by Megan Derr
He eventually came to cliffs overlooking the sea, staring down at the dark moving mass, here and there shining in the moonlight. It was beautiful, with a sharp and dangerous edge, yet one more thing to make him think of Midnight.
Damn it.
Sighing, he turned away and picked his way as he best he could in the dark, stumbling and tripping more times than he cared to think about until he at last reached a stretch of smooth sand. A few minutes scouring turned up a bit of rock with a sharp enough edge to it.
Kneeling in the sand, he drew a moderately sized circle, taking care to make certain it was well-formed. Such wards—the ancient precursor to spell circles—were only used in such castings as he was about to employ.
Those who would master the runes began young. At seven years of age, the first and most basic seven runes were given, learned. Every two years, two more were given—nine, eleven, on up until the full set of twenty-one was obtained. By the age of twenty-three, most had obtained the level of rune master, though few were as skilled as Devlin and his ancestors had always been. Runes had always been the hallmark of Winterbourne.
A ward circle was employed when more than seven runes were cast in the matter of a reading, which was quite different from casting the runes in battle or similar such circumstances. Typically, he did not cast a reading if it required more than the normal three runes.
Dark. Love. Lies.
Mouth tightening, Devlin shoved away thoughts of Midnight and focused solely on what he needed to know.
He pulled his rune bag from his jacket and opened it, but did not reach for them. Sitting down upon the sand, folding his legs up, he closed his eyes and cleared his mind.
One by one, he drew in thoughts of the village, the draugr, the odd way they behaved, the siren song, the dragons, the lack of clues… Then he began to pull them together, blending them into a simple question:
What will lead me to the cause?
Eyes still closed, he reached into the open bag of runes and one by one began to cast them into the ward circle.
When he reached his hand into the bag and no more came to his fingers, he closed the bag and slowly opened his eyes.
Nine runes.
Some of the tension bled out of him. During the casting, he did not count. He had dreaded the runes climbing to a higher number, given the nature of the question. If the count had been higher than thirteen, he would have broken the ward and undone the casting.
A rune master of true skill could handle up to seventeen. Beyond that, and the runes began to fray the mind.
His great great grandfather had attempted a full twenty-one. No one ever knew what question he had asked, but the answer had cost him his mind. Edward White, the eighth Duke of Winterbourne, had died a stark raving lunatic, even by the rather loose standards of nightwalkers.
Reassured by the low count, Devlin finally took in the runes themselves.
His own was there, as well as Midnight's. The rune for 'spirit' had always represented his family, perhaps because spirits were neither good nor bad—they were simply too stubborn to die away.
Devlin frowned at the runes. They were arrayed in peculiar fashion.
The rune for 'death' seemed most central. Four runes touched it, from north to west—magic, spirit, speak, hear. The 'magic' rune was touched by 'desire' which in turn touched 'bond'.
'Bond' connected to both 'spirit' and 'dark'—Midnight's rune, most often.
It could mean something different, in this context, for thoughts of Midnight had not entered his head. But 'bond' connected his rune with Midnight's, and that meant it probably did mean Midnight.
That wasn't hard to figure out—if it was mentioning a bond between him and Midnight in this context, then the rune did not carry its alternate meaning of 'love' here. It meant, most likely, the spell that wove them together and granted Midnight life.
Hmm.
Death, magic, spirit, speak, hear. Death connected to magic, which desired the bond between him and Midnight. He was connected to death, in turn connected to speak and hear. Except he had no control over death, which seemed to be the implication.
What were the runes trying to tell him?
Devlin sighed and looked out over the sea, praying silently for the clarity he usually possessed, but which now eluded him.
He was in discord and knew it. He also knew the source.
What to do about it—that was the true reason for his disharmony. He could not have it both ways. Midnight was his and only his, unfairly, or was his after being with others. Neither option pleased him.
Must everything be so complicated?
