And from what Tiro and the other brownies knew of the Dark, Bilachoe would be used to sending minions to do his dirty work.
This would be a hand-to-hand, or knife-to-knife, or magic-blast-to-Cosmos-Dagger-and-Shield fight. The hand-to-hand and the knife-to-knife he was prepared for as much as he could be. He’d practiced hard at the dojo and with fencers at the lyceum. So he was used to fighting and getting blows. He wondered how fast Bilachoe was and the last time he might truly have been hurt, fought while in pain. More advantages for Rafe.
The magical nature of the duel would be strange. But maybe not as tough on Rafe as Bilachoe thought. When Rafe had awakened in the middle of the night from a bad dream, he’d reluctantly left Amber and padded down to the living room and his computer tablet. He’d checked the apps and found REAL Fairies and Dragons by Pavan nearly gone, and the new one now bright enough for him to read “Journey to Lightfolk Palaces.”
That was intriguing and he’d recalled Pavan’s words—that the Davail was supposed to show up at the Lightfolk palace on his thirty-third birthday for training to kill the evil Dark ones. The app was also heartening, as if the elf or the Lightfolk or whoever had loaded the program believed Rafe had a chance against Bilachoe.
Anyway, Rafe had sucked in a breath and sucked up his uneasiness at the first game and managed to bring back the Fairies and Dragons app. Then he’d spent two hours playing against magical monsters with his dagger and shield. Fireballs and icicles were thrown at him, radiation and pure magic blasted him, tumbling him head over ass. He limped, ached, and his wings were tattered when he finally flew to the Fairy Dome. There he stepped into the Fairy Ring and got healed, his exhaustion wiped away, his muscles eased and primed.
He didn’t kid himself that Bilachoe would be as easy to defeat as the monsters in the game. But he had a weakness in his forehead, or so Amber reported.
The evil was Dark and powerful. But Rafe had hope and a damn good future to live for and he would fight to his last ounce of strength, his last drop of magic and blood and energy.
There wasn’t anyone on the park trails, the small thread of cars had wound up to the trading post and the amphitheater. So he saw no one and only heard the wind and the birds and his own footfalls and soaked up the sun and the scent of sagebrush. And his time walking through the huge sandstone rocks settled him. More, it turned off his mind like the best times before a race and put him in another place. His own personal quest.
But he knew what he was now. He knew the limitations that had been placed on his life and why. He knew the curse and he would damn well break it. He’d left long letters in his room at Amber’s place, ready to be mailed to his brother and Conrad if he failed.
Now he hiked and let the atmosphere of Red Rocks work on him. He felt the magic, felt places that were close to balanced elemental-magic-wise, due to Native American shamans. One was near Creation Rock where he intended to fight.
Balanced elemental energy that he would be able to use better than Bilachoe, who had taken the Dark path. And there was all too human energy in the rock, too. Energy of bands that had played, had created on the stage, had given to the audience and been given acclaim and applause back. An exchange of energy that hummed in the huge monolith. He could use that, too, just as he used it to summon the shield and dagger as the sun set.
As the night wore on, Rafe tucked himself under an overhang that had gotten some sun and snoozed a little, his watch set to wake him at 10:00 p.m. so he could warm up and do some katas and practice exercises. The itchy feeling between his shoulder blades made him think that Bilachoe would come earlier than 1:00 a.m., but would make sure it was full dark in Denver. Might take him a while to get a fix on Rafe, enough that Rafe might sense a warning tug of magic.
Amber had a taxi drop her off at a house near Red Rocks at 10:00 p.m. She carried a large tote and was as ready as she could be. The night was dark, but the stars were brilliant and the moon waxing to the first quarter. Enough to see, in general. Like Rafe, she hadn’t anticipated Bilachoe appearing before dark, but figured the Dark one would jump the gun. Also like Rafe she was dressed in layers and had her heavy parka on and a space blanket in her tote.
Unlike him, she was using the bond between them to locate where he was. He’d told her that he’d scout the whole park for the best magical energy.
