Midnight

by Megan Derr

  He abruptly recalled what had transpired last night and forgot all about the stupid rain. Devlin! He was finally going to save Devlin, and Lord grant mercy to the fool who tried to stop him.

  Moving quickly, somewhat surprised that Barra had not appeared to fuss over him, Midnight found clothes and quickly dressed. Black, head to foot, for he had not time to spare on frippery and coloring and final touches. To the devil with all of it!

  Hastily tying back his hair, scarcely pausing to comb it first, he pulled on his boots and hastened downstairs. In the kitchen, the others were already assembled. Barra and Neirin sat side by side near the fireplace, seeming perfectly at home on the tiled floor. Amusingly enough, the food they ate was arranged on fancy looking china. Troyes was curled up in front of them in dragon form, looking for all the word as though he were taking a nice nap. Midnight did not doubt he was wide awake and ready to lunge at the first indication of danger.

  The rest of the kitchen had been turned into an impromptu library. Books and papers and all sorts of miscellany were scattered about. He saw notes and charts and spell circles carefully draw out with various things jotted alongside.

  In the middle of the mess, looking more at home than Midnight had thus far seen him, was Ceadda. He was bent over at least four books, with still more forming a half circle around him, a pencil clamped in his mouth even as he muttered to himself.

  Troyes might have been ready to attack at the first sign of threat, but Midnight doubted Ceadda would even notice.

  His mouth twitched with reluctant amusement, but when he recalled the reason for the mess, his brief levity died. Weighing his options, he finally moved to join the others by the fire, loathe to break Ceadda's concentration. "How is it going?"

  "Not well," Neirin said with a sigh. "So far we have only learned that there are fifty layers to that ward—basically, fifty wards braided together into one. My impression is that to get through them they must first be unwoven then broken one by one. This is far easier to say than to do, alas. Ceadda is trying, but what we need—"

  "Is Devlin," Midnight said with a sigh of his own. "We need someone of his caliber, and we do not have the time to find someone like that."

  Barra waved a hand in the air, gesturing vaguely. "Even that may not be good enough. Silas knew what he was doing—it took him years to make this. It could very well take years to undo it."

  "We don't have years," Midnight said despairingly. "Surely there must be a simpler way?"

  "No," Ceadda said, looking up. "As I said last night—this is the patience only a genius or a madman could muster. This spell can be broken from the inside and the inside alone, unless we break it down piece by piece. I am close to understanding how the unraveling might be done, but that is all. I am sorry Midnight, but I do not, at present, see any other way." He motioned to the door. "You also forget that beneath that door lurks a ghost who can use magic like the living. I did figure out that has been done before, but not for an extremely long time—and that ghost was sealed away because to date there is no known way to destroy a ghost. Only the ghost can will itself to no longer exist."

  "How," Midnight demanded. "How the hell does a ghost still use the magic he possessed while alive? That should not be possible. I want to know how he does it!" He was shouting and he didn't care—he dared anyone to tell him to cease. Even Neirin merely shook his head and resumed eating.

  "Ghosts have powers," Ceadda said calmly, unruffled by Midnight's temper. "As I mentioned before, they are the only creature in all of creation that can go truly intangible. It is a trick that magic users the world over have sought to master and always failed. But ghosts can also do other things—the most powerful and often violent of them are frequently called poltergeists. Few nightwalkers become ghosts, especially those of us who are long-lived; humans make up the great majority, and practically none of those were ever magic users. They're almost all ordinary humans dragged into the nightwalker world, though some knew nothing about nightwalkers before becoming ghosts.

  "Though I cannot say for certain, I would surmise that most magic users do not become ghosts simply from habit—any part of them that lingers could be used, and magicians like to use, not be used. It is not a field I have ever studied; I never felt any compulsion to dwell around those few spirits I have encountered. Hasty research provided the conclusions I have explained to you: perhaps magic lingers with the ghosts of mages. Such a topic bears further study. However, our friend Silas seemed to realize this, or at least hypothesize. I wonder if perhaps he conducted experiments to prove it, though I cannot imagine what such experiments would have entailed. I do not think I want to know.

