by Faith Hunter
I breathed, calm just out of reach. The silence of the loft settled about me. I could hear the ticking of the black-pig clock over my shoulder, the sound becoming one with the stillness I sought. My heart rate slowed, decelerated to a methodical, slow pace. In mage-sight, my flesh was a roseate radiance lined with blood rushing through my veins and the bright, terrible tracery of scars down my legs and arms.
The loft pulsed with energy, a bower of neomage safety I had created in the humans’ world. Stones were everywhere, at the tub and bed and gas fireplaces, in every window and doorway, on the floor. Even on the wood beams overhead. My home glowed with pale energy, subtle, harmonious shades of lavender, green, rose, yellow, and bloodred. Mage-sight saw what humans couldn’t, the power beyond physical manifestations. Mage-sight saw the energy of creation in everything. Such power should have been protection enough to keep me safe from an incubus, but this particular beast had access to my blood, which gave it power over me. I shelved that worry, concentrating.
When I was centered and calm, I sent my senses scouring out, drawing power from every stone in the loft, pulling it into myself and my amulets, as I would before battle, in a slow, easy drawing of strength, not fast enough to interrupt the charmed circle, but enough to leach through and into me, like osmosis. As I drew it in, lavender energies misted out of the walls and floor, following the might I pulled from other stones. Startled, half disbelieving, I watched the mist as it moved for the first time in weeks.
As if scenting me, it coalesced into the shape of a cobra with glowing, dark blue eyes and a hint of yellow chatoyency, like blue tigereye stone. A pale hood expanded; its tongue tasted the air. My body tensed. Evil often took the form of a serpent, but this thing didn’t glow with the energies of Darkness. It glittered with the brilliance of Light. Yet even Light could be dangerous to a charmed circle. If it tried to pierce the conjure, its energies would combine with mine, a fusion of wild-magic, the kind formed nearly a hundred years ago in the time of the first neomages. The union of disparate energies would discharge into a destructive explosion and splatter me all over the loft. Fire and death everywhere. If it was real.
I blinked. The serpent was still there, coiled on the floor in front of the salt, looking at me, a twenty-foot-long, lavender-and-purple-banded cobra of might. I blinked off my mage-sight and it was still there, a physical beast, but like nothing in nature. I knew that if I touched it, I would feel a real body, sinuous muscle beneath cool scales.
With a slow, hypnotic sway, it inspected the circle, tongue forking out, tasting the energies of the incantation. I sat frozen in the center, having no idea how to stop it from doing whatever it wanted. The serpent was a manifestation of the culled energies of the amethyst sealed in metal ammunition boxes stored below, in the stockroom. Stone that was empty, last time I looked: stones that had been so totally drained that I thought they were dead.
The cobra opened its mouth, exposing white tissue, devoid of life and blood. Hinged fangs lowered from its palate. It was hungry. It wanted in. It swayed, asking, begging. No words were exchanged, but I knew what it wanted; to join with me again.
Again? My mind found the only incantation I could remember, the first small conjure taught to every neomage, a nursery rhyme, almost the first words we spoke, later used as a conjure to calm and prepare, when a mage was afraid. Softly, I said, “Stone and fire, water and air, blood and kin prevail. Wings and shield, dagger and sword, blood and kin prevail.”
It blinked once, hissed, and struck. I flinched, garbling the words of the verse. It pierced through the charmed circle, precisely, cleanly, without disrupting the incantation. There was no discharge of disruptive mage-power. No explosion. But now it was inside with me, writhing on the floor a foot away. Fear whispered through me, raising prickles on my flesh. I didn’t know what to do except continue the incantation, my voice ragged.
The cobra grew more vivid, more intense, more solid with the ancient words. Once an incantation begins, a mage has to see it through, finish the verse, reach the end, close the purpose of the intent. I was breathing hard. My chest ached. As a trickle of sweat slithered down my back, I whispered the verse again, and then stopped, the last syllable fading away.
The serpent’s hood swelled. I raised a hand as if to stop it, and it undulated, moving side to side, its eyes on me, its tongue tasting the air in front of my outstretched palm. “I hear,” it thought at me, hissing. I realized that in speaking an incantation meant to settle oneself before battle, to draw in energies for war against Darkness, I had called it, welcoming its power. And now I didn’t know what to do with it, how to control it, or how to banish it.