She found him on the north side of Creation Rock that formed part of the amphitheater. Which was good because there was a parking lot where she could hide in the shadows and watch him. Since she loved him, she didn’t need to be close to break his curse.
Marking a good place for her to wait, she left her tote blending in with the shadow of a boulder and walked the path to the gate where a limo would pick her up when all this was over and back. She needed to know the trail.
When she got back, she saw Rafe practicing. Earlier he’d told her with a quick grin that he planned to peak in his training tonight. Perfect.
She felt it was more like disaster.
Rafe’s watch beeped, but he was already up. The sky was spectacular. It had been a long time since he’d seen the stars so close. And the temperature was dropping fast. It would freeze tonight, so he was glad he’d dressed warmly. Layers and leather. He stretched and bent and put on the shield and held the dagger loosely.
Then he moved slowly down the rock-studded incline to the area where he felt the best, where the magic was balanced most, though there was still more earth than water. Water was the least available here. The intervention of humans had helped. There were bathrooms and pipes near.
The massive rocks loomed over him, craggy black shadows against the night sky. In the distance Denver was a bright smear of lights. His heart and thoughts went to Amber, yearned for her. For this to be over and they could be together.
A hard tweak on his magic.
He caught his breath, tensed.
Attack!
A slam against his shield. Knocking him back. Hit! Hard!
Not by a body of flesh and blood. More like a steel skeleton.
He flipped and lit on stinging feet, panting, ready to fight. His dagger flamed blue and he thrust. Oh, yeah! It showed him the ragged outline of his enemy. And he could smell the guy. Enough to make a dude gag if a man had the breath.
He shot forward, bounced against a force field and staggered back.
Bilachoe waved a long staff. Electricity sizzled, shot to him.
Vanished into the shield with no trace.
Rafe panted, stared.
As Bilachoe stared at him.
The man’s—thing’s—robe had opened in the front, showing a glowing red skeleton. Head was a skull. Death’s head. With flames as eyes. Bone fingers.
Truly a monster.
The lower jaw opened and high shrieking laughter knifed through Rafe.
Slow wave of the staff. Flames engulfed the skeleton, whipped the robe, didn’t touch it.
Rafe jerked his shield and dagger in front of him and pressed forward. Inch by inch like against a strong wind. While the bastard laughed his ass off so hard he didn’t use his tall, glowing staff with a nasty triple-bladed knife on the edge. A pike.
Geez, who used a pike nowadays?
Rafe hadn’t practiced with pikes.
He drew on all his magic. Pushed out! Surged toward the Dark one, who wasn’t dark but bright orange flames. Jabbed with the knife. Through the ribs. Nothing happened.
The pike hit his shield.
Pebbles rolled under his feet and he windmilled. There was a whoosh and then they weren’t on the ground. They were atop the rock.
Need help! Emotion, not words.
Two silver disks shot from his pocket, spun toward Bilachoe. The silver dollars. Straight for Bilachoe’s forehead.
The head lifted from the neck, moved out of the way.
Rafe rushed, got in a slash, was jammed back again. By magic.
And he knew.
A few days training wasn’t enough to beat Bilachoe.
Seven mont
hs training wouldn’t have, either.
He didn’t have much of a chance, but with luck and grit he might take the evil one with him. Maybe death would be quick. At least Amber wasn’t here.
Chapter 29
WATCHING THE DUEL was painful. Bilachoe had more magic, but time and again Rafe evaded him, struck at the skeleton dancing in flame.
Amber prayed but it didn’t seem like Rafe could win. He could take Bilachoe with him in death, but not win and live.
Flashing patterns hurt Amber’s eyes. She couldn’t look away.
Too afraid.
Though she trembled.
Rafe’s curse was holding him back.
She’d hoped she wouldn’t have to make the decision to save him and sacrifice herself. Had hoped beyond all reason that he’d have a chance against Bilachoe without her. Now it appeared that even if she broke the curse he might die.
Who knew how much the curse was limiting him? Was she so fatalistic that she wouldn’t try?
She winced as Rafe ducked almost too slowly under the long whirl of Bilachoe’s pike.
