Midnight

by Megan Derr

  Winsted said nothing, merely drew out his rosary.

  Devlin flinched again, despite himself, and drew three runes, casting them upon the floor to create a protective ward—

  Something flashed, a light flaring up to blind him, and he realized far too late that the first hex had merely been a trap and breaking it part of the whole bloody plan. When the light cleared and he could more or less see again, he saw his own runes had triggered a spell cage.

  This was not Winsted's work. He was not important enough to be given a hex, nor skilled enough to lay such a complicated trap. Either a greater figure of the church was about somewhere, or Winsted had lent his services to another.

  Devlin was betting on the latter, though he had not thought Winsted capable of quite that level of hypocrisy.

  With an effort, he managed to laugh. "Now you are flattering me, Winsted. I'm quite honored, but flattery ultimately leaves me unmoved. If you are hoping to add lust to your envy and sloth, I am afraid you shall have to try harder."

  "Lust?" Winsted echoed and let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Do not besmirch me with your disgusting words, witch."

  "Ah, yes," Devlin replied. "I am a witch—and close friends with Lord Tamor. If you think to kill me, you will bring down his wrath, and a demon lord has nothing to fear from you."

  "I have nothing to fear from him," Winsted replied.

  Devlin examined the spell cage as best he was able without taking his attention entirely away from Winsted. "This is hardly a fair fight," he commented lightly. "I did not think you quite this cowardly. Why the spell cage?" He tried to step out of it, simply for the sake of experimentation, but wound up screaming in pain for his troubles.

  It reduced him to a shivering heap on the floor, doubled over and gasping for breath.

  He could not even use his runes, for the supposedly broken hex was within and part of the cage, rendering him incapable of using his magic.

  Damn it.

  Winsted laughed. "Interesting that you referred to that creature of yours as a dark angel. The way it killed my angel, I can see why the term is an apt one. Imagine how useful such a single-minded creature would be."

  Devlin stared at him in disbelief. "You were just telling me I should die because Midnight is too much a threat. Now you are telling me you have become one of those threats?"

  "Put to the lord's work, they would be as dark angels seeking redemption."

  They would also, Devlin thought bitterly, be far cheaper and easier to make than true angels. Devlin looked at him in disgust. "Your sister would be ashamed of you. Do your superiors know what you're about? I think they will burn you alongside me."

  Winsted stepped close and backhanded him. "Do not speak of my sister, witch. As to my superiors, they will see, once I take them a dark angel and show them what I have in mind."

  "Where did you get the hex?" Devlin asked.

  "I borrowed it from a brother who died in the line of duty some years ago," Winsted answered casually.

  Devlin wondered how, precisely, that brother had died. He had always known Winsted was malicious, but it appeared Devlin had underestimated him.

  Still, it did seem strange. Winsted was devoted to his cause—a true slayer. It did not fit him to act this way, to side with the nightwalkers he hated, even for the sake of his church.

  "It is time for you to depart," Winsted replied, kneeling to touch a mark in the spell cage and whispering a soft word.

  Devlin braced himself to die—

  But instead felt only the cold rush of a transportation. When the cold faded, he was still within a spell cage, but the location had changed. Twin cages, woven with a transfer spell, made with the use of holy magic and designed to be triggered by his runes.

  Only a sorcerer was that powerful.

  The room he was in was dark. As his senses settled from the transfer, he picked up on the musty, moldy smell of a cellar.

  Candles began to flicker, one by one, until the room was lit with a warm, yellow light.

  Other scents began to reach him. Beeswax from the candles. Various herbs and spices. Chalk. The clean scent of water, the iron tang of blood, and the sweet-bitter scent of magic.

  He looked around the room, seeing all manner of sorcery paraphernalia—books and parchment, a profusion of them, for sorcery was the constant study and improvement of magic, a complete mastery of the arcane arts. There was very little a sorcerer could not do, so long as he could figure out how to do it.

  Then Devlin saw the body.

