil and a 5x7 pad of blank paper. He held both out to me. “Draw something.”

  “What kind of something?” I said.

  The Gate gave a wildly exaggerated shrug. “You choose.”

  Great. Dee seemed to think the tattoo was important and the man who would decide if I’d get one or not had just basically commanded me to draw. It was pretty clear that what I drew would influence his decision. No pressure.

  I took the pencil and pad and let my mind go blank. I closed my eyes and drew. When I opened my eyes, I saw I’d drawn a stylized eagle. I didn’t know where that had come from. I didn’t usually draw birds.

  The Gate clapped his hands, evidently pleased with what my subconscious had come up with. Dee, I noticed, glanced away.

  “What?” I said.

  The Gate wiggled his finger between us, indicating us both. “So, you two? Recently?”

  Dee shrugged. “Today. First time.”

  “Ah,” The Gate said. “That helps explain it. ‘Course it’s not just the sex she’s responding to. Things are a little deeper than that.”

  I felt my annoyance rising. These two were talking around me and I resented it.

  The Gate grinned. “The eagle is associated with Saint Juan Diego. Close enough on the name, don’t you think? The saint’s original Indian name, Cuauhtlatoatzin, meant white eagle, or eagle who speaks. This drawing will be your mark. The eagle will always be with you and will provide strength when you need it. Gil will put sunrays behind it, in honor to masculine power. Don’t worry. It will be small and discrete.”

  I looked at Dee and shrugged. I liked the drawing. I even liked the idea of it.

  The Gate turned his attention to him. “She is your protector, you know.” The older man grinned again. He was having an awful lot of fun.

  “So,” The Gate said to Dee, “a new tattoo for you as well, Diego. What shall it be, to seal your connection with this fierce lamb?” He tapped his index finger against his chin while he thought.

  “Got it,” he said. “For you, the numeral one, for Oona, and the moon, for her feminine power and grace.”

  He turned his sights on me. “Draw,” he said, as though it were an invitation, not a command.

  I didn’t want to do it. Didn’t want to permanently stick Dee with some sketch of mine on his skin. But he leaned forward, interested to see what I’d come up with.

  Dee’s skin was so busy with signs and symbols, I wanted to give him something simple and clean. I drew a numeral 1 embraced by a crescent moon.

  “Sweet,” he said.

  The Gate stood, and Dee immediately came to his feet as well. I stood, too. It seemed the thing to do.

  “Gil will take care of you,” The Gate said.

  He turned as if to leave, but I said, “Excuse me. Can I ask a question?”


  The Gate turned back and locked his eyes on mine.

  My throat felt dry. I cleared it and said, “Diego told me your niece is a psychic. That she found a way to build a defense around herself so that the wants and needs of everyone around her didn’t prick at her constantly.”

  The Gate raised his eyebrows slightly but didn’t break his tight gaze on me.

  “Do you know how she did it? Could you tell me?”

  The desperation in my voice was pitiful. I watched him, my heart beating, waiting for his reply.

  His gaze never wavered.

  “No,” he said.

  My heart sank.

  He turned again, pulled open the disguised door and vanished behind it.

  I stared after him and forced back the whimper that rose in my throat.

  Dee tapped me with his elbow. “That’s just the way he is.”

  A fact that offered absolutely no comfort.

  “Does he ever change his mind?”

  He shook his head. “Never. But, you asked two questions. His no could have been directed at both or only one of them. And there’s always the chance that yes is the answer to a slightly different question.”

  I shook out my hands, like shaking off water, trying to drive away my nerves and frustrations. It sort of worked.

  “He was your teacher?” I said.

  Dee nodded. “My father sent me to him when I was sixteen. Gil had come six months earlier. We were his only two apprentices until I left when I turned twenty-one.”

  “Did he make you nuts?”

  Dee laughed once. “Oh, yeah.”

  “But you respect him.”

  Dee shrugged. “That, too.” He nudged me again. “Come on. Let’s go see Gil.”

  An hour later, we walked out of the shop, each with a fresh piece of plastic wrap over our new tattoos. The process hadn’t hurt as much as I’d feared it would. The Gate intoning over me while Gil inked the stylized eagle within a sunburst on my upper arm helped take my mind off the reality of the needle.

  It was both weird and weirdly moving. Another weird thing was that as the eagle was going on, I felt a growing physical connection to Dee, binding us together.

  When Gil finished with me, I watched my drawing be transferred onto Dee. One good thing about being psychic, you never have to guess whether someone is really pleased or simply being polite. Dee was truly pleased with the design.

  By the time we left, the sun was sinking toward the sea, the sky aflame with streaks of pink, purple, yellow, and blue—and we were suddenly and completely spent.

  Over dinner at his house, I had to ask, “Maurice and The Gate seemed awfully interested in our sex life.”

  Dee blanched slightly and glanced down at the tabletop. He looked up again. “In magic, sex is pretty important. It’s a source of power. The more sex a wizard has, the more recent the sex, the more powerful they are.”

  I stared at him. “I gather you’re pretty a powerful wizard.”

  Dee shrugged. I could see how uncomfortable he was.

  “So …” I let the question hang in the air.

  The walls and ceiling suddenly seemed to fascinate him, judging by how his gaze slid over them.

  “Yeah,” he said, still not looking at me. “Lots of experience. Lots of partners.”

  Not news I wanted to hear, but not all that surprising either.

  “Condoms?” Because when you have sex with someone, you’re basically having sex with everyone they’ve ever been with and whatever little surprises might have been left behind, unless protection was used.

  He turned his gaze back to me. “Not necessary because—magic.”

  “Seriously?”

