by Faith Hunter
“I don’t think it can wait.”
“We got your message,” Joseph Barefoot said, finishing off a beef jerky stick. “Brought enough weapons to wage a small war. Not what we’d have with some notice, but a bit. What’s this your champard said about a succubus queen?”
I told the men about the queen who had given birth to the succubi, the voluptuous killers from the battle, and they listened with keen intent while eating and drinking water from plastic bottles. When I told them the new succubi were possibly fertile, capable of birth, and that thousands of succubus eggs might be ready to hatch, they moved uneasily.
“And how do you know this?” Durbarge asked, his droopy eye deceptively sleepy-looking in his scarred face.
This was the tricky part. Durbarge was contractually bound to assist me in my duties and in fighting Darkness, but he could also arrest me if I overstepped my bounds. As a licensed mage I could operate among humans, but having conversations with minions of Darkness wasn’t exactly part of my rights. “The queen, uh, tried to attack me last night. And I, well, I kinda, accidentally, bound it to me.” The men’s expressions were comical.
“You bound a Darkness to you,” Durbarge said tonelessly.
“Seems like it,” I said, glad I was hiding behind my cloak so the assey couldn’t see me fidget. “I thought it was human, possessed by a demon. I was going for exorcism, but it turned out to be a partially transmogrified Darkness. It’s bound to me. I’m guessing its master will undo the binding when it gets free.”
“Free? You left it alive?” Durbarge asked. Maybe I should have taken the fifth then, but I didn’t, though it was a crime to leave a Darkness breathing.
“Yes,” I said, and watched as he processed the information. He didn’t go for his sigil to arrest me or his gun to shoot me. So far so good.
“So. You called a succubus—a succubus queen, as you call it—captured it, and bound it, all without the help of the AAS. Where is this succubus queen?”
I suppressed a flare of anger at his tone. He was right. It had been stupid, even if I hadn’t planned it that way. “In my loft. Duct-taped to a chair in a conjuring circle. I was afraid that if I killed it, its master would know. If I can get to the nest before it gets loose, I can do a lot of damage. And if we get there before nightfall, we can surprise its master.”
Durbarge sighed, rubbed his hand across his head, and slid the tip of a finger under the band that held his patch in place. Before he could decide what he was going to do about me, I added, “I learned the name of the Major Darkness on the Trine too.”
“That thing that tried to take you in the street battle?” Thadd asked.
I remembered my horror and the pain of being held in its claws. “Yes. It’s Forcas. Not its seraphic name, I know, but it gives us at least some power over it.”
“And this can’t wait until I can get reinforcements in?” Durbarge asked.
“Train is out until spring thaw.”
“I can get troops in on military transports,” he said. “Take two days, three at most.”
“I don’t know how much time we have,” I said, shrugging, my cloak moving with the motion and catching the cold breeze. “She said the larvae would hatch at dawn. I’m guessing it’s easier to kill eggs than larvae, and I know for a fact my circle can’t hold the queen for long. She’ll be free sooner rather than later.” Their faces were indecisive, mutinous, or irritated, and I knew I couldn’t wait on them.
Unable to conceal the anger in my tone, I said, “You guys decide what you want to do. There’s water for the horses.” I pointed to a runnel near Homer. “I’ll be on the Trine.” I jumped from the boulder, tightened Homer’s saddle girth, and climbed a branch to remount. With a leap that threw my cloak flying, I was astride the Friesian and heading up the mountain. I tamped down my irritation as the men argued behind me. They would come or they wouldn’t. Nothing I could do about it either way. Men.
As I rode, I studied the triple peaks. The entrance to the lair of Darkness was on the left peak, near the top. I wanted to reach the mouth of Forcas’ domain way before nightfall, and with the ice pack gone and bare ground most of the way, that was possible. But I was, maybe, back to doing it alone. Just ducky.