  It was under a preservation spell, he could see that much. A man, dressed in simple but costly looking clothes, stretched out on a small bed tucked into a corner of the musty cellar. He could not have been more than forty or so when he died. How he died, Devlin could not determine from his spell cage.

  Not a draugr, at least. The hair was auburn, the skin a warm gold in the candlelight. Well to do but not, Devlin thought, nobility. Had the man been the sorcerer? Surely not, as it was obviously sorcery that had captured him. A relative, then?

  A cold chill raced up his spine, and he turned his head.

  "Greetings, rune master."

  Devlin swore softly as he regarded the ghost of the dead man across the room, and the full meaning of the reading from the beach struck him like a blow.

  Death had been central, with four runes touching it—magic, spirit, speak, hear. Magic had also been touched by desire, connected to bond, joining himself and Midnight. Spirit had also been connected to death, though, and he should have realized that it carried a double meaning. Spirit meant himself, but it also could mean ghost.

  Speak and hear—death both sang the siren song and could hear it because a ghost cast it and the draugr heard it.

  So, the full meaning had been: Sorcerer ghost controls the draugr, desires the secret of Midnight.

  The bloody runes had given him the answer, and he had not been able to see it.

  "I have been trying for years to create what you apparently have possessed all along," the ghost said, anger on its silvery face. "I never heard a whisper of your draugr."

  "Good," Devlin snarled.

  "Tell me the secret of its making," the ghost replied, "and I will let you both go."

  "No," Devlin said. "I will die before I share such secrets."

  "Then once the draugr comes for you, because I know he will, I will kill you and rip the secrets from his body."

  Devlin smothered a laugh. "So be it."

  The ghost snarled an unintelligible word, but its meaning was clear enough as Devlin was abruptly overtaken by darkness.

  The Corpse Child

  Lost

  Midnight woke feeling both deliriously happy and in abject pain.

  Happy because he could still feel Devlin's kiss.

  Devlin had only kissed him to save him from the damnable song, true, but that one kiss had surely been enough for Devlin to realize Midnight had been lying. As if Midnight would bother with anyone else when there was Devlin.

  That thought drew his attention sharply to the pain—a pain he only felt when he could not feel Devlin. It usually happened on the extremely rare occasions Devlin traveled too far away for him to sense, which had happened only twice since he had first woken under the power of the spell.

  He reached up to touch the runes over his heart, softly whispering, "Heartbeat, where are you?"

  Why would Devlin go too far for him to sense?

  The brief happiness he had felt over the kiss faded away to wrenching devastation. He had thought… the way Devlin had looked at him… then the kiss…

  Perhaps he was getting his hopes up for nothing. A corpse was a corpse, after all, and no matter what Devlin said, it must bother him.

  But that kiss! That had felt like a great deal more than simply trying to save him from the siren song. Then again, he thought bitterly, he knew nothing about kisses. Books and etchings could only teach so much, and he had never wanted any but Devlin to give him practical knowledge.

  H
e sighed, thinking of how horrifically his brag about having experience had backfired. The way Devlin had spoken, Midnight had thought he would be happier knowing Midnight had chosen him after playing with others, but instead…

  Grimacing, Midnight threw back his bedcovers, only then noticing the wards placed around the room, and even the bed itself.

  Devlin had ensured he was well-protected. Even a demon would find such wards extremely bothersome. Surely he would not do that if he were leaving for good?

  The wistful thought died almost before he had finished it, for it simply was not true. Devlin honored the promise made to a woman not to kill a man whom Midnight had long believed should be dead. Especially since that same man so badly wanted to kill Devlin.

  Of course he would ensure Midnight was protected.

  "Heartbeat," he said again, whispering it softly, feeling a deep ache that he would probably never be able to call Devlin that again.

  Moving out of the wards, Midnight pushed back the curtains. He saw that it was late evening, but still some time before midnight, meaning dawn was hours away yet. Either he had slept for only an hour, or he had slept through a full day.

  Hoping he had only slept an hour, Midnight left the bedroom and entered the sitting room. It was deserted, though the fire had been stoked recently. Well, if Barra was about, at least he would have one friendly face.

