The Awakening (Immortals)

by Joy Nash

  Goddess. Kalen was il direttore. The man who single-handedly made or destroyed struggling artists. A year ago, she’d have given her right arm to grovel at his feet.

  And now she knew he hated the art he sold for six and seven figures. The irony was deep enough to wade in.

  Unsettled, she crossed the room to stand before Kalen’s easel. He was an artist himself, a master. His painting showed not only technical excellence, but an incredible depth of emotion. There was truly something otherworldly about his style. By Kalen’s talent, she’d been transformed from unexceptional human witch to shimmering, sensual goddess.

  As an art student, she’d sketched plenty of nude models, but she’d never been one herself. She wasn’t comfortable baring her own body—she was too small up top, too round in the behind. And yet…the woman looking back at her from the canvas didn’t seem inadequate at all. The passion in Kalen’s brushstrokes made her seem…beautiful. Sensuous. The magic they’d created together shimmered in the image like a precious living thing.

  There was a folio lying on the floor. Bemused, she picked it up and flipped through the loose pages. Each drawing she discovered was of her. Not all were nudes. One showed her sitting at Kalen’s long dinner table, smiling. Another showed her half turned, her hair partially veiling her nude back. The Celtic knot tattoo on her right shoulder was intricately detailed and completely accurate. Kalen had certainly been paying attention! She turned the pages, one by one. More studies, all of her. He must have started this folio the day she’d arrived.

  Where was his older work? She was sure she hadn’t seen any displayed in the castle. Curious, she hunted around the room, opening desk and dresser drawers, peeking in his wardrobe, but found nothing. His paintings must be in his studio. Well, he’d invited her to use his work space; she’d just have to wheedle its location from his grumpy housekeeper. She was itching to paint—it had been over a week since she’d held a paintbrush and she missed it terribly. A smile touched her lips. Maybe she’d paint a nude of Kalen.

  Back in the Rose Room, she hunted through the wardrobe. She managed to locate a plain white blouse and some comfortable shoes and stockings, but the long, frothy skirts were impossible. Returning to Kalen’s room, she found an old, soft pair of breeches. The knee buckles fell to her ankles—good enough. The waistband was ridiculously large, of course, but she tamed it with a belt.

  It was easy enough to find Pearl. The housekeeper was in the kitchen courtyard shouting orders to a crew of brownies. Apparently, it was laundry day. Two huge cauldrons were set over a blazing fire. Brownies perched on ladders, lifting and dropping clothing into the steaming water with wooden sticks.

  “Off the west courtyard,” Pearl snapped in response to Christine’s question about the studio. Back into the kitchen, Christine hunted through the cupboards for something salty, but came up empty-handed. Pearl didn’t seem to believe in salt. She ate a breakfast of crumpets,strawberries,and cream and washed it down with fresh milk. For the first time,she wondered where Kalen got his supplies. There was no food production on the island that she could see—did he simply beam his groceries over? Or did they travel in by other means,either magical or mundane?

  The west courtyard was extensive, profusely green and sheltered by ivy-covered walls. The weather was warm, sunny, and extremely un-Scottish. She advanced farther into the oasis. The central tower rose behind her, with the wall of a lower wing on her left. The castle’s perimeter wall enclosed the remaining two sides of the court. A profusion of flowering bushes were edged with daintier annuals and perennials. Here and there, a tree spread lacy green branches. Songbirds darted back and forth, their songs mingling with the gurgle of a hidden fountain.

  The effect was charming. Further exploration revealed a door and several windows giving out onto the garden from the low building that intersected the main tower. The door was unlocked; she found Kalen’s studio beyond it. The room was spacious, with whitewashed walls, a long worktable, and deep cabinets. These last were filled with art materials—everything from canvases and stiff papers to paints, pots, brushes, and palettes.

  There was little, however, in the way of finished work—or even work in progress. Three easels were empty. A stack of mediocre landscapes and still life compositions lay discarded in a corner. Not Kalen’s paintings, to be sure. She wondered whose they were and why he kept them.