  "Whatever the case, it would seem it is quite possible for the ghost of a mage to retain his powers. Perhaps because magic is not the same as physical strength, or even mental, exactly. Magic takes fortitude of spirit in addition to everything else. It takes heart and belief. It takes will. All these are similar to the prerequisites for existing as a ghost after death."

  Midnight frowned. "If magicians can use their powers after death, don't you think more of them would have made full use of that? It seems an immortality all its own, really. That would make plenty of humans happy."

  "I disagree," Neirin said. "I do not look forward to dying, someday, but I'm young. Plenty of clan elders seemed more than happy to lay down the burden of life at the end. It wears down that spirit we have been discussing. Other races, perhaps, have the fortitude and will and desire to live for centuries, but humans generally do not. Obviously there are exceptions; powerful witches and sorcerers and alchemists can in theory live for centuries. But generally speaking the decades we do live seem plenty enough for us to handle. I think that to retain all their magic as a ghost, a mage would have to want to, yes? And most, by the time they die, want no such thing. So I would think, anyway. Those that die suddenly or unexpectedly probably have other issues on their mind. I am no expert, of course. Quite the opposite."

  "But quite accurate," Ceadda said. "As you say, witches and so forth could in theory live a long time, but most die of other causes given the dangers lurking in the nightwalker world. Then there are humans granted immortality—those who are taken as consorts to the demon lords, for example. They are a rare breed, however."

  Midnight shrugged irritably. "So Silas was stubborn enough for a hundred people. I'll figure out how to deal with him once we get Devlin back—which we can't do until we break this damned seal, and I will not tolerate waiting years for it to happen."

  He wouldn't. If he had to tear himself apart destroying the magic with his own hands, he would do it. He would not stay here, in this bloody kitchen, in this wretched house, waiting years while Devlin slowly rotted to death in the basement.

  There had to be another way. There just had to be.

  Unable to bear the stifling confines of the kitchen and all that the amassed books represented, Midnight strode to the back door and threw it open, then strode out into the rain. He could hear the others calling after him but ignored them.

  He didn't want any of them right now. He wanted Devlin, he wanted his Heartbeat, he wanted everything to be right, and it seemed like it never would be again.

  Midnight pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes as the rain poured down, soaking him to the skin in a matter of seconds. His ribbon, drenched with water, could not withstand the additional weight and slipped from his hair. Freed, his hair plastered to his cheeks and the back of his neck.

  In such a mess, he appeared perfectly ordinary. Mad, perhaps, but a normal madness. It had been raining, he suddenly recalled, when they had received the note from Devlin telling them of this adventure. He'd been so hurt when Devlin had ordered him to remain home though he had tried to laugh it off.

  Still, all the while he had remained obediently at the townhouse, he had felt Devlin's misery. As much as Devlin tried to deny it, he did love Midnight deeply. Maybe not romantically, maybe not passionately, but Midnight knew Devlin needed him.

 
; He'd felt the way Devlin missed him and had defied his order to remain at home simply to ease Devlin's pain. Now, here he was, so close and so far. If he had not come, Silas would never have known about him, and Devlin likely would have figured it all out and returned home by now.

  It was all his fault and he should have realized that sooner. Maybe he had simply been hiding from it. Bad enough that his Heartbeat was lost to him, but to know it was because of the choices he had made?

  Midnight wished he had stayed as Devlin had told him. Devlin had done it for Midnight's own safety because Devlin always put others first, even if he grumbled and complained.