  Leaving Devlin's rooms, he crossed the hall and knocked upon the door. It was opened a few moments later by Barra, who looked distinctly flushed and rumpled.

  Smirking, Midnight said, "Sorry to interrupt. I do not suppose you have seen Devlin, wolf-elf?"

  "Oh, be quiet," Barra muttered, righting his clothing as he stepped back to let Midnight inside. "We have not, come to that, but he went off hunting that priest only an hour or so ago. I expect he will be back any time, and likely in quite a temper." He offered Midnight a smirk of his own. "I'm certain you'll be able to soothe it, Midnight."

  Midnight shook his head, frowning unhappily. "I cannot feel him," he whispered. "Did he run away?"

  "Can't feel him?" Barra's smirk vanished abruptly. "Nay, Midnight—he made no show of running off in one of his fits of guilt. He was determined to beat Winsted black and blue, to get out of him whatever he could of the bloody bastard behind the singing."

  "You are certain?" Midnight asked, too afraid to hope, but even more terrified that something might well and truly be wrong.

  "The man is a bloody idiot," Barra said, aggravation and affection in his voice in equal measure. "It's plain as day to everyone but himself that he loves you—in all ways, including the more wicked." Barra winked. "I would wager he is working out his guilt by inflicting hellish wrath upon that no good slayer."

  Midnight shook his head. "If I can't feel him, and he didn't run away, then he must be in trouble."

  Barra grimaced. "Maybe tracking down the priest took him out of range."

  "If he had to go that far, he would have sent word," Midnight countered. "I am going to find him."

  "You'll need to get dressed first," Barra said dryly. "Come on, then." He grabbed Midnight's upper arm and half-guided, half-dragged him back to Devlin's rooms, moving to the wardrobe by the bed and rifling through it until he came out at last with what he deemed suitable clothing.

  A jacket of the deepest green, the rest of his ensemble was black, right down to the neck cloth. There were emeralds here and there to add a crowning touch, and his hair was tied back with a matching ribbon. "There, now," Barra said, nodding in satisfaction, handing over a pair of gloves. "Now, let me tell Neirin we'll be off—if Devlin is in danger, you'll likely need help to get him out of it again."

  Midnight nodded, impatient to be going. He waited in the hallway, snuffing the lamp there so that anyone strolling by would not have enough light by which to see his hair was actually blue.

  As were his nails, which recalled him to his gloves. Tugging on the supple black leather, he flexed his fingers to settle them just so. They fit as perfectly as a second skin, warm and smooth, soft as silk from wear. He curled his fingers and pressed them gently against his mouth, inhaling the scent of the leather.

  Leather always reminded him of Devlin, a scent that clung to him even when he was too busy thinking or moping to realize he'd just bathed in rose oil or used vanilla and honeysuckle soap.

  Sandalwood, leather, and musk—those were Devlin, scents Midnight had associated with his beautiful savior even before he had known precisely what those scents were. He placed a hand over his heart, closing his eyes and feeling the steady beat, reassured by it. If he was alive, so too was Devlin, and if Devlin was alive, he could be saved.

  Of course, if he really had fled and was off drinking himself to death, Midnight fully intended to give him a thrashing.

  Just as his worry and fear began to overwhelm him, Barra reappeared. He quirked a brow. "I'm impressed you're still here."

  Midnight shrugged and headed down the stairs, stepping onto the streets and drawing to an abrupt stop—he had no idea where to go. Not a one. Devlin always knew where they were going, or decided where they would go, or he could feel Devlin and follow that.

  Now there was nothing. Devlin could be right beneath his nose and he would not know it.

  He fought tears and an overwhelming urge to start destroying things, knowing it for the draugr impulse it was. They would find Devlin, and he was probably just being a ruddy, guilt-laden bastard.

  Midnight licked his lips, imagining he could still taste a hint of the kiss Devlin had given him.

  "This way," Barra said, stirring him from his thoughts. "It's faint enough, but I can smell him."