  She located a set of watercolors and the rest of the supplies she needed. There was no sink or other sign of running water, so she carried everything to the courtyard fountain. It was a beautiful sculptural piece, with water flowing from the mouth of a curling stone sea serpent.

  She dipped her hand in the water, felt its magic move up her arm. It wasn’t the sea, but it made her feel immeasurably calmer. There was a bench nearby, but she preferred sitting on the ground. Filling a ceramic pot with water, she spread her paints. Her brush dipped into water and blended color in a tin tray. She bent her head to her work, absorbed, as time passed unnoticed around her.

  Some time later, she put down her brush. Judging from the angle of the sun, it was already past midafternoon. Her stomach was rumbling. She rose, gathering her supplies, collecting them on the bench. Then she paused, frowning.

  A whisper of music hung in the air. She hadn’t heard it while she’d been sitting so close to the fountain. The sound was faint, but definitely real. And very surprising, because it was Manannán. Her favorite.

  The sweet, haunting strain faded. She shook her head. Had she imagined it? But no, there it came again, smooth as a glassy sea, but with a hint of wildness flowing in subtle currents beneath the surface. Keyboard and Celtic harp, the heart-piercing note of a bagpipe and the screaming voice of an electric guitar, all underscored with the natural sounds of surf pounding the shore. Mixed and transformed by synthesizer into a thoroughly original sound.

  Exhilarating. Magnificent. Modern. The kind of music Kalen probably hated. It pulled her like a tide. Who could be listening to Manannán? Not Pearl or the brownies, she was sure.

  Her steps led her to the corner of the garden, where two sides of the castle’s outer wall met. The music flowed louder here, beckoning. The lilting strain led her around a thick clump of rhododendrons to a doorway behind. Not a normal door, but a panel of false stone set in the wall. If it hadn’t been slightly open, she never would have known it was there.

  She grabbed the edge and pulled. The panel swung noiselessly toward her. The music amplified. She peeked inside.

  A narrow staircase led steeply downward, into the stygian gloom from which the melody flowed. A musty odor wafted on a cool updraft. Common sense told her to turn around. Walk away as fast as she could. She had no idea who—or what—was down there. But this was Kalen’s home—no one entered without his permission. And surely Kalen would have warned her of any danger before he left.

  Music surged toward her like water spray, the composition approaching its crescendo. The piece was one of her favorites. She ducked through the doorway and descended a step in its direction. Overwhelming curiosity sucked her down a second step, then a third. After that, she didn’t kid herself; she was committed to discovering the source. She moved slowly, hands on the walls on either side of her, giving her eyes a chance to adjust to the dark.

  Twenty-seven steps down; then the path turned and continued along a narrow hallway, toward an unmistakable slice of light bathing the floor some distance away. When she reached it, she found both music and light emanated from a crack beneath a closed door. A steel door. She ran her fingers over the cool, seamless metal, frowning. It was the first modern thing she’d seen since arriving in Kalen’s castle.

  No knob or lever was immediately apparent. Her fingers skated along the door’s edge, searching for some kind of entry mechanism. She found it when a small square of metal yielded to her touch with a soft snick.

  A bright line of light appeared at the door’s edge. Electric light. Heart pounding, she eased the door open, blinking rapidly against the glare. She
’d just take a quick look, then move away if the room’s occupant looked dangerous.

  She pushed the door open another inch. Then another.

  Then she shoved it the whole way open and stared.

  The room appeared to be deserted. It was a large space with smooth painted walls and wall-to-wall low-pile carpet. A gleaming black teakwood desk and side table ensemble,complete with matching leather swivel chair,stood facing the door. The desk’s side table held a computer with an enormous flat-screen monitor and printer by its side. Piles of papers and neatly stacked CD cases were arranged on a wide blotter. Manila files stood upright in a sleek file holder. There was a phone,a pen holder,a stapler—even a tape dispenser.

  A matching table with two chairs stood to one side; behind it, along one wall, were banks of black lateral files and shelving. The opposite wall was punctuated by closed sliding doors. The lights overhead were fluorescent rectangles, set in a grid of acoustical tile. Manannán blared from recessed speakers.