He looked down at the runes again, but before he could renew his contemplation, a cold shiver raced up his spine right as his senses warned him who was approaching.
Snatching up his runes, taking a fair bit of sand with them, he turned just in time to avoid a strike from Winsted's angel.
It was, more like a deadly living doll than a true angel. Despicable, to have the talent to make an angel only to abuse it.
"So you have decided to kill me after all?" Devlin asked, then gave up talking entirely, all his energy and concentration going to avoiding the angel. All to nothing, likely. He could avoid it for a time, his experience working for him—but it was an angel, and one ordered to kill him, it seemed.
A witch, even one of his skill, was still no match for an angel, especially one such as this. An avenging angel, however poorly it was formed. The power was there, the obedience, and the beauty—but very little else.
Only guardian angels were more powerful. He thanked whatever gods favored him that he was not facing a guardian angel.
He wondered morosely why and how he always managed to get himself into these situations.
The water wasn't an option, it would only impede him and not prove a challenge to his attacker.
"It has been decided that by killing you, we will solve the problem," Winsted said calmly. "You and that corpse child you keep, against all laws of man and God."
On the list of laws he had broken, Devlin rather thought keeping a corpse rather low on it, but now was not the time to bicker over fine points.
He would love to inquire as to the reasons Winsted and his fellows had decided he must die—if he had brought his comrades into the affair at all—but he could not spare even that small amount of attention.
Nor could he cast his runes. They were jumbled, ripped from the earlier casting. He could not pause long enough to shape what he wanted in his mind, anyway.
He screamed as a bolt of burning light struck him, searing his side. It caused him to stumble, and he threw out a hand to catch himself, succeeding only in tearing open his hand on a jagged edge of rock.
Then the angel was upon him, empty eyes glowing gold as it moved on its directive to kill.
Devlin screamed again as white-hot pain coursed through him. Typical of a slayer, he thought hazily, Winsted had not given his angel mercy. It was literally incapable of caring if it caused its victims pain.
He heard the caw of a raven, then suddenly he was on the ground, trembling and dizzy and in excruciating pain—but alive.
The world returned in bits and pieces, until he was just conscious enough to register a bellow of inhuman rage, and a scream of pain far worse than his own had been.
Slowly lifting his head, then raising himself just enough to brace his weight on his elbows, he watched Midnight battle the angel.
It was a brutal fight. Both were already streaked with wounds and blood. The lifeless angel was made only to combat those things Winsted declared evil. His mission was to kill Devlin.
To do that, he must now get past Midnight, an animated corpse who had risen years ago solely to find and protect Devlin. When Devlin was faced with true harm, Midnight lost all sense.
"Midnight…" The words came out a rasp rather than the shout he had attempted, and Devlin wondered hazily just how much screaming he had done. He struggled to get up, but made it only as far as his knees befo
re pain and dizziness caused him to fall the opposite direction to land upon his backside without a speck of grace.
The angel threw itself at Midnight, who snarled and threw him off again; his impossible strength and speed, along with his transformative capabilities, made him a match for the angel.
Devlin did not see what happened, only that suddenly the combatants were no longer an equal match.
With a cry of anger and triumph, Midnight tore away the leather collar wrapped around the angel's throat. It shimmered, falling to pieces in his hands before turning to dust. Midnight moved again, snapping the angel's neck—Devlin knew ordinarily he would have simply torn the head clear off.
The angel drew a soft, short breath as it happened—then burst into a flurry of runes and light.
Midnight did not pause, but lunged toward Winsted, who stumbled away with a panicked cry, fear and disbelief filling his face.
"No!" Devlin gasped out, knowing Midnight would hear him no matter how low or hoarse his voice might be. "I promised his sister I would not kill him."
Midnight snarled in outrage at being thwarted, but settled for simply knocking Winsted hard upon the head. His body fell unconscious upon the sand, not quite far enough down to be drowned by the tide.