  Feeling wretched, Midnight walked on, wandering aimlessly through the village, wishing—willing—that Silas would send someone or something after him. He wished he knew how to contact the bloody man himself, make some sort of deal. Hell, if his choice was never seeing Devlin again or giving up the secrets of his own making…

  He would surrender the secrets in a moment if it meant he would have his Heartbeat back. So what if the bastard became a draugr? Midnight could kill him easily; he was experienced, and as a newly made draugr, Silas would be no match. Did he not realize that the powers he apparently retained as a ghost would vanish once he became a draugr? Because that was the defining difference between the two versions of undead. The draugr retained the body, the will to exist, some small shred of its humanity. The shape, not the soul. Ghosts retained no body, but all the memories and wants and regrets. Ghosts retained everything, but nothing.

  Neither could properly function with the living and most often had an adverse effect upon it.

  If he'd had a choice, he likely would have chosen to be a ghost. Thankfully, he'd had none, and Devlin had taken pity on the sad child he must have been. If he were a true draugr he would have counted it a mercy to be burned to ash.

  Really, it made perfect sense. Let the damned bastard become a draugr. Midnight would kill him in a moment. Of course, Ceadda and Devlin would never agree to such a plan. They would tell him to cease his nonsense at once.

  Midnight paused beneath an overhang and worried at his bottom lip, reluctantly conceding that perhaps they had a point. Silas had already proven himself to be entirely too clever. It was not unlikely that he had worked out how to be a draugr with all his memories and abilities intact. But if he had figured that out, surely he would have figured out the rest?

  But, no, that wasn't true. Devlin had been forced to turn to a necromancer. Midnight was a blend of two completely different breeds of magic. Given his solitary nature, there was no way Silas would have had access to such knowledge, and his one attempt to speak with Ceadda had not gained him much.

  But obviously one of the things Silas would be attempting to master was retaining memories as a draugr. It made perfect sense he would want to be one, but only if he could keep his memories and powers intact.

  Maybe, just maybe, he thought Midnight had retained his? There was no reason to think otherwise if he knew Midnight to be as close to alive as it was possible for a draugr to be.

  It was a massive gamble to take, but standing there in the rain, Midnight could see no other recourse. As reckless as it was, it was their best chance. Besides, even if he retained all his memories and powers, Silas would still be a draugr. That meant he would no longer be a ghost, and that was the key. A ghost could not be defeated, but another draugr could—and against all of them, especially Devlin once they retrieved him, even Silas would stand no chance. He would be dust before he could adjust to his new form.

  The bastard would turn to dust, to nothing.

  Nothing.

  A frightening concept, that. A fear Midnight preferred to avoid as much as possible. When Devlin died, Midnight would turn to ash. Nothing. He no longer had a soul of his own—would he cease to exist altogether when Devlin died? Winsted had been fond of calling him an abomination, a thing of hell. Midnight had always privately hoped so because if he went to hell he could find a way out and make his way back to Devlin. If he turned to nothing…

  It was only as he was nearly back to the house that he realized the one major flaw in his plan.

  Even if they told Silas how to do it, even if Devlin and Ceadda agreed to turn him into an aware and fully functional draugr, it required binding him to someone. As a draugr, Silas would not retain enough of his own soul to exist. He would need to be bonded heart, breath, and soul to a living person.

  Now that he thought about it, Midnight wondered if some sort of bond between the two was necessary. Of course he and Devlin had not really known each other—but Devlin was his treasure, his obsession, and Devlin had cared enough for the pathetic child he had been to give him a semblance of life. That was a bond, if a strange one.

  It would have to be one of the women. He would do it, but it made Midnight feel low to resort to it. He supposed it was pointless to deny being a monster any longer. It made him wonder, as a monster, what gave him the right to judge and condemn another monster.

  But said monster had stolen Devlin—had his Heartbeat locked away in a basement, separated from him by years and years of labor. That made Midnight stopped caring about anything but tearing the bastard's head from his shoulders.

  Decision made, he stalked back to the house, but avoided the back door to go through the front. He checked the parlor as well as the other front rooms but found them empty. Abandoning the front of the house, he made his way to the backrooms and quickly found that which he sought—rather, whom he sought.

  Ignoring the faint niggling sense of guilt, he gently lifted their landlady—Ginny, the old woman had called her—from her bed, blankets and all. Turning, he carefully carried her from the room back down the hall and through to the kitchen.