“No,” I said. “No.”
The serpent slipped back against the salt of the circle, its hood brushing the circle wall, which should have shattered the conjure but didn’t. “No,” I said again, my fear swelling, thickening, my hand raised against it. The snake glittered, a coruscation of light and might. The elemental mist of its essence rippled, scales shifting, widening. Becoming eyes. A lavender snake with a body of purple eyes.
I was swaying in time with it. I blinked. It blinked. Mesmerizing. Asking. Begging. “Take me. Use me. You made me yours. And I am lonely.”
“I didn’t,” I thought back.
“Yes. Yours.”
I faltered. And the serpent struck, fangs buried in my palm.
My heart stuttered. In a single instant the snake saturated every amulet on me and overflowed, sloughing off the stones, splashing into a puddle of eyes on the tile. The floor heated beneath my thighs. The puddle expanded, splashing wetly against the walls of the conjure, soaking my skirt. But it didn’t melt the salt, didn’t feel like water against my skin; it tingled like electricity, like power. I could hear a soft resonance of bells as it rose in the circle, purple eyes rising like a flood.
My breath was rough, hoarse, my heartbeat fast, an erratic drumming of fear. “No,” I whispered. It ignored me. A pressure like the deeps of the ocean pressed against me. I had never seen or heard of anything like this. The liquid eyes rose over my waist, up to my breasts. I needed to break the charmed circle, but if I did, what would happen to the energies gathered here? Would they explode? Burn? Kill half the town? Power shouldn’t be able to gather, shape itself, and act on its own. The purple liquid that wasn’t wet reached my chin, prickling, burning against my skin. I didn’t know what to do. And I was going to drown in the stuff, whatever it was. A laugh tickled in the back of my throat, hysterical giggles of fear.
“Don’t be afraid. I won’t let them harm you,” it promised.
The liquid energy eyes spilled over my lips and down my throat in a torrent. I gasped reflexively, and it flooded my lungs, pungent and sweet, suffocating me. It filled my sinuses, my ears, speeding to my stomach when I gagged and swallowed. My arms lifted, trying to swim, but the stuff was insubstantial, ethereal.
The energies, the eyes, sped into my bloodstream like cobra venom, reaching my heart in a rush. My heartbeat stuttered, a painful irregularity I could feel in my eyes and ears and throat, a heavy pressure in my chest. It swam into my bowels, filled my muscles and tendons, and moved deep into my bones and marrow. It electrified my nerves. Mouth open, no air to breathe, I was drowning. My vision telescoped into pinpoints of purple light. And was gone.
Chapter 4
I opened my eyes slowly, feeling the gummy texture of sleep in the corners. Turquoise glared in my field of vision. Slowly, it resolved itself into my kitchen floor. I was facedown on the tile, arms stretched out, my cold hands in salt. Eyes. I had been drowning in eyes. The purple snake was gone. The water-mist-eyes were gone.
I eased upright, supporting my weight on one hand. The circle was broken, my hands having dislodged the salt when I passed out. But there had been no explosion of wild energies, no fire, death, and destruction. The loft was unchanged, bed stripped, clothes hanging from the armoire doors. In mage-sight, I spotted one difference. There was a purple hue to every stone in the apartment. I l
ifted my amulets, seeing the same glow. It wasn’t overpowering; it was, in fact, so faint a stranger might not notice.
I looked at my hand. “Seraph stones,” I cursed under my breath. Normally, mage flesh has a pearly peach sheen, even to human eyes. Mine was now slightly darker, vaguely purple. I wasn’t sure what had happened, but it couldn’t be good.
Skirt bells jingling, I stood and found my breath and my balance, and looked down at myself. I was dry and clean, and the salt was still in an almost perfect circle, broken in two narrow places where my hands had swept through it. But the salt was pale lavender. “Habbiel’s pearly, scabrous, decayed, putrid toes!” I said, fury rising with each word.
“Thorn?” A knock sounded at the door.
