by Megan Derr
All of it, he hoped. If Devlin had been kidnapped, at least it proved he was not running. As consolation went, it wasn't much. He'd vastly prefer to deal with a petulant, guilt-ridden and drunk Devlin than live with the knowledge that Devlin was alone somewhere, in danger and possibly hurt.
Midnight clutched the rune tightly, the bit of bone a poor substitute for the man himself. He looked up as Troyes and Barra shifted back. "What have you learned?"
"Devlin was obviously here, and so was Winsted. There are traces of chalk, but it's not Devlin's," Barra said, brow furrowed and a thoughtful frown on his face. "I also smell something… bitter, cold, almost rotten, but I've never smelled anything like it."
Midnight stared at him in surprise. What in the world was it that Barra could not identify it?
Troyes said, "Bad smell is magic stop." He looked at Neirin, obviously expecting his knight to translate.
Neirin obliged, mouth quirked in a faint, fond smile. "I am not certain what you would call it, but the word we use is 'hex'."
Midnight hissed even as Barra growled. "A hex?" He trembled with fury and only the feel of the rune kept him from lashing out at anything and everything. "What was that vile priest doing with a hex?"
Despair tangled with his rage as he thought of all that could have been done to Devlin if he had been struck with a hex. They were difficult to make, by all accounts, and extremely expensive. The Church parceled them out even less often than it did mercy where nightwalkers were concerned.
"So you have heard of them," Neirin said. Guilt and dismay flickered across his face. "They were just one secret stolen from the dragons, centuries ago, when one of our own betrayed us." He laughed sadly. "Betrayed them, I should say, for I am a betrayer too, now."
"Neirin good," Troyes rumbled as he and Barra moved as one to Neirin's side.
Midnight turned away from them, unable to take the sight of it when he wanted so badly to hold Devlin and be held. He touched the rune to his lips, closing his eyes, feeling again that one kiss—
With a rough sound, he shoved the rune into his pocket and focused on the matter at hand. "So the priest used a hex, and then… You said chalk."
"Yes," Barra replied.
Midnight frowned. "That makes no sense," he said. "Chalk is the realm of witches, sorcerers, and alchemists. No holy mage, especially a slayer, would dirty his hands with chalk. They keep strictly to incantations and talismans, that sort of thing."
"Soured holy man," Troyes rumbled, amber colored eyes glowing faintly.
"What does that mean?" Midnight asked.
Neirin shrugged. "It means his smell was off, something about it was not true. We have limited experience with magic, however, so I am afraid we cannot be much help in that respect."
"Any help you can offer is greatly appreciated," Midnight said, mouth twisting with bitterness. "Especially since, come sunrise, I will be useless." He barely kept from slamming his fist into the nearest pew, knowing it would break if he did so.
The sound of feet scuffing on stone drew them all, and Midnight saw a priest come through the door beyond the altar.
Before he could move, Neirin was bolting down aisle, drawing his sword as he went. The priest turned and ran, but Neirin was right behind him. Midnight heard a terrified shout shortly after they disappeared from view.
Another moment passed and Neirin reappeared with the priest in hand. Obviously terrified, the priest put up no further protest, not even trying to run when Neirin released his hold.
He stared at Midnight wide-eyed. "You—"
"There were two men here," Neirin cut in, voice cool and haughty, so much like Devlin when he was angry and wanted something done about it immediately. "A priest and a nobleman. The Duke of Winterbourne, in fact. I am certain, Father, that you do not want to explain to all and sundry why such an important peer of the realm has gone missing in a church that is watched over by a nightwalker."
"Horned magic," Troyes rumbled.
Midnight blinked, too startled for a moment to speak. "You're an imp? And a priest?"
"Yes," the imp said miserably. "My master was the priest originally. When he died, I took his place. Please, you can't—that damned priest already threatened— if I didn't—"
"Tell us what happened," Midnight said. "No one will turn you in, not if we can help it. What transpired?"
The imp nodded slowly, obviously not trusting them but resigned. Imps normally had powerful magic; if this one did not, then he must still be recovering his power. Midnight did not have the skill to see past the illusion that hid his real form. He could only sense the priest was a nightwalker. Or perhaps the imp was not entirely free, but bound to the church in some manner. That would certainly explain why he did not leave it.
Well, it was not Midnight's problem. He did not care about anything but Devlin.
"The slayer, he knew what I was," the imp said. "He said if I did not help him, he would kill me as well. So I helped him, I drew the spell circle that was on the piece of paper he gave me."
Midnight's breath caught. "Piece of paper? Do you still have it?"
The imp nodded slowly. "I think he meant to take it but forgot. After the witch vanished, the priest just left."
"Where is it?"
When the imp told them, Barra immediately ran off to fetch it.
"What else?" Midnight asked. "My friends say they smelled a hex."
"Yes," the imp replied. "He had one of those, bound in a gold cross. The witch stopped it, but that was part of the trap, I think. Then the spell activated, and he vanished, and that was that."
Barra returned, clutching a piece of paper. One edge was torn, as though ripped from a book.