  “The ultimate in safe sex,” he said. “Magic folk hardly ever catch colds or get the flu, either. We don’t get serious diseases or dotty in our old age. Well, in The Gate’s case, maybe a little dotty.”

  My mother had magical patients but, thinking back, not one came in because of illness, only for injuries. My own ancestors, from Audrey on, had lived long, healthy lives. I’d put it down to luck and good genes.

  “Okay,” I said, not at all sure how I felt about his history or the whole sex generating magical power thing. Was it me Dee made love to—Oona Goodlight, person—or miscellaneous female, power generator? I was tempted to slip into his thoughts and find out.

  I settled for the look on his face and his evident hesitancy to discuss the subject. I chose to believe he wasn’t a jerk. We all came with the past we’d lived. All that mattered was how we lived going forward.

  When we finished eating Dee picked up the dishes and washed them. I dried. I would have been willing to bet that his dishwasher had never been used. Mine served as an extra cupboard—stacking in the dishes until there were enough to run a load and pulling clean dishes out as I needed them until the dishwasher was empty. Then the cycle started over.

  For dessert, we made love slowly, neither of us up for the mad passions of our first time. I was sure now it was me he made love to. No man wanting a quick jolt of power and nothing more could fake that kind of tender exploration. After, I fell into the sort of sleep that only comes from deep contentment. Evidently Dee wasn’t the only one who could compartmentalize life’s contradictory facets.

  19

  I woke with a start, drenched in sweat and breathing hard. I sat up in Dee’s bed and stared into the darkness.

  He set his hand on my back. “What’s wrong?”

  I rubbed the side of my face and tried to steady my breath. “I had a terrible dream about Jeremy Collins. He wanted to be with his family. He thought I was keeping him from them.”

  Dee sat up next to me.

  “Christ, Dee. Is it always like this for you—beasts from the Brume inciting murder and dreams of dead stockbrokers demanding their families? Is your life spent being chased by evil while trying to beat back death and sorrow? Because I can’t take a lot of this.”

  He put his arm over my shoulders and tried to draw me close to him. I shrugged his arm away and sat straight.

  “I told you before,” he said, “it’s never been like this. But it is this way now. We have work to do and getting upset up over the horrible things that have happened doesn’t get us any closer to getting it done.” His voice dropped low. “If you want, I’ll take you home right now, set up wards that I’m sure no one and nothing can get through, and you can just ride it out until you’re safe again.”

  I glared at him. “That’s what you think? That I want to go home and hide while you do the dirty work? If that were the case, I’d have said, ‘Let’s turn this whole thing over to the Magic Police and be done with it.’ But I didn’t say that, did I?”

  He smiled. “Nope.” He laid his arm around my shoulders again and this time I didn’t pull away.

  “I’m in,” I said. “But when this is over, I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  I sidled out of his arms and off the bed. I put my hands on my hips and stretched the tension-stiffened muscles in my back. “It’ll be dawn soon. We still need a plan for catching the klim and sending it back”

  “That part’s easy. I have an elegant spell that will send it back to the Brume. I’ll teach it to you. Two voices are stronger than one, especially in this case.”

  He drew in a deep breath and I knew something else was coming.

  “The hard part,” he said, “is that the klim has to be close enough to hear the words, and for one, or both of us, to pour an elixir on its skin.”

  “Getting within shouting distance isn’t close enough?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “But neither of us have to actually touch it. Close enough to wet it with the elixir will do fine.”

  “Small favors,” I said, making light while my stomach tightened. “So, the klim goes back to the Brume. Then what?”

  “We follow it in and stitch up the rift the klim came through, using the spell Sudie found and the healing orb.”

  Dee had this habit of making things sound like they were
going to be a lot easier than I knew they’d turn out to be.

  I dry-ran some possible scenarios in my head.

  “We can’t confront the klim in public,” I said. “Even if it looks human, we can’t be spouting enchantments and throwing elixir at someone in front of a bunch of people. And what happens when people see this ‘person’ disappear as the klim is returned to the Brume?”

  “Do you have an alternative?” he said.

  I pressed my lips together. I had one, but I didn’t like it.

  “We have to get the klim into a private space,” I said. “Somewhere we can be sure no passing person will wander in.”

  Dee sat up on the edge of the bed, leaned forward and tucked his hands between his knees. “Where?”

  I scratched my neck. “Your house. Or mine.”

  I felt his abhorrence of the idea of having the klim in his house. His emotion wasn’t anywhere close to the strength of mine, though. I loved my home. The Goodlight House. It was my castle and my sanctuary. A very private sanctuary. The idea of drawing the klim inside it made me sick.

  Dee sat very still for a long moment. I could practically see the gears turning in his head as he looked for an alternative. I watched the shift on his face when he realized there wasn’t one.

  * * *

  Wednesday morning, we sat in front of my house on the short concrete wall that separated the sand from the Strand. Dee looked calm and happy. The weather was cool. He wore tan cargo pants and a light jacket over his T-shirt.

  I had on a pair of his cargo pants—for the pockets, and my favorite shirt—for luck, a gray hoodie, and hiking boots. I tried to get that ‘great autumn day at the beach’ look going on my face but wasn’t succeeding too well. My guts were churning. My hand kept straying to where, under my shirt and hoodie, the new tattoo on my upper arm seemed to tingle. My gaze strayed to where I knew the new one Dee wore lay hidden under his shirt. Magic, I trusted, would protect us from the klim and anything we’d run into in the Brume.

  But when I said as much to Dee, he said, “The ink offers some protection, but it’s not a repellent. Don’t count on mere magic to keep you safe.”