Immortal Protector

by Ursula Bauer

  Not that they admitted. “You’re imprinting. It’s rare, but it’s been known to happen.”

  “When was the last time it happened?” Ian’s words held an accusatory tone. His accent was thicker, another sign of increasing stress.

  “Two hundred and fifty-five years ago, give or take a day or two.” Ramon picked up his own whiskey and swirled the dark fluid. The citrus aroma rose up and touched him like a lover’s comforting hand. Ian was imprinting, running in the psychic equivalent of a rut. If he didn’t find a way out, he’d go mad. Ian was one of the strongest mystics in the Warden’s employ. Unshakable in his faith, a true believer in fighting for the balance, a favorite of his God. It was hard to imagine someone as potent as Ian Campbell getting stuck in a psychic imprint without some kind of sinister, outside intervention. Gideon’s belief that a mystic could be compromised suddenly held more validity. “You don’t know for sure if it’s a true imprint, or just fatigue.”

  Ian shrugged then swallowed the remainder of his whiskey in one gulp. He motioned for more and sat back, a sullen look etched on his aristocratic face. Not for the first time, Salazar thought there was Roman blood mixed in with the Celt.

  “I asked you here tonight because I’m wondering about the deviation point. We normally have choices. Why are we so restricted this time, Ian?” He’d asked the question of several other mystics today, and all of them demurred. Their answers resulted in the sum total of “you know how it is”. Salazar found himself questioning, just as Gideon did, and was glad that the Tribunal had thrown its weight around and assigned a champion to this job. If a Paladin had taken it on, the mortal woman would be dead, and none of them would know the real truth. He sipped the whiskey, savoring the smooth descent it made.

  “I asked myself the same thing, Ramon. I always question, I always probe.” Ian’s fine brows arched in surprise. He sat forward. “Maybe that’s why I’m stuck? Maybe that’s why I’m imprinting? I keep forcing myself into the same thread, the same detail. Maybe I’ve created the groove myself.”

  “It’s possible.” Possible, but improbable. The mystics were one force in the army that fought for balance. They could trance the timeline, traveling all the worlds and realms linked to that dimensional thread, see the breaks in continuity that threatened dimensional and timeline integrity, see the machinations of the supposedly docile Gods as they played cold war games of cloak and dagger with the mortals, see the dangers posed by followers of the Gods acting on their own. They were also adept at locating trouble caused by the multitude of magic users ever seeking power, always tampering with things better left alone. And, they could discern when a timeline threat risked dimensional breach, putting all the realms, including those of the Gods, at severe risk.

  But, they could be fooled, too. They could be compromised, tampered with, and tricked. It was rare, and exceedingly difficult, but if an enemy was cunning enough, daring enough, powerful enough, they could succeed. When the mystics were compromised, everything under the sun, quite literally, was at risk. Salazar held his glass a little tighter. “Tell me, how have you been feeling lately, other than the recurring vision?”

  “Tired,” Ian answered without hesitation. His look turned to one of disgust. “Used up. Dry. Confused. I keep forgetting things, like where I left my watch before trancing. I’ve missed a few dates with friends, and mixed up a few phone numbers. I told the doctors. I’ve been checked out three times. Complete work up.”

  “And?” He made a mental note to discretely collect the findings of the examinations. There were things that might be significant to him another set of eyes would miss.

  “And nothing. I’m not compromised, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m clean. I’m just off my bleeding rocker.” When the waiter handed him the second glass of scotch, Ian held onto it with both hands. He leaned over the small drinks table and glanced around nervously. “Elsa took me out of rotation. I’m going on mandatory holiday as soon as I’m done here.”

  “I must admit, I’ve been worried about you lately.” At least, since Gideon’s call. “You haven’t seemed yourself. I thought coming out to talk, in a safe place, maybe I could be of some assistance. Perhaps if you tell me how you felt leading up to your first vision, the one that identified the break in continuity? Maybe there’s something contributing to the imprinting, something you’ve not considered.”

