by A. H. Lee
Azrael waited for him to sit up and look around, but he didn’t. The stranger remained huddled for a long time, unmoving, and at last, Azrael cleared his throat. “Hello?”
The man’s head jerked up. He stared down from the rocks through the drifting mist. “Azrael?” His voice cracked with emotion.
Azrael felt dizzy again. That voice…
Then the man was leaping down, stumbling through the rocks so quickly that Azrael was afraid he would hurt himself. It did not occur to Azrael until the man was on the ground and coming towards him to wonder whether this person might be dangerous.
Azrael backed away, saying the only thing he could think of. “Excuse me, you don’t seem dressed for this weather…”
“Azrael!” thundered the stranger. His gem-green eyes had a bright sheen. “This is a spirit vessel, isn’t it? You put me in a spirit vessel! Why? Why?” He caught Azrael by the shoulders and shook him. “What did I do? What did I do, Ren?”
Azrael was overwhelmed with feelings he could neither understand, nor tolerate. He shook himself loose and put several swift paces between them. The man did not attempt to follow, but dropped to his knees in the sand, weeping. “Was it your desk? The tower? I’m sorry! I’ll never do it again. Or…if it was something else, please tell me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” He gripped his head with both hands, crumpling in on himself. “I hate being alone! I can’t stand it. Please, please, please…”
“Who are you?” whispered Azrael.
The man raised his head slowly, his eyes huge in the moonlight. “Did you make yourself forget me?” he whispered. His great chest rose and fell as though he’d been something much smaller—a bird, a rabbit. His eyes darted this way and that. He looked like he was about to lose his mind. It was incredibly disturbing. If Azrael had known how to flee, he would have.
The stranger made a choking noise. “Gods.” His despair was palpable. “You did. You put me in a spirit vessel. And then you made yourself forget.”
Chapter 16
Azrael
Azrael woke alone, screaming. “Mal!”
Chapter 17
Azrael
Azrael came fully awake, sitting on the edge of his bed. He was very upset. He thought he’d had a nightmare, but he couldn’t remember what it was about. He was breathing quickly, his heart beating too fast. He was sweating. I need to get up and get to work. Lots to do today.
No. I need to calm down. I need to…
“Remember,” he said the word aloud and felt an instant jolt of pain in his head. He gritted his teeth. “I know something is wrong,” he said to the empty room. He passed a shaky hand over his brow.
And found he was holding a pen. He stared at it. Then, slowly, he turned towards his headboard. That sentence had gotten longer: “Something is feeding”
Azrael’s mouth went dry. Three words. He read them again. He curled over as the dizziness washed through him. He felt rung out, hollow.
So he did what he knew would make him feel better. He bathed and dressed and went out to eat something and read the amazing book. Then he went down to the gardens and recommenced work on his project. Azrael forgot about his nightmare. He forgot about strange words written over his headboard. He lost himself in the work.
He was eating his solitary lunch in a gazebo about midday, when one of the servants approached him—a freckled redhead. Azrael searched his memory for the young man’s name. Loudain. Thomas Loudain. Goes by Tod. Magician turned werewolf. His family number among my enemies, although I have gained their trust by agreeing to shelter this whelp. He will be a useful bargaining chip, but he may also be a spy. He must not be allowed to see the project.
Azrael looked at the young man coldly. “Your services are not required here.”
Tod bowed. “My lord, I’m sorry to trouble you, but…”
He hesitated, almost as though he expected Azrael to fill the silence. When he did not, Tod’s eyes flicked up. He spoke in a near whisper. “Did you send them away?”
Azrael glared. He wanted to turn and see whether any of his supplies were in view of the gazebo. He wondered whether he should simply kill the young man and be done with it. “Did I send who away?”
Tod stared at him, confusion and something like fear playing across his face. “Jessica and Mal.”
Azrael frowned. “Who?”
Chapter 18
Azrael
Azrael woke in his bed. He was sitting on the edge again. He was wearing a rumpled suit. Apparently, he’d gone to sleep in his clothes. Something is very wrong.
Peace, whispered a voice in his head. Be at peace. All is well. You have problems to solve, work to do.
Azrael stared fiercely at the smooth plaster of the enchanted picture frame. “I am no one’s puppet,” he said to the air. “I know something is wrong, and when I find out who is doing this to me, I will bury them.”
It’s the other magicians. Your lifelong enemies. They are at fault. Murderous, meddling bastards. You must eliminate them. The world will be better off once you eliminate them.
Yes, of course it was their fault. Azrael relaxed. They’d done this to him—taken him in as a child only to use and abuse him, kept him friendless and isolated, ripped apart what little comfort he’d attained at the school with their deadly squabbles, left him homeless and alone as a teenager, hunted him as an adult, constantly searched for a weakness, called him to trial as a dark magician simply for eliminating a dangerous necromancer. They had honed him into the weapon that would destroy them.
I should call a demon, Azrael found himself thinking. A sorcerer should always have one or two demons as a source of magic and for protection.
You don’t need a demon, silly. You have the book.