Turning away from Winsted, Midnight stalked toward Devlin. He dropped to his knees beside Devlin, scratched and bloody and very much the worse for wear. Nothing rest and Devlin's magic could not fix in a night or so.
Save the tears streaming down his cheeks. "I killed an angel."
Devlin reached out and tugged him close, until Midnight's head rested on his shoulder. "It's all right," he said, not bothering to try for anything more than a murmur. "That was a poor imitation of what an angel should be, and whatever part of it could feel or think is happy to no longer be bound."
Midnight said nothing, but seemed to ease a bit at his words, weight falling more solidly against him. The weight was reassuring, comforting, and Devlin opened his mouth to speak because suddenly an apology seemed such an easy thing to give—
But drawing the breath for it proved too great and painful an effort.
Everything went black.
Blood
"Bloody hell, who took a heavy object to my head?" Devlin asked sourly as he sat up in bed.
He started to complain more, but was immediately distracted by the sight of Midnight, fast asleep next to him. The room was dark, only hints of sunlight slipped through the closed door dividing the bedroom from the sitting room.
Midnight looked terrible, and the sight of his wounds brought back everything that had happened.
Devlin forgot about his aching head and reached out to brush back strands of Midnight's hair, rubbing his thumb over the tracks of dried tears on one cheek. After a moment he withdrew, throwing back the blankets to stumble about the room.
His head ached something fierce, never mind the aches and pains slicing through his body with every increment of movement. The next time he had it out with an angel, he was going to demand a quick, painless death. He was the eleventh Duke of Winterbourne, perfectly within his rights not to have to tolerate this slow and painful nonsense.
Where were his bloody runes?
When in doubt… "Barra!" he snapped out, hoping Barra was near to hand.
The door opened a moment later.
Barra looked about as fit as Midnight. What had transpired after Devlin's inelegant collapse? "You're awake." Devlin noticed his grip on the door was white-knuckled. "Must say, Your Grace, the two of you have had me worried something fierce. He dragged you here, then collapsed himself, and not so much as a peep out of you since then—and that right before dawn."
Devlin winced. "I see." So close to dawn. Midnight must be exhausted after the fighting and the injuries, then dragging him back here.
Never mind he had probably still been upset by their fight before all that.
Sighing, he returned to what he had originally sought. "My runes, Barra."
"Out here, Your Grace," Barra said. "They're a right mess, but I know better than to mess with them, eh?"
Nodding, Devlin followed Barra out to the sitting room, grimacing in pain but ignoring it. Midnight was far more important, and to fix Midnight, he must first fix his runes.
They were, as Barra had said, a right mess. A jumble of sand and runes rested upon the table, along with his velvet bag and whatever runes remained within. Given the state of things, he dreaded that some had been lost.
He murmured a thanks as Barra pressed a soft, clean cloth into his hands, only absently hearing the opening and closing of the door. Barra no doubt was off to fetch food and tea instead of resting as the bloody fool should. Devlin would make him upon his return.
One by one he picked up the dirty runes and wiped them clean, brushing every last grain of sand from the runes and the table. That done, he picked up the piece of chalk Barra had left for him, and drew a circle upon the table.
Setting the chalk aside, he then picked up a knife. Even exhausted and worried, Barra had set to work preparing, anticipating—then again, work had always settled Barra's mind to rest like nothing else.
Devlin looked at the scars in his palm, left there from occasions of feeding Midnight as well as other instances where he'd had to restore the attunement between himself and his runes. Face blank, he slit open his palm. Setting the knife aside, he picked up the nine runes and dropped them into his bloody palm. Then he picked up the velvet bag, and tipped out the rest of the runes, holding and moving and rolling them until every last one was covered in his blood.
He cast them into the circle, breathing a sigh when all that were there seemed to fall properly into their place. It seemed as though they were all there, but he went through each to make certain.