She wasn’t fatalistic. She was optimistic, like Rafe. He wouldn’t quit. She couldn’t quit without knowing she’d done her best by him. She might fall, but she’d be fighting and she would damn well help Rafe win.
Her entire being focused on Rafe, she shot out her hands, even as Bilachoe’s staff lit with lightning.
Now or never.
She yanked the gray shroud encasing Rafe as hard as she could. Her hands burned, scored by the curse. Her lungs seized. More! She gave it her all. The curse tore from him. Gone!
He blazed with light, the energy of his whole life ahead of him. With the brightness of all the lives that had been cut short before his. As she crumpled, the white-blue fireball that was Rafe surged toward the black flapping Bilachoe, who’d pivoted, his staff aiming at her!
Power—magic—engulfed Rafe. He used it. Flashed energy at the Dark beast, jabbed knife, shield, everything. His lunge carried him forward to the fallen evil. Bilachoe lay on his back, no simple skeleton now. The light still throbbing from Rafe in time with his heart showed a not-quite-human mangled face. Holes of nose—eaten by evil—and mouth open in surprise. Horrible fanged teeth.
And Rafe’s tiny dowsing rod was jammed into the monster’s forehead. The stick flamed, too, cracking the skull and melting the guy’s brain. Rafe swallowed and stepped away. Retreated even more when the stench rose. Back and back until a small fall of rocks near his feet let him know he was close to the edge.
He breathed shallowly, watching the robe flatten as the body beneath melted or fell into ash or something he really didn’t want to consider. Didn’t take as long as he’d expected. There was one small and oily-looking stream of fluid that dried rapidly, even before it reached the edge of the rock.
Creation Rock was now destruction rock. But the destruction of evil. What kind of mark—spiritually and physically—would that leave? Well, Easter was coming up. That should help, shouldn’t it? And he’d let Pavan and Vikos know about it. Maybe they could move in a cleanup team or something.
Finally, when a breeze blew shreds of the robe Bilachoe had worn away and the scent of a cold spring night to Rafe’s nose, he moved closer and toed the remnants of cloth and…stuff.... Cloth that fell apart when his boot touched it, knobby bits of gray and black that might have been bone. Rafe spit bile.
His miniature dowsing rod glowed neon pink like a plastic swizzle stick. He stared at it, but it had proved to be a formidable weapon and he didn’t want to leave it. Gritting his teeth, he bent down and touched it with the top of his little finger. Not even static electricity. So he sheathed the dagger on his hip, picked up the stick and wiped it on his pants, then tucked it in his inner jacket pocket.
The moonlight was bright enough to show that the leather of his jacket was scraped and torn. Very much the worse for wear.
But the next deep breath he drew held nothing but the scents of a Colorado night and he whooped. He’d beaten Bilachoe! His curse was gone and the future was his. His and Amber’s.
Yeah, he had to climb off the rock in the dark, but that was more of a challenge than a problem, and the descent would definitely eat up some of this amazing energy that had come out of nowhere and filled him. Manifested just at the right time. Luck. The angel of good fortune had been with him.
When Amber woke, the stars spun blurrily overhead. She blinked, but they didn’t come into focus and as she drew in her first, shuddering breath she knew she’d aged many, many years.
The good news was she hadn’t wet herself. The bad news was that she felt incredibly fragile, as if her bones themselves were thin. Panting, it took more than a few minutes to struggle to sit. Despite her long parka, she was cold, her hands and feet and especially her nose. She didn’t seem to have enough energy even to shiver.
Her pocket computer beeped and she knew she had to get herself together to be picked up by the limo at the time she’d ordered it—2:30 a.m., and it was a half-mile walk to the gate closing the road. Easy for her before, but now? She didn’t know.
When she shifted, the bones of her ass ground on dirt beneath her. She’d lost a lot of weight then, including muscle mass. Unsurprising since she’d used a lot of energy to break the curse. Given it all her juicy life force for years. Shouldn’t have been so damn proud of her good butt.
At least she was thinking sharply. What would she have done if she’d lapsed into dementia?