Barak settled against his feathers, staring at the dark rock roof of his prison cell, his mouth turned up in satisfaction. It had been long and long since he had felt the presence of a kylen. But the near-breed was close and armed. He traveled with a mage, both of them prepared for war. It would not be long now. Zadkiel wanted him to bring the Light into the cavern, and chaos and war. Zadkiel wanted many things. Barak would settle for freedom.
In the corridor beyond the bars, he heard a soft soughing, smelled the mingled scents of Light and Darkness, of flowers and spring wind and freshening rain blended with the stenches of rotting meat and old blood, mold, stagnant water, and an overlay of brimstone. The smells had tantalized and beckoned to him, pulling him to the bars, once close enough to burn his face on the demon-iron. He had first noted the slight smells several hours ago, as time was counted here, and they had grown, the scents peaking some hours past. But they had weakened, and whatever had emitted the odors was gone.
Two hours before nightfall, I reached the hellhole, the smell of brimstone and dead things blowing across me, the entrance glowing a dull yellow and red in mage-sight. The men had finally made their decision and were only a few hundred yards behind, their mounts lathered, their faces inscrutable. No one looked happy to be there, not that I was dancing a jig myself. If someone—if Lolo—had sent me instructions on how to use the blasted visa I might not need to be here, at least not without seraphic support.
I dismounted and tethered Homer to the trunk of a long-dead tree, removed his saddle and the bit, and poured him more food. When he looked settled, I threw a shield of protection over him. He had drank deeply only minutes before, and water would be plentiful come morning as sunlight melted the snow. When he got thirsty he could pull the tether loose, pop through the shield of protection, and get to a runnel. Eventually, the Friesian could make his way down the mountain. That was assuming I didn’t get out alive.
Before the men reached me, I drank a liter of water, found a secluded place to relieve myself, and scuffed a conjuring circle in the hard ground just below the lip of the hellhole. Sitting on a rock, I closed my eyes, and prepared for battle. I had been to war. I knew how it was done.
I was pretty sure I had sat on this exact rock to prepare myself the last time I came here, except it was in a different place and turned on its side. Melting snow had changed the face of the entrance, moving boulders downhill, cutting runnels in the dirt, carving out a ledge just below the opening to the lair.
Mage-sight open, I closed the circle, and the stench of evil intensified. The peak glowed the ailing greenish-yellow of snow, overlaid with the red and black of Darkness. Swallowing down the nausea of fear, I began to chant. “Stone and fire, water and air, blood and kin prevail. Wings and shield, dagger and sword, blood and kin prevail.” Calm descended, as soft and gentle as seraph down. I chanted the litany created by the earliest neomages, a nursery rhyme chant that had followed us down through the decades. Breathing, feeling my heart beat, my blood pulse, I centered myself, preparing for death, as all warrior mages must.
The stone beneath my thighs warmed, offering its strength to me. The stones I carried in pockets and my amulets soaked up the strength of the mountain as the sun fell toward the western hills and the stink of old death grew. Nothing came from the deeps to hunt. Nothing disturbed me, not even the men. When half an hour had passed, and I was calm and centered, I opened my eyes, stretched out a finger, and broke the circle.
The men stood or sat on stones in a loose circle around me, watching. I could guess that none of them had ever seen a mage prepare for battle. Humans prepare for war differently from mages. Humans expect to win. Humans plan to survive, with thoughts and plans for death limited to notes for loved ones, a lucky rabbit’s foot tucked in
a pocket, a quick prayer for holy assistance. Mages never plan for life. We prepare our bodies to be used up, destroyed. That way, nothing is held back in the conflict. We can truly give our all.
Last time I went into the pit, I had prepared like this, yet secretly, in the deeps of my heart, I had hoped to survive, hoped I could take a mortal wound, call mage in dire, and have help come before I died. Unlike last time, I wasn’t the only candidate. This time I was taking humans in with me. Death would be so close that its wings would be folding around the victim before seraphs arrived. If they came at all. Either way, some of us would probably die. The weight of that settled heavily on my shoulders as I looked from face to face. The burden of death, theirs and mine, was a shroud. Feeling the mountain, sturdy beneath me, feeling my heart’s slow beat, feeling the cold sweet air in my lungs, I said, “I’ve been down there. I’ve fought down there. Thousands of spawn live in a warren that goes down inside the mountain, probably two thousand feet.”