  While the front of the room was pathologically neat, the extreme rear was a mess. Electronic equipment littered three battered cafeteria tables. Computers, scanners, printers, monitors were split open, their guts spilling like metallic intestines.

  Well. This hidden office had to be Kalen’s. Obviously, he did have electricity. Why had he been so evasive about it? To keep her from calling Amber? Most likely. Well, she could call now. Praying Amber was within reach of her cell, Christine started toward the phone.

  “Bloody, bloody hell!”

  She froze.

  “No. No way. Take that, you sodding little bugger.”

  She peered in the direction of the voice. In the far corner of the room, half hidden behind a tall metal utility cabinet, a teenager sat at a computer monitor. She eased forward to get a better look.

  His back was turned. Spiky blond hair protruded from the blue bandana tied around his head. He wore a baggy seagreen T-shirt and faded, ripped jeans. His heavy black boots were propped on the bottom rung of a swivel stool that was much too short for his lanky frame. His knees were bent at a ridiculous angle.

  Figures and scenes flitted across his monitor. Rows and columns of incomprehensible symbols were aligned on one side of the screen. A headset with a microphone attachment protruded from his left ear, into which he directed a steady stream of conversation. After his initial outburst, his voice dropped. With the music so loud, Christine couldn’t make out anything.

  Cautiously, she crept closer. He kept his eyes trained on the screen as his fingers clicked madly on mouse and keypad. The screen responded with bursts of light. It looked like some kind of game. He fired an errant shot, slapped his palm on the table, and cursed.

  She chanced another step and stumbled. He didn’t turn. Looking down, she saw she’d nearly fallen over a messy heap consisting of a leather jacket, guitar, and backpack. That’s when she realized the gamer was the kid from King’s Cross Station. Mac. The one who’d shown her a glimpse of disturbing power, who’d been listening to Manannán, and who’d told her where to look for Kalen’s castle. But he’d never said he knew Kalen.

  Who was he? Or better yet, what was he? And why was he playing computer games in Kalen’s basement?

  There was another blast on the screen, brighter and bigger than the rest.

  “Shit.” Mac slapped the desk again; the table and computer shuddered. He returned to the keyboard and jabbed a frantic series of keys, all the while muttering a stream of rapid speech into his headset.

  “Aw, man, throw a Fire spell, not that Arcane bullshit. It’s a Dark Demon, not your bloody grandmother.”

  Christine blinked.

  “Damn it,just wait until I…gods damn it. There’s a pack of Brain Eaters! Don’t rush them,they’ll see the rest of us.…”

  The explosions on the screen intensified. Mac leaned closer, his fingers working furiously on keyboard and mouse. “Okay, go for it. Now, now, now—ballocks!” A red flash filled the screen. A figure on the screen—it looked like a tall, blue-skinned Sidhe—exploded.

  “Gods damn it.” He ripped off the headset, threw it down on the table. “I’ve been bloody killed. Again.”

  He shoved back from the table, the wheels on his stool screeching. He muttered another curse. Picking up the mouse, he bounced it once, twice, three times in his hand, then, spitting a final expletive, hurled it at the screen.

  Metal and plastic exploded in a burst of green fire. Christine jumped back,gasping. Emerald sparks flew,some whizzing past her ear. When they faded,there was a twisted, melted,smoking mess where the monitor had been.

  Mac leaned back on his stool,staring at the smoldering consequences of his tantrum. Then he let out a long breath and shook his head. Raising his right hand,he pointed a finger at the wreckage and spoke a single,vibrant syllable.

  The sound rang pure and deep, vibrating like a bell in Christine’s skull. The wreckage of the computer monitor responded instantly. Melted plastic turned liquid, collapsing into a shining puddle on the table. Mac flicked his wrist. The shining liquid flowed back upon itself, surging upward like a backward waterfall, molding itself into a quicksilver version of its original form. Another flick, and the monitor was back, as good as new. The screen flickered once, then sprang to life.

  Christine stifled a gasp. By this time she was standing only a few steps behind Mac. Maybe she should have been halfway out the door, but some force she didn’t understand had kept her inching forward.