Touch. Taste. Smell. Speak. Hear. Fire. Water. Earth. Wind. Metal. Life. Death. Spirit. Sun. Moon. Magic. Need. Illusion. Bond. Time. Imbalance.
All there.
Devlin released the breath he had not realized he was holding.
Scooping up the bloody runes, he dumped all but one into the bag. Kissing the last, he then joined it to the others. Shaking the bag, he again cast the runes into the circle.
They fell exactly as they had before—save they were now pristine and perfectly white.
Good. They were in harmony again.
Returning them to the bag, kissing the last one before replacing it, he strode as quickly as he dared back into the bedroom.
Throwing back the bedcovers, he stroked Midnight's hair, frowning as he noted every scratch and bruise upon the perfect white skin. Touching all the runes marked into that beautiful skin, he lingered longest on the ones over Midnight's heart, reaching up to feel the warmth of his own through the fine lawn of his shirt.
Closing his eyes, he thought of Midnight and healing, of restoring. Pulling the thoughts together, he reached into his rune bag and drew those that came warm to his touch.
He cast them upon Midnight's torso and opened his eyes. Magic shimmered as it went to work, and in the time it took to draw two breaths, the deed was done.
Gently he retrieved the runes, kissing the last one before dropping it in the bag.
Setting the bag aside, he simply touched for a time. Not in an amorous fashion, merely comforting—to himself, more than Midnight, for Midnight was more dead than alive while the sun shone. Devlin had not favored winter, not until Midnight.
Winter, however, meant less sunlight, which meant Midnight was awake more often and longer. On a precious few particularly cold and wretched days, he could stay awake during the daylight hours.
The sound of the main door opening recalled him and, reluctantly, he drew back. With a last lingering look, wishing it were dark already so he might repair whatever troubles remained between them, Devlin turned away and went to rejoin Barra in the sitting room.
As he had suspected, Barra had gone to fetch sustenance, which stirred a sudden thought. "What time is it, Barra?"
"Just past three, Your Grace," B
arra said. "I ordered you a bath while I was downstairs."
"Thank you—for everything. Especially since you should be getting some rest."
"I'm fine."
"Indeed. Just remember that you'll be of no use should you suddenly collapse from working and worrying yourself half to death."
Barra clearly was about to start arguing.
Devlin went in for the kill. "What happens if your shining knight shows up and you are too tired to help him?"
"That, Your Grace," Barra said stiffly, "is cheating."
"I cheated death to keep Midnight," Devlin replied "Why on earth would I not cheat at everything else?"
Barra rolled his eyes. "I cannot seem to recall, at present, why I wanted you to wake up."
Devlin smiled. "That tea smells heavenly, Barra. I can manage it myself while you rest for a bit."
Barra heaved a sigh and stubbornly prepared the tea before slipping away with a promise he'd be back soon.
When he'd finished his repast, Devlin turned his attention to a sorely-needed bath.
This time he was more careful not to select some ridiculously sweet soap, choosing instead one that smelled of sandalwood and lemon.
By the time he was finished, Barra had returned, looking moderately refreshed but nowhere near as rested as Devlin would have liked.
Rising from the bath tub, feeling almost like himself again and largely free of pain, Devlin found himself attacked by Barra and a wardrobe's worth of clothing.
He suffered the attack in silence, content to drown in lawn and lace if it would make Barra feel better.
When Barra finally decided victory had been achieved, Devlin could not begrudge him the results, though as ever he wondered why such finery was required when he was only going to track down a nasty little slayer and wring the bloody bastard's neck.
His breeches were a deep, rich brown, with a waistcoat of the very same, though it held a paisley pattern woven in gold and red thread. The jacket was a few shades lighter, the cuffs of cream and gold lace. The neck cloth matched, and bursts of red crowned the whole in a cravat pin and cufflinks.
"How much of my fortune goes to my wardrobe?" he asked idly, smoothing back a small strand of hair, fussing with his lace cuffs.