She shuddered at the horror of that notion. She hadn’t wanted to think of it, so she hadn’t prepared. Another thing she hadn’t managed well were her clothes. She hadn’t taken that into consideration. They hung around her and looked too young for her age. Good thing her coat was something even her grandmother would wear.
Decades might have passed for her body, but under an hour had transpired since the battle was fought. Her scarf gaped, letting in cold air. When she reached for the soft wool, she touched loose and wrinkled flesh and flinched.
Looking in the mirror was going to be bad.
Especially since she had no idea how the women of her family looked when they aged. Would her eyes be deep in sockets, or have puffy eyelids nearly covering them?
Her mouth dried and her jaw clenched. She had all her teeth. That was a plus.
Tilting her head back to look at the top of Creation Rock, she heard the tendons of her neck creak and felt a little pop. She froze, but there was no pain, so she didn’t think she’d done any further damage to herself.
She saw nothing atop the rock. There were no little lumps of bodies. Then there came the gunning of a motorcycle, pretty much like the sound she’d heard when Rafe had taken off that afternoon. Since she didn’t think Bilachoe would or could ride such a machine, Rafe was safe. Tears welled and flowed, overflowed her eyes in a rush. Her chest tight, pushing in and out with sobs, she pulled the wad of tissue from the coat pocket and mopped her face.
Moving slowly, she rolled onto her hands and knees, then rocked to her feet. Straightening as much as she could—and she hadn’t suddenly developed osteoporosis, thank heaven—she stretched all her senses toward the rock to search for Bilachoe.
He was and wasn’t there. As far as she could tell, bits of him were there but little flakes of him were blowing over the park and those were breaking down into smaller pieces. She didn’t know where they’d all end up, but since he was dust and blowing away she didn’t think he could come back from that.
All the evil that Bilachoe had caused, all the lives he’d cut short, had worked on him alive or dead or both. The curse he’d made had claimed him. He’d gone down to Rafe and her and to good.
And the more she stood in the cold wind, the more it sapped her. So she’d better start putting one foot in front of the other and moving. Her breath came shallowly, sharply cold, sliding down to chill her inside. She wobbled on her feet. Her tears had left frozen lines on her cheeks. She dug in her bag for a small but bright flashlight. The time was nearing 2:00
a.m. and the only lights around were the few lights in the park, the distant city lights.
Her bag was heavier than she’d expected, and she moved slower than she’d thought and on the long walk on the uneven trail, adrenaline kept her company as she feared for her balance.
And that she wouldn’t make the rendezvous in time. But her cell worked and she held it in her hand like the lifeline it was.
She made it to the gate ten minutes before the limo arrived to take her to her new home and a life she hadn’t really wanted. Aching to her bones and weary, she fell asleep and didn’t wake until they pulled up before the bungalow.
The chauffeur held her door open. As she creaked out, he set his hand under her elbow and gently boosted. With no show of impatience he matched her shuffling steps to the door of the house she’d rented and helped her up the two steps. Amber was panting. She didn’t know how strong her body was, or could become, but she’d work at it. Later. Tomorrow. If she didn’t die from exhaustion in the night.
“Is someone waiting up for you, ma’am?” the man asked, glancing at the porch light and a glimmer coming from between the curtains. Amber had left a small light on.
“My daughter-in-law,” she lied, then added, “though she might have fallen asleep.” Amber sighed. “She’s a heavy sleeper.” Taking her key from an outside pocket of her purse, one key on a light keychain, she stabbed at the keyhole.
“Allow me.” The driver took the key from her fingers and slipped it smoothly into the lock. Amber watched the tendons and muscles flex in his strong brown hand as he turned the key and opened the door. Beautiful. Worthy of envy.
He shoved the door open to a small but welcoming entryway painted a soft yellow. “There you are, home.”
“Yes,” Amber said. Her voice cracked. She opened the main compartment of her purse and fumbled to pull out her wallet.
His hand covered hers. “Everything’s been taken care of, ma’am. You enjoy your night now.”
Enchanted Again Page 27