“That’s how much the Trine grew in Mole Man’s battle,” Thadd said.
“Last time, I thought I was prepared, and maybe I was as prepared as I could be, with what I knew, but I wasn’t smart. I didn’t think about being able to draw on the stone heart of the Trine for power. I didn’t think about using a shield to hide my presence through the maze. I went in fighting, hoping to call mage in dire in time. I can hope to call mage in dire again, but it means a mortal wound before I can get us seraphic help—mortal for one of you, or for me. And if they come, they might execute judgment on you.”
“All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God,” Durbarge quoted.
Thadd looked at his hands. Or maybe he looked at his ring, the ring that kept him mostly human. So far it had kept him from seraphic notice, but that might not continue.
Eli double-checked the positions of his weapons and of the strange flamethrower he carried, sliding the bulbous section under his arm. His lips were pursed as if he might whistle.
The three EIH men glanced from one to the other, and I didn’t like the look of the exchange. They knew something. Or they were planning something. I raised my brows at Joseph Barefoot but he only lifted his brows back at me, assuming an innocent expression. It would have been more effective without the brands on his cheeks.
“There’s that,” I said, belatedly responding to Durbarge’s scripture. “But this time I have a shield that’s big enough to cover us and will move with us when we move. With the mountain to power it, the shield should be enough to protect us for a while. But I don’t know its limitations. If we get separated, or if anyone steps too far out of position, it could snap off.”
“How close?” Rickie asked. It was the first time he had spoken and his high tenor was a surprise. He had an almost girlish voice, at odds with the cross brand and his rough clothes.
“Twenty feet maximum,” I guessed. “And it has limitations. If you fire a weapon from the inside, it shatters. It’ll screen us from the sight of any Darkness we meet, but not from their noses, and once they smell us down there, they can track us. It won’t stop the toxic fumes—we’ll be breathing them the whole time. And the biggest problem is that I don’t know where the nest is, but I’m betting it’s as deep as the mountain.”
I saw no point in telling this crew about Baraqyal, Zadkiel, and the cherub Amethyst. Thadd hadn’t really believed me when I told him about them being trapped. Durbarge had heard about Zadkiel once before and not believed. We might come close enough to save the seraph with shorn wings, as his cell was close to the surface, but the cherub’s prison was in the deepest part of the Trine. If we made it that far, we’d never be able to fight our way out. Of course, the nest might be that deep, in which case, if we made it there, we might find the prison. Time enough then to share that tidbit of info.
Enough chitchat. I threw back my cloak and pulled my walking stick blade, the steel a harsh sound in bright daylight, the bloodstone hilt warming in my hand. I reached under my dobok for the white onyx fish amulet that carried a shield of protection, the shield that moved with me. Somewhere behind me, down the Trine, the lynx called, a full-throated scream of sound. Thanks for the warning, I thought, taking a step toward the center of the men.
A sharp pain took me through the throat. The explosive sound of a gunshot instantly followed. I blinked in surprise. My knees buckled. Pain carried me toward the ground.
I looked up as I fell, seeing Thadd’s mouth open. Hearing the beginning of his ringing cry, the words lost beneath the roar in my ears and the blast of the gun. The men scattered, moving behind rocks. Thadd fell over me. The shot echoed. A barrage of others followed; cover fire, return fire. Another round landed in the frozen dirt near me, a puff of motion.
I couldn’t breathe. The air in my lungs was hot, burning, trapped. Blood fountained over me. I tried to force a breath and sucked hot blood into my lungs. My throat made a sucking sound as my windpipe spasmed shut. Blood pumped onto the ground around me. I’m dying. The thought was curious, a vague paradigm, surprisingly without fear. I’m really dying. Blood pumped again, into the air this time, in a crimson spray.