  Of course. Midnight felt like an idiot. Barra was with a werewolf. He might be only half-wolf, but Midnight had never known his nose to fail.

  It took them over three hours, between sorting through various trails and possibilities while trying not to attract unwanted attention. No one would dare to cross the Mad Duke, but without him there, people might manage to summon a bit of boldness and demand to know what they were about. Thankfully they were ignored past a few wary looks, and it was just past ten when they came to the church.

  "Here, I think," Barra said. "He's wandered about this place so bloody much, it's hard to tell, but this is the freshest trail and it ends here."

  The church was a small one, quaint and charming. Midnight preferred to stay well away from such places, ever fearful of what reaction he might stir, given that the only priests he had ever known were slayers. Devlin could be inside, however, and so he preceded Barra up the steps, pushing open the door and stepping inside.

  It was a pretty little place, if rather plain. The windows were all stained glass, which meant it was not quite as poor as it seemed at first glance. The pews were old, scratched and faded and worn, but it gave an impression of warmth and welcome rather than seeming stiff and rigid.

  The floor was tiled with slate and looked surprisingly dirty, as though the dust and grime had only been half-heartedly swept up. An incredibly lazy effort, as he could still see bits of something beneath one—

  He let out a strangled cry as he realized what he was staring at and immediately rushed over, kneeling to pick the object up, curling his hand around it. Hoping he was wrong, Midnight opened his hand again, only to stare miserably at the object lying on his leather-covered palm.

  A rune. Fire, to be exact. He knew the rune as well as he knew his own face. It was Devlin's.

  He turned and showed it to Barra, who made a sound remarkably like a growl. "He would never go somewhere without retrieving all of his runes."

  "No," Midnight said. "Where is he, then?" He bit back the mindless rage that wanted to consume, the same blind hate that had driven him to protect Devlin the other night, to kill an angel. He had hated himself for doing it, but he would kill a thousand if they tried to kill Devlin.

  "Keep an eye out," Barra murmured and shifted to his wolf form. Nose to the floor, he began to explore the sanctuary in earnest, occasion
ally chuffing or growling or scratching at a bit of floor.

  Midnight kept watch, holding fast to the rune, willing it to tell him where Devlin had gone.

  He rubbed his thumb over it, wishing it could speak to him. But the runes spoke only to Devlin. Midnight's realm was the magic of draugr—he could control mist, shift to a bird or a cat, and there were precious few nightwalkers who could match his strength and speed.

  The sound of the door opening brought him sharply round, tensed for anything, but he drew up short when he saw it was only Neirin and Troyes.

  Barra immediately abandoned his search, transforming back. "You should be in bed!" he snapped.

  Neirin only smirked. "Did I seem weak and unfit for physical labor earlier?"

  Making a sound remarkably like a squeak and turning a rather amusing shade of red, Barra could only glower in protest.

  It made Midnight laugh despite himself. Barra deserved to have someone who would tease and embarrass him. Even if it made him ache all the more to have Devlin back, he liked to see Barra happy. "I had not realized such things were a remedy. How interesting."

  Barra only shifted his glare to Midnight. "We have work to do," he said, then shifted back to his wolf form.

  Troyes laughed softly and touched Neirin's arm briefly, then shifted as well, joining Barra in exploring the church.

  "Have you found anything?" Neirin asked, one hand resting lightly upon the hilt of the sword at his hip.

  Midnight silently held out the rune. "He was here, and got into a fight, I think. This is the fire rune—it is most often drawn in combat, or so hea—Devlin once told me." He swallowed, realizing he had nearly said 'Heartbeat' aloud for anyone to hear.

  It was one of his lingering uncertainties. He was fairly certain Devlin had just been angry when he had said it sounded childish and that Midnight should stop using it. Still, that moment made him wince because he had been angry and hurt but only wanted Devlin to stop keeping him at arm's length. Instead, his impulsive lie had only erected a wall between them, and he was as yet uncertain how much of it had been knocked down by that one kiss.