“In a minute,” I shouted. He didn’t rap again, but he didn’t go away, either. I could almost hear him breathing on the other side of the wood.
Movements jerky, I swept up the salt and put it in a fresh plastic bag, not wanting to contaminate the salt in the original container. I marked the bag with a big black X, and below it, in smaller letters, wrote, DANGER. PURPLE STUFF.
I looked at myself again, and realized that the purple didn’t emanate strictly from my mage-flesh, but more from my scars; a pale, pulsing color where once had been pure, bleached-out white. I cursed so foully that I’d have been branded on both cheeks and forehead had a kirk elder heard.
“Thorn?” The voice was tentative, and I realized I was still shouting. I breathed deeply, pulling in the calm that had always been part of my home. The peace was still there, untainted by the lavender electricity I expected. I breathed several times, each breath slower than the last. When I felt like myself again, I looked down. The purple in my scars had faded to a barely perceptible glow. Even as I watched, it continued to dim. Whatever it was, it wasn’t long-lasting. Maybe the remaining energy in the amethyst had now expended itself. With a final breath, I took my thick leather cloak and laid it over my arm, positioning it so I could pull a blade if needed.
The bells on my skirt jingled as I opened the door, to find Rupert standing there alone, black hair pulled back, dressed in unrelieved navy. Around his neck was a primitive necklace I had designed, tiny white pearls and silver beads interspersed between seven large, faceted blue tigereye stones and slivered white shells, like long teeth: like fangs. I stared at the shells and blue tigereye, remembering the serpent’s eyes and wide-open mouth.
“Saints’ balls,” he breathed. “You look…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Rupert had never seen me dressed as a mage, my neomage attributes radiating. Some of my fury abated at the pure wonder in his gaze.
I had been hiding in the human world because I knew—I believed—that no human would allow me to live. Until recently I hadn’t even trusted my friends with my secret. Maybe I should have. Following his eyes, I looked down at my scarred knuckles. The tissue was white again, light spilling from them. “You ready?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He lifted a finger and traced the crisscrossed scars on my cheek. “You’re beautiful.” I felt a flush rise. I would never be beautiful, but the compliment was nice. “Suggestion?” When I shrugged, Rupert took the cloak and draped it across my shoulders, securing it. “Keep all this hidden, even your skin, until the right moment.”
“When will that be?”
“You’ll know. Anyone who can wear this in public? You’ll know.” He waved his hands over mine and said, “Make that go away till then too. Okay? All at once, when the time’s right, throw off the cloak with a flourish, like a bullfighter. And let your skin do this glow thing. It’ll stop them in their tracks.”
“Too bad you can’t do it for me. You have a better sense of the dramatic than I do.”
“No straight woman will ever have the style of a gay man, honeybunch,” he said smugly. “And if you can get some mage-clothes my size, I’ll start a new style that will take the human world by storm.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“If you two are finished with the mutual admiration society,” Audric’s voice came from the bottom of the stairs, “it’s time to go.”
Audric was not dressed for practice, but for war. A tight-fitting, black dobok was thickly padded against devil-spawn, his weapons secured in loops or fastened in place, his katana and wakizashi sheathed at his waist. Audric was a savage-chi and savage-blade master. A war ax was strapped across his back, the blade painted scarlet, feathers floating from the handle. Bombs dangled from a belt across his chest. Throwing blades were strapped in plain sight at wrists and calves. Smaller throwing weapons adorned his chest, hips, and upper thighs.
“Oh,” Rupert breathed. It sounded like ecstasy. “Even if I were straight, I’d turn gay at the sight of you.” I was pretty sure I moaned too. Nothing like a man in uniform.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked. Audric had not revealed to the town that he was a half-breed. “There’s no reason to.”
“I am bound to Raziel, winged-warrior who fights with the ArchSeraph Michael. I have been charged with your protection.” He bowed deeply, the formal obeisance of his training and heritage. I caught the sadness underlying his tone. Audric had never wanted to be bound to a seraph. He wasn’t happy with his status, would never be happy serving another, not even a being of Light who would call him to battle. “It is my duty and my honor to protect the licensed mage my master has honored with his presence.” When he raised upright, his sigil of office rested on his chest, and his skin was warm with the soft tones of the second-unforeseen. Not as bright as my own, but clearly displaying his half-neomage genes.