  Ian took a long swallow of whisky and shut his eyes as it went down. When he opened them again, the pupils were fine points, and the irises a troubled, stormy gray.

  He’s checking me out, thought Ramon. It was almost amusing, this young boy thinking he could ferret out the intent of an elder Warden who’d lived for countless centuries. Oh, they thought him a mere thousand years old, and he let them. Only a few of the Gods knew the truth of his heritage, knew how many ages he’d lived through. In a way, he wasn’t really lying. One thousand years ago, he had become Ramon Salazar, the Spaniard. He just didn’t tell them that the years prior, he’d been many other people, gone by many other names. Everyone in the game had their secrets, even him.

  Ian’s eyes dimmed and returned to the placid, mirror-like gray. He relaxed into the chair and rolled the glass between his hands. “Where do you want me to start?”

  So, he’d passed the test. Excellent. “Take me through the days leading up to the vision. Did anything strike you out of the ordinary?”

  Ian talked for a good two hours, and Ramon listened. The bar patrons emptied out, went to their dinners, and a new set filtered in. Ian drank several more glasses of the whisky, but like a true Scot, it did little to him. In the end, Ramon couldn’t find anything that spoke to compromise or tampering. But it was early in this particular game yet. Even with the short timeline and the risk of keeping the mortal alive, Ramon had to agree with Gideon. The op stank.

  Finally, Ian had no more to say. “Thanks, Ramon. For listening. I know I didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear, but, I feel better, if only because of the whisky.”

  “Why do you think I wanted to hear anything in particular?” Ramon stood and they shook hands like civilized men, even though they’d both come from most uncivilized roots. “I’ve no agenda.”

  “Everyone in the game has an agenda.”

  Ramon conceded with a small nod of his head. “Where are you going on holiday? Someplace with beautiful women, I hope?”

  “Monte Carlo. Between the beaches and casinos, I’ll find something mindless to lose myself in until my head returns to normal.”

  A dead zone. He should have expected as much. When a psychic needed a rest, they went to a place where visions were hard to come by, where magic had a tough run. Monte Carlo was on a cross of energetic forces that deadened a psychic’s ability, almost to the point of non-existence. It was one of the reasons the city functioned as a gambling Mecca. Luck actually had a chance to work. “An excellent choice.”

  They shared a few more parting comments and Ian left. Ramon took his seat and relit his cigar. He puffed thoughtfully as he sifted through the details provided by his former student. The waiter returned, silent like a ghost, and refilled his glass. The lights dimmed, signaling that the true evening had begun. He let the ambiance of the Amici’s elegant continental décor take him back to earlier ages as he searched his ancient memory and compared the past with the present. Several links formed and developed into possibilities. In the end he knew he had little choice but to roll up his sleeves and get dirty. It had been a while since he’d worked a rouge op. If he was going to do the job, he’d need to start out right. For that, he’d need more than Gideon and the champion’s “instincts”.

  Salazar finished his whisky and cigar and went out onto the balcony that overlooked the Amici’s private canal and launch. He strolled round the building, enjoying the evening air, until he reached the side that faced the lagoon in front of St. Martin’s square. He went to a corner of the balcony, far from the ears of the hotel patrons and staff, yet close enough not to stand out as anything other th
an a man taking in the Venetian air. From his inside jacket pocket he removed a razor thin cell phone and called a number known only to ten beings in the entire mortal, and immortal world.

  It rang three times and then connected.

  Salazar spoke using his birth language. It felt hard on his tongue and sounded foreign to his ears. “It’s me. I need a favor.”

  ———

  “Make a left on Clearview Drive. My place is the last one in the cul-de-sac.” Meg fidgeted in her seat as Gideon slowly drove up the long block to her house. Her head was killing her again, and a few times since leaving the Med Center she’d experienced vertigo. She had a sense of finality now. Once she packed her bag, Gideon would take her to this safe house up north and then she’d have nothing to do but sit and wait.