My mind was suddenly lucid, my thoughts coherent and orderly, an overlay of facts and possibilities, transparent, cold, and deadly. I had taken a shot through the throat. Left to right, clean in and out. Carotid clipped. Esophagus gone.
My blood pumped, arching up, then down to splatter the ground, steaming in the cold, a bright, glistening scarlet. I’d be unconscious from blood loss in seconds.
They had known someone was coming. It had been an ambush.
They had used guns, not creation energies. A trap for humans by humans.
I had taken a step forward, into the shot. Had they been aiming at someone else?
I couldn’t call mage in dire because I couldn’t speak.
We would all die.
In the corner of my eye shadows moved, a glint of metal in the sunlight. They were coming. Ahh. They wanted me—alive. They had intended to kill my companions to get me. They wanted my blood.
I thumbed the fish, and the shield snapped into place with a shock wave of might. In mage-sight it was a purple bubble of overlapped energy, like feathers layered over us. Lightning sparkled through it. Thadd raised up, drenched in blood, his face shocked white. He started to place his hands over my throat and then pulled back. I could read his panic. How do I put pressure on a throat wound? I can’t. She’s dead.
The world darkened around me, my sight telescoping to a tiny pinpoint of light, centered on Thadd. The muscles of his shoulders moved. His mouth pulled down. I thought he was speaking. Realized he was screaming. In pain. He fell over me.
I opened my mind, reaching out to stone. Reaching. Pulling it in. Too late…
The light shrank down. And died.
Chapter 26
I opened my eyes. I was cold. In pain. Confused. And outside. Overhead, purple light shimmered and sparked, like holiday sparklers. It was shaped like a dome. A shield. I took a breath. And realized I was still alive. I touched my throat. It was tender and sore, the tissues weak and thin to my fingertips. The shield I had opened was taking hits; bullets bounced off of it. The battle was still taking place. Gunshots were deafening.
I smelled cordite and kylen blood. Heat stirred under my skin, coiling like a snake in the spring sun. I was weak, and the flesh of my arm looked desiccated, wrinkled, hanging from my bones as if I had lost pounds. Perhaps I had. My lifeblood had run across the frozen ground and pooled in the downhill edge of the shield.
The sun was still up. Half an hour had passed, surely no more. Thaddeus Bartholomew lay across my body, his weight pinning me to the ground. I wriggled an arm under him and pushed, rolling him over as I sat up. His arms flopped, one landing in my lap.
Through my clothes, my amulets blazed, as did the stones in my pockets. I pushed aside the saturated cloak and dobok tunic to see that the talismans were discharging energy at a constant rate, a steady blast of might. Unconsciously, I had drawn on the
m as I fell, dying. At this speed, the amulets should be totally drained, yet when I ran my hands over the necklace, stopping them cold, they looked pretty good. In mage-sight they were still full of power. They had to have drawn energy from somewhere… the mountain. I had opened a conduit as I… died. The amulets had been powered by the Trine, through the sleeping cat I had carved from the heart of a fist of bloodstone. I touched the cat and jerked my fingers back. It was blistering hot.
I shook my head and wiped blood from my face, my mind still sluggish. Someone screamed nearby. Rickie had been hit, or maybe it was the other one, Tomas. Human blood, sweat, and the stink of fear were carried on the breeze.
On my lap blood pumped from Thadd’s wrist, kylen-sweet. There was a huge seraph ring beside me on the frozen ground, turquoise in a silver setting of angel wings. Off of his finger, it had reverted to its unconjured size, the biggest ring I had ever seen. “Oh, Thadd,” I whispered, throat raw. I knew why I was still alive. Thaddeus had pulled off the ring for the second time in his life. Then he had cut an artery and let his precious kylen blood pour over me. To heal me. Around the edges of his duster, white feathers protruded, the softer-than-air feathers of a kylen youth. His transformation to adult kylen was now far along.