“Nice touch,” I said, uncertain. “But don’t risk it if you don’t have to.”
Audric laughed, the deep rumble echoing in the cold stairwell, his dark eyes hot with scorching brightness. “If the day is auspicious, the humans will attack and we will fight. Battle and glory call to me today,” he said with all the formality of his kind. His hands rested on his swords. “The blood of humans is sweet when they trespass against the seraph’s chosen.”
“Hey. Human being standing here,” Rupert said. “Enough of the blood and glory.”
“If they attack, stay to Thorn’s right,” Audric commanded. He slung a scarred battle cloak over his shoulders and dobok. Tapping his lightning-bolt pendant, he damped his skin. I touched my prime amulet, blanking my neomage attributes, and checked my walking-stick blade. Eighteen inches of mage-tempered steel showed before I re-sheathed it.
“Okay,” I said. “If you’re sure.”
When we reached the bottom of the stairs, Audric stepped into the uncertain light of the shop. From a chair in the waiting area of Thorn’s Gems, he lifted a dark bundle and gave it a shake. Yards of velvet slinked down with a whisper of sound, taking the shape of a cloak. He held it to Rupert. “I bought it for your birthday, but it seems appropriate for today.”
“Sweet seraph. It’s wonderful.” Rupert took the cloak, stroking the dark blue velvet, so fine it scattered the light. The lining was quilted scarlet silk. He shook the wrinkles from its folds, and tossed it over his shoulders. Assuming a rakish pose, he asked, “Well?”
“You look perfect,” I said. “It brings a blue sheen to your eyes, and makes your hair look even darker.” I’d have added it was lovely, except it wasn’t; it somehow carried a sense of menace. The cloth fell to the floor, making his shoulders look broader, his form threatening.
“And there’s this,” Audric said. From the counter, he lifted a cloth-wrapped object and extended it to Rupert. A leather-wrapped hilt with a dark blue stone set into the pommel protruded from the end. “It’s a bastard sword. It was specially made for you.”
At the sight of the ornate navy-and-burgundy, tooled-leather sheath, Rupert made a soft sound, not quite a moan, not quite a groan, but way more than a sigh. The timbre brought a smile to Audric’s face. “You’re slower than a mage or a half-breed,” he said, “but stronger. As your skills increase, that strength will make you a formidable opponent
, even for me. The hand-and-a-half-length hilt is perfect to capitalize on that strength.” Rupert pulled the blade from the sheath and set the leather to the side. Gripping the hilt in both hands, he swung the double-bladed, four-foot sword experimentally, getting the feel of its balance. “Don’t start a swing that you aren’t totally committed to, Rupert. It has its own weight. It won’t be easy to stop in battle.”
“Is it named?” he asked.
I stiffened at the question. Most sword masters—not sword owners, but masters—named their weapons, and that name often followed a blade from master to master. That name was part of the initiation rite when a savage-blade student was given his first battle-weapon. To a traditional swordsman, the blades he used were alive, with personalities and characters all their own. I had never named my own weapons, and had never been through the ceremony that officially marked a mage reaching adult-hood, thus I had never received my adult weapons. Maybe I would feel differently about them if I had, but to me they were tools, not toys or pets.
“No. Naming is your right, but only after you draw first blood in battle.” Audric handed him the sword sheath. “Strap it on beneath your cloak. Today, it’s for show. Most likely.” His voice was disappointed; there might not be fighting and bloodletting in the streets.
“What are we today? Her escorts?”
Audric’s mouth turned up, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Her champards.”
I closed my eyes. The title was a formal one, established by the first practitioners of savage-blade for the nonmage companions of a mage—champions and partners who followed into battle, fought the same war, and wrestled against a common enemy. Champards pledged themselves and their fortunes to one mage-leader. And died by her side. Cold scuttled up my spine on anxious feet. Rupert’s training in the arts of war had only begun when Audric came into his life. He wasn’t ready for his first battle blade. He was good, very good, but was years away from being skilled enough to fight in a real war. “I don’t want anyone to fight beside me. I never want anyone to die because of me,” I said.