  Meg couldn’t stand having time on her hands. She had a few medical journals she could take to catch up on her reading. Gideon said the safe house had internet access. That would help pass the time. Maybe she could talk him into stopping at a bookstore before leaving town? One glance at the impassive, chiseled face, and she dismissed the idea. He was dead set on dumping her up near Canada with no time for side trips. She’d have to find something other than the latest Tess Gerritsen to fill her hours. She suspected no matter what diversion she tried her hand at, her mind would linger over memories of the enigmatic soldier who burst into her life last night. Gideon was a man who left an impression, one that was hard to forget. Or ignore.

  “I want to check the place out first.” His deep voice rumbled into the silence. “You stay in the car. I’ll fix it so nothing can get in. But no matter what, don’t leave. You open the door from the inside, you break the enchantment.”

  “Magical keyless entry?”

  “I’m serious, Doc.” He backed the car into her drive, and left it so the front end lined up with the edge of the road. Then he took off the shades and stared at her with a penetrating, unblinking gaze that made her hot all over and scared her senseless.

  “I know, Gideon. It was a joke.”

  He furrowed his brow, the concept of jokes obviously foreign to him. “Something makes a big play for you and I’m not around, you take off. Don’t look back. I’m leaving you my cell. Matt’s on speed dial, just hit two, and he’ll take care of you.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you.” The idea didn’t sit well at all with her, and brought on another spate of vertigo. She gripped the door handle, bit down on her lower lip and tried to steady herself.

  “Are you okay?” He undid the seat belt and moved into her personal space. “You’ve gone all pale on me.”

  That much man so close made her want to lean into his strength. She was afraid once she touched him she wouldn’t stop. “I’m fine. I have migraines lately. Sometimes I get a little dizzy. It will pass.”

  He didn’t look convinced.

  “Really, Gideon, I’ll take two aspirins and be fine. I’m a doctor. I know what I’m talking about.” He didn’t need to know she had no idea what was causing the headaches. Nor did he need to know that nothing relieved them. They came and went on their own schedule. Meg was beginning to wonder if fear drove them off. She’d had a killer one walking out of the clinic last night, but the attack had cleared her head in an instant. “Go. Satisfy your curiosity that my little three bedroom cape is safe. I’ll wait here.”

  He slipped out of the car without another word, shut the door, and then did the strangest thing she’d seen so far. He took a tiny, green, velvet drawstring pouch from a pocket inside his biker jacket, and sprinkled what appeared to be pixie dust on the hood of the SUV. She watched the golden sparkles float free, and then as one, the locks in the car engaged. She jumped at the sound. Gideon put the bag away and stalked up her driveway. She smiled as she watched him in the rear-view mirror. The man had a nice ass for an immortal.

  Her headache began to dull. Meg turned up the AC then fooled around with the high tech radio until she found a classical station playing something soothing in strings. Normally she liked classic rock and a little bit of dance, but today, she wanted something that would soothe her savage nerves. Meg moved her seat back a little and closed her eyes, letting the comfort of the soft music and the even softer leather seat ease the tension out of her.

  Time passed, the piece ended, and the next track featuring French horns startled her out of her relaxed state. She sat up and shut the radio off, then wondered what was taking her soldier so long. She craned around to see her house, but it sat, placid as always, the bricks sun dappled, the rhododendrons shifting in the light breeze. A feeling of warmth stole over her. She loved the little cape, in the unpretentious neighborhood in central Troy. On an early summer afternoon, the block was deserted. But on the evenings and weekends, it was alive with people. Most of the families were in their backyard pools, out on the municipal golf course, or, walking dogs and children around the maze of blocks. Everyone knew everyone else, and everyone had a friendly smile and a wave.

  Her house was one of a line of post-war capes, distinguished from the others only by the number of flowers she’d planted in the front yard. It was so like the place she grew up in, right down to the attic turned master bedroom. She remembered how it felt like home the moment she first walked across the threshold with the realtor. With her parents gone, their old house bulldozed to make way for a new development, this little cape offered her a much needed sense of security, and nostalgia. All it needed was the carpet of perennials and annuals, which she’d added her first year, and it was like walking back into the past every time she came home.