  Everyone turned to look at him, and their questions and demands started all at once, creating a brief cacophony before Troyes's sharp growl drew it all to a halt.

  "What in the bloody hell?" Barra demanded. "Midnight, have you gone mad? What in the devil are you doing?"

  Midnight stood firm, even against that fierce, intimidating look of Neirin's that made him want to do as he was told. He would not be cowed, not when Devlin was at stake. Moving to the table shoved off to one side, he gently laid Ginny down upon it then turned to face the glares. "We are going to give the bastard what he wants. At this point, it seems to me the only chance we have."

  Before they could argue with him, Midnight began to stamp upon the floor as hard as he could—then he started shouting. "Listen to me you bloody bastard! Silas! We know who you are! If you want to be a draugr like me, drop the bloody wards and let us in! We're the only ones who can do it, and if you don't let us in, we'll ensure it never becomes possible! Do it now, or I'll kill myself here and now and take my secrets with me! Now!"

  Ignoring the looks the others were giving him, he dug one of his own nails into his throat, feeling hot, sticky blood begin to trickle. He could and would do it. If he had no choice but to live without Devlin, then he would not live. It was as simple as that. But he thought this might work.

  For a second and an eternity, there was only silence. Then, just as Neirin drew a breath, no doubt to begin yelling at him, the impenetrable ward vanished.

  Draugr

  Troyes threw back the trap door, letting it fall to the floor with a house-shaking bang.

  The stairs that were revealed seemed somehow anticlimactic. They were not dark stone steps leading down to a pit of darkness, which would have seemed melodramatic but apropos. No, they were simple, well-made wooden stairs intended to make the trip down into the gloom of the basement as painless as possible. He could also just spy the places on the wall where lanterns could be hung to light the way.

  Nearby, Barra was lighting the lanterns in question.

  Midnight did not feel like waiting. Turning, he carefully picked up Ginny again. Making certain she was well settled, for he did not in fact want to cause her any sort of harm, he began his descent down the stairs.

  Just as he reached the
sixth stair, there came a flush of magic. He heard the others cry out in dismay. He turned back and saw with chagrin that Silas had somehow raised the wards again.

  "Damn it, Midnight!" Barra snarled, a bit of wolfish whine in it. Beside him, Troyes growled and rumbled in dismay.

  "I'm sorry," Midnight said, then turned and continued on. There was nothing else he could do now.

  Still, it had been stupid to be that hasty and careless. It should have occurred to him that Silas would try something like that. He had exactly what he wanted now, why bother with the others? He could not possibly know he needed Ceadda to cast the spell. But then again, that was a good thing.

  Readjusting his grip on Ginny, fervently hoping this would actually work and that he had not just consigned every last one of them to death, Midnight kept walking.

  The floor at the bottom was stone, dusty but otherwise remarkably clean. At present he was in what seemed to be an entryway of sorts, empty save for a dust-covered table on which rested a forgotten lantern.

  Two doors made of a dark wood were to either side of the table. As Midnight stood there, one creaked open, the rippling flash of magic telling him a spell had just been deactivated.

  "Heartbeat," Midnight whispered in the dark, then made his way to the door, toeing it all the way open before striding through it.

  The first thing he saw was the spell circle and the figure trapped within it. "Devlin!" he cried, nearly dropping Ginny in the hot rush of joy that came at finally seeing Devlin.

  "So you are the draugr I have sought these past days—my whole life, really," said a cold, whispery voice.

  Midnight jerked and finally saw more than the spell cage and the man within. The whole room looked like a greater variation of the kitchen floor upstairs: books and papers, charts and guides, candles casting flickering light upon all of it.

  None of the light seemed to reach the man standing amidst the clutter. A silvery, uncertain figure who in life had probably been a somewhat handsome man. Now that he was paying attention, Midnight could also see the body stretched out on a small bed a few paces behind the ghost.