Midnight examined the spell circle and realized after a moment it was no mere circle. "Cage," he said, breathing the word. "That bastard trapped him in a spell cage. There is no way he was capable of such complicated magic—even Devlin could not do this. This is sorcery."
Barra growled, as did Troyes. Neirin hefted his sword, the steel flashing in the candlelight.
"Thank you," Midnight said to the imp. "You have been most helpful." He turned away, slipping a hand into his pocket to touch the rune there. "Come, my friends," he said. "Let us go find a sorcerer."
Obsessed
"Midnight, you have to get inside!"
"I can't stop," Midnight argued, even though he knew it was futile. He was tired, and already the earliest threads of the looming dawn were making his body ache.
Devlin needed him, and he was incapable of helping because he should be dead and could not face the sunlight like a true living person.
For years he had feared that was why Devlin would never love him back, not the way Midnight loved him. A lover was meant to walk side by side, and how could he do that when he could not walk beneath the sun? Devlin needed someone who could be with him always, protect him always, and Midnight could not do that.
Maybe it was the reason Devlin kept him at that last little distance.
Except that kiss—surely it had not been solely to save him?
"Midnight—"
"Fine!" Midnight snarled, fighting frustrated tears. "I'm going, I'm going. Get the stupid, useless draugr inside so he'll be safe." Jerking away from Barra's attempt to comfort, he stormed inside the lodging house and stomped up the stairs, tearing at his clothes the very moment he was safely within Devlin's bedroom.
He was tired of this stale room, this stiff house where they must watch everything they said and did, where he must take care to avoid strong light. He wanted Devlin's townhouse, or better still, his country estate. It would be nice to get away from everyone and everything for a time, to have Devlin to himself for at least a little while.
Flushing at the idea of having Devlin really and truly to himself, in all ways, he slid naked into bed and moved until he was on Devlin's half of it. He buried his face in Devlin's pillow, breathing in the lingering traces of him.
Closing his eyes, wrapped in warm blankets and the scen
t of Devlin, Midnight finally permitted sleep to take him.
*~*~*
No one had taught him anything. All he knew he had learned from watching, from begging, from beatings.
Everyone had a place. If you did not have a place, you were no one. If you were a no one, you got kicked and hit and told to go away. Sometimes, they threw food just to be rid of you. Those were the good days, and he had learned very carefully how to tell when it was a good day and when it was a bad day.
The woman at the church gave him food, sometimes, without throwing it. She sometimes left him clothes too, but never gave them to him herself. She set them outside for him to find.
He also knew things that no one else did. He had learned of places to hide in the church and often stayed there when it was too cold to sleep outside.
A man, and sometimes the woman, taught things to other people. To other children. He listened lots because the stories were better to think about than food or shoes or the snow that was coming.
His favorite stories were about the angels. They were bright, golden, and brought ti-ding to people. He didn't know what a ti-ding was, but it always sounded good. He had tried to ask once, but they had only thrown stuff and told him to go. They always got angry when he tried to talk because he could not do it well. No one had ever taught him.
Once, he had snuck inside to look at the stories. It was filled with pretty people—golden and bright, just like the woman and man said. He thought they were golden, anyway. The hair looked like coins; he had found one once and tried to buy bread, but the bread man had gotten mad and told him not to steal and taken the coin away but not given him bread.
He dreamed about angels, about one bringing him ti-ding.
Then—oh, yesterday—
He had seen an angel. Big and tall, with hair like coins and eyes just like the sky.
Though it was bad, he had followed the angel around. Surely it was not too bad because he only wanted to look. Just look.
Then today—oh, today the angel had smiled at him and given him a coin.
He held tight to the coin now, turning it over and over in his hands, imagining the angel's coin hair, wondering if it was soft like the grass in his favorite place where he slept when it was hot.
He wished it was warm now because it was so hard to find warm and safe places to sleep in the cold. The church was good, usually, but not always. He really needed to be safe now, with the monsters. They came out at night and ate the cats and dogs and had hurt a woman too. He did not like the monsters, but the monsters brought the angel, he thought, so…
The coin was dull in the dark, but he remembered how bright it had been while the sun was still out. Hopefully the mean inn man would not find him right away. He was too busy staring at the angel, too.
He rubbed the coin again and wondered if the angel had a stable and if he could stay there. Maybe if he gave the coin back? Was the coin enough to stay in the stable? Probably not an angel stable. Maybe he could help with the horses. He knew a little bit about them since the scary inn man's son did not always feed them like he was told.
Noise drew his attention, and he froze, listening. They were the steps of the scary inn man.
He held perfectly still so as not to be heard because if he was heard, then the scary inn man would grab him and beat him and throw him out into the streets where the scary monsters were, and he didn't want to wind up like the dogs and cats.
The scary inn man's boots scuffed on the stable floor. He could hear the scary inn man grumbling and muttering, then the nasty smell of a match and the funny weird smoke from the things he smoked in here sometimes.
Wrinkling his nose, the boy settled into the hay and hoped he did not sneeze or something.
Nothing but silence and smoke for a very long time, until he heard the stable door creak open again. He immediately recognized the church-smell of the woman who sometimes gave him clothes. What was she doing here?
He wished he could move, but he did not dare.