  Meg was about to turn around again when her quaint, whiteboard door splintered into a million pieces as Gideon’s black clad body came sailing outside. He skidded down her brick walkway and his head thumped against the painted rock that identified her house as number twenty-five. Blood covered one side of his face, coming from a deep, nasty gash in his forehead. She couldn’t see much else of his body, but she could tell from the way he slumped that he’d lost consciousness. And she could tell that he was in trouble. He’d lost his sword in the tumble. But what was worse was the thing coming through her entry from the interior of her home.

  The demon was easily seven foot and had to hunch and turn sideways to get through the door. It was dressed like a man, in blue jeans, and a white T-shirt that stretched across a broad, well-muscled chest. But the similarity ended there. The creature was a dull jaundice shade, with hideous red tribal-like markings covering exposed skin. Two massive horns protruded from its wide forehead. Yellow blood oozed from a split dead center on its skull. Like the others, it had no real nose, and long, pointy ears. It held a curved sword clutched in a massive fist. The worst thing, though: it was headed for Gideon.

  Meg was out of the car and moving, any thoughts of her own safety gone from her mind. Gideon started to come round as she ran up her walk. The demon moved slower, as if in pain. She trampled the pansies and pulled the sword from the marigolds. The creature took note of her, snorted, and kept walking towards the immortal.

  Gideon got to his knees, saw the demon coming down with a vicious swing, and lurched to the side. He rolled into the spill and came up on his feet just in time to sidestep another strike. This close Meg could see the other wounds. His shirt was sliced in a few spots, and blood poured freely. His cheekbone was bruised, and he was favoring his right leg.

  The blade felt incredibly light in her hands. Her heart rammed hard against her ribs. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. But she managed. She put one foot in front of the other, and reached him just before the demon.

  “Run. Meg. Run,” he ground out between clenched teeth. He grabbed the sword from her and lunged.

  Meg stepped clear and started to back away as the two engaged in a series of traded strikes. The demon pivoted on the last salvo, changed gears, and made a run towards her. Before it could connect, Gideon leapt in between them, blade gripped with both hands, poised up in a defensive position. The creature’s sword connected, and Gi
deon’s sword severed the curved blade in two. A brilliant burst of light accompanied the sheering of steel, and the demon lurched back with an ungodly hiss.

  Gideon pressed his advantage, taking a series of offensive strikes that connected more than they missed. He fought the creature back into the little house and disappeared around the corner of the vestibule. Meg knew she should go back to the car, every part of her sane mind told her to run away, but instead, she ran into the house, following her immortal. She didn’t know the rules, didn’t know the physiology of an immortal, but Gideon was a mess. She dearly hoped immortals couldn’t be killed. But if they couldn’t, why would he have so many weapons?

  She hit her living room and froze in her tracks. Red blood and yellow gore covered her walls. Ash littered her furniture. What was left of it, at least. Her books were out of the built-in shelves and scattered in piles. Everything remotely breakable was in pieces. Even the floorboards fell victim. They were torn down to the joists in several spots. Gideon and the creature fought in her kitchen. She moved fully into the room and saw them as they traded blows. The demon had some kind of dagger now, but it was no match for Gideon’s superior weapon.

  Meg worried a creature like that would fight dirtier, have more tricks. And she worried about Gideon. He was hurt, bad, and showing signs of fatigue. Meg swallowed the panic threatening to consume her and walked into her kitchen. Her kitchen, her house, her immortal soldier. He needed an advantage. He needed help. He needed her.

  She was a mortal, but she wasn’t an idiot. However mythical the creature in her kitchen, it still had the same rise and fall of the thoracic region, demonstrating it still had to breathe. The first thing they taught in emergency responder class was to clear the airway. No airway, everything else was a wash. The exposed nasal passage presented an excellent point of entry. As calmly as she might grab a mug from the bakers rack near the south facing window and pour herself morning coffee, she pulled the fire extinguisher from the wall holder, moved into position, and opened up on the face of the demon.