  The images on Mac’s computer resolved into a computergenerated graveyard. Giving an exasperated half sigh, he pulled the bandana from his head and ran both hands through his hair. She must have made a sound, because suddenly he spun around on his stool. His eyes locked on hers, as green as she remembered. The blue half-moon tattoo below his left eye jumped.

  “Bloody hell.” He leaned back,tipping his stool so far it was a miracle he didn’t fall over. A slow smile spread across his face. “So. The little witch found Kalen’s place after all,eh?”

  “Um…yes. But…who are…I mean…”

  Strains of Manannán still flowed from the overhead speakers; the melody had shifted to something slower, underscored by a trickling stream.

  Absently, Mac reached for his mouse and turned down the volume. “And you found Kalen, too, I’m guessing.”

  “Well, I could hardly miss him, could I?”

  He snorted. “And I reckon he’s taken full advantage of that.” He cocked his head. “Christine, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. And you’re Mac.”

  He stood. “I am indeed. At your service, love.” He sketched an elaborate mock bow.

  Cheeky bastard. “You’re a friend of Kalen’s?”

  “Most of the time.”

  A tinny voice scratched its way through the discarded headset. “Mac? Mac. You okay, brother? What the hell happened back there? I thought you had that bastard Dark Demon handled.”

  Annoyance flitted through Mac’s eyes. “Excuse me a minute, love.” Reaching back, he snatched up the headset and hooked it over one ear.

  “How was I supposed to know you were going to aggro a whole pack of Brain Eaters?” he said. “Bloody stupid move, if you ask me…Yeah, well, you too, man. Bugger the Nightbane Guild.” He angled his head, eyeing Christine. “Listen, gotta go. Got a hot bird waiting.”

  What?

  He flashed her a grin. “Yeah, she wants me. What lady doesn’t?…Yes, now. I’m outta here.”

  He tore the headset off and tossed it on the desk. “Buggering git. Can’t imagine why I joined his bloody Raid Group. Thinks he’s a fucking god or something. And believe me, he’s not.”

  Christine ventured closer and peered at the monitor. The medieval village was gone. The screen now showed an amorphous ball of light drifting down a country lane.

  “This is a game?”

  Mac shot her a look of pure disbelief. “You can’t mean you don’t know.”

  “No. I don’t play computer games.”

  Mac groaned. “God
s. Just like him.”

  “You mean Kalen?”

  “Yes, Kalen. Who else? The man’s stuck in the nineteenth century.”

  Christine’s lips twitched. “Um…yeah. I’ve noticed.”

  He gestured toward the screen. “That, my ignorant little American sweetheart, is World of Magic. It’s only the most popular MMORPG on the planet.”

  “MMORPG?”

  “Massively Multiple Online Role Playing Game,” he enunciated. “W.O.M. is the biggest. Millions of players.”

  “And I take it you’re not one of the better ones?”

  A red flush illuminated his cheeks. “Hey, I hold my own. It’s just that the Horde has been coming on bloody strong lately.” Abruptly, his green eyes lost their humor. His expression turned downright grim.

  “Horde? You mean zombies?”

  “Sometimes. The game’s the Horde against the Alliance. Death magic against life magic. There used to be a pretty even balance, but in the past year Horde players have been multiplying like nobody’s business. And now there are these Dark Demons to contend with. Nasty buggers. A full hell’s worth of them have flooded the game.”

  Christine went cold. “Demons?”

  Mac shot her a glance. “Not real demons, love. Players who take on demon personas. They’re wrecking the game’s balance.” He regarded the screen moodily. “Just like in the real world. Art imitates life and all that.”

  Christine rubbed her arms. “You play this often?”

  His color deepened. “It can be habit forming.”

  She inched closer to the screen. “And now you’re dead?”

  “Only temporarily. But I won’t come back at the same energy level. Those Dark Demon bastards suck some serious life out of a soul.”

  Just like in real life.

  Christine shuddered. She looked away from the screen, eying the piles of computer guts. “Is all that yours, too?”