"Are you out of your mind, calling me to see you?" the church woman asked. "What are you thinking?"
"Those draugr," the scary inn man said. "They're getting worse. What in the hell have you done, you crazy bitch?"
The sound of flesh striking flesh, a sound the boy recognized all too well.
"Do not speak so to me," the woman snarled. "You are no better than I, and I believe you were the one who first toyed with things best left alone."
"Yes," the scary inn man said bitterly. "I should have learned my lesson the first time, after spreading your eager legs only resulted in that damned whelp."
The woman made a strange noise, but the boy could only recognize the anger and pain in it. What was a whelp? He wished he could ask.
"You were eager enough to spread them," the woman said at last.
"You were eager—"
"Let us focus on the draugr," the woman cut in. "They are far worse a problem for us if those two nightwalkers discover we were the ones behind the draugr waking."
"They won't," the man said, but his voice was the same as when he told his inn woman that he had not been smoking in the stable, so lay off. He was lying. "How could they possibly discover we broke the old wards and took away the jewels? They won't. We left no trail."
"Then why did you bring me here?" the woman demanded.
"Because they will discover us if we try to leave town," the scary inn man snarled. "We can't pawn the jewels here, and we can't leave to do it, lest the draugr come after us."
"They'll kill the draugr in a few more days," the woman said in sharp-edged voice. "They will not figure out what first woke them, and they will happily go on their way. Then we can take the jewels away and sell them, and you can stop worrying about funding your fondness for those weeds you smoke."
"And you can fend off those debts of yours a bit, eh, Mary my love?"
"I am not your love," Mary snapped. "I wish I had never met you."
"Oh, now, you don't mean that," the man said in a funny voice.
The boy listened to them move and shuffle, the rustle of clothes, funny sounds he could not identify, then moans and gasps, and he wondered if they—
He sneezed.
The noises abruptly stopped, and the boy started to cry because now they would find him and beat him, and he'd only wanted to sleep somewhere warm and safe from the scary scary monsters—
Boots pounded up the ladder and across the loft, coming straight to the little corner where he had tried so hard to hide and bother no one.
Rough hands grabbed him up and shook him hard, and he cried and cried and begged them to stop, he was sorry, but they weren't listening to him. They were arguing and scared of something themselves—then their voices changed, and they were suddenly scarier than the monsters, the way they looked hard and cold and like they were doing something wrong.
He caught snatches of words—accident, from the cold, no marks, little monster, give them away soon.
Then they threw him back to the ground and held him down and covered his face with a folded up horse blanket and he couldn't breathe and he'd only wanted to sleep and he wished the angel would come save—
*~*~*
Midnight woke with a start, shivering and shaking, desperate to breathe but feeling as though he couldn't.
He'd not had one of his can't-breathe dreams in a long time. He never remembered them. Devlin had often said it must be a memory from something that had happened close to when died. Perhaps the last nightmare he'd had as a true living person.
Though Devlin had never said, and likely would never say, Midnight rather thought the memory had more to do with how he had died. Devlin had never told him much of anything about of his life before turning draugr. That he had been a homeless boy and fallen victim to the draugr in a little village many miles from London and that Devlin had wanted to take him in from the first.
Past that, Midnight did not know. He suspected many things but could prove none of them. Devlin was frustrati
ngly silent on the matter, which he always was when he wanted to protect Midnight. Amusing, and endearing, how Devlin would take him along to confront vampires, ghouls, sorcerers, werewolves, gremlins, goblins, and a thousand other nightwalkers, but when it came to Midnight's own past he felt it too much of a burden for Midnight to bear.
He had, of course, done his own research on draugr when he could drag no more about them out of Devlin.
Draugr remembered precious little of their lives. The memories they did carry were fuzzy and indistinct. When a draugr stirred, it cared only for sustenance and its loved ones in life. Any memories draugr did hold were just enough to recall those loved ones—faces, impressions, but no details.
Midnight could not prove it, but he suspected his very last thought before he had died was of Devlin. He had one clear, perfect memory of Devlin from before he had died. Beautiful and golden, his hair like a sovereign in sunlight, tall and broad and smiling more beautifully than any Madonna or society belle. Angel he often thought, when he recalled that memory. Had he thought of Devlin as an angel? Clearly he had been an extremely ignorant child, for Devlin was no angel.
He was a witch. A beautiful, mercurial, talented, kind, and untamable witch. A dying breed in the civilized world of spell circles and polite talks and carefully respected territory boundaries. Few these days cast the runes; few these days could consider themselves true witches.
All who met Devlin were intimidated by him. Not that Devlin ever noticed. He interpreted all of it as courtesy due his station, or to the peculiarities of nightwalkers. He would never notice that all who met him regarded him with awe, for he was a type of nightwalker that was now really only seen in rare books of nightwalker history.
Even his own family was leaving Devlin behind, running away to be pathetic, sniveling witches across the ocean, far away from the notoriety of the Winterbourne name. Pathetic cowards, knowing they were inadequate against the splendor of Devlin.
If they were still here, Midnight would kill them and drink their blood for being so cruel to Devlin. He would not tolerate anyone hurting his Devlin, his Heartbeat.