Azrael felt better. He got up and went into the kitchen. The blue leather volume lay open on the table. It was certainly a magical artifact of great power. He’d been taking magic from it each time he read, and there seemed to be no end to its stores. Azrael would not need a demon any time soon. He sat down and began to read.
He was startled when a woman walked into the room. Azrael stared at her—an older woman, richly dressed, well-groomed with tasteful cosmetics. She had aristocratic features—hooded eyes, high cheekbones, silver hair darkening at the tips. Her gown was white, her fur coat black, her jewelry gold.
Something clicked into place in Azrael’s head, a door opening under pressure. “Lucy.” He couldn’t understand why he’d failed to recognize his dragon demon for a moment. He’d had her for years. Yes, of course. Lucy.
“My dear boy, you look dreadful!” Lucy was peering around the room with an expression of distaste. “Have you and your paramours decided to lock yourselves in and live on love? I realize you need to make up for lost time, but I do wish you’d give a good impression to the Council. I can show Jacob around myself, but Loudain and Lady S will expect you to play the gallant host.”
Her words made no sense, and Azrael did not quite like her over-familiar tone. “I will dispose of those three fools on the night they arrive. They will be a test—an appetizer for my creature. That way, I can make any needed adjustments before the rest get here.”
Lucy froze, staring at him. She started to say something, stopped. Her eyes went a little unfocused.
Azrael was annoyed. “Stop staring at my aura. I don’t recall summoning you. Why are you here?”
She said nothing for a long moment. When she did speak, her words were carefully measured. “I did think you called me, darling. Something is certainly pulling on me. It’s pulling very hard at the moment.” Her eyes skipped to the book. They went unfocused again.
Azrael stood up. He felt unaccountably angry. “Well, I did not call, and I do not wish to be interrupted.”
Lucy’s eyes snapped back to sharp attention. She looked unsteady. “Did you say you are going to feed our guests to something?”
“Of course I am! Why else would I invite my mortal enemies into my stronghold?”
Lucy looked at Azra
el as though she’d never seen him before. She spoke in a low, urgent voice. “Where are Mal and Jessica?”
Azrael felt a spike of pressure through his head like a warning shot. He screwed up his eyes. “Who? No, don’t tell me; I don’t care. I don’t want you here right now. Please go.”
“Beelzebub’s tits.” Lucy did not swear often, and the obscenity sounded strange in her cultured murmur. She took a couple of quick steps back and forth. “Fuck, fuck, fuck… You need an anchor.” Her eyes snapped to his neck, saw the necklace. “If that was on Mal... But it’s not. Because you two have been playing games. Fuck.”
She bit her lip, jaw working. “It’s going to get me, too. Because my bottle is open, and the moment I disappear, you’ll forget I exist.” Lucy shrugged out of her mink half-cape and threw it around Azrael’s shoulders, the fur whisper-soft against his skin. She leaned into his face with terrible intensity. “This may not work, but it’s the best I can do. Now listen to me: you are being played, master-of-mine. Someone is using memory magic on you. But nobody yet won a game of memory magic with Azrael of the Shroud. You are going to beat this thing. I have complete faith in you, dear boy.”
Azrael frowned. Lucy’s words still made no sense, but he felt a sudden rush of gratitude and something like comfort. “I—” he began, but Lucy talked over him.
“You will win this fight, Azrael. In the meantime, I am going to make sure you don’t lose everything you value while you’re getting your feet under you. We’ll find out who did this.” She shut her eyes and swallowed. “We’ll find out before you kill Jacob.” She said the last as though she was trying to reassure herself. “Because I don’t believe it’s him. I…” She swallowed. “No, I don’t.”
A confusion of images flicked through Azrael’s head. Beautiful, ornamental carp, swimming beneath the mirrored surface of a lake. He’d been talking to Lucy there. And to someone else. Two other people? Azrael’s hands clenched into fists. “Lucy, help me.”
Her voice sounded equally strained. “Don’t take the coat off. Use a charm or something. You should be able to do that. The script should allow that if it allowed you to keep the collar.” Before he could think what he was doing, Azrael plucked a strand of his own hair, twisted it with a strand of fur from the coat, and whispered the words that would bind them together. Dangerous, murmured a voice in his head. Your own hair? This coat is not a coat. It is part of a demon.
He ignored his own doubts. “Done,” he said aloud.
Lucy smiled at him. “Good boy. You will win this. Now dismiss me. If it grabs me from outside my bottle, I’ll be as useless to you as they are.”
Azrael opened his mouth. “Fly away home, my friend.” He’d dismissed a demon once with those words. Who? When? It felt important to remember, but he couldn’t. With an effort, he managed, “Go back to your bottle, Lucy.” He infused the words with magic—a true command.
Lucy turned like a person preparing for battle, and left.
Chapter 19
Tod
Tod made beds, ran baths, cleaned, swept, and mopped. He carried food and clean clothes to beautiful rooms through sweetly smelling hallways, rich with soft tapestries, heavy carpets, mirrors, frescoes, and erotic murals. He spoke politely to courtiers and the handful of political guests currently on the island. He applied just the right amount of flirtation, as was expected in the sex-drenched atmosphere of a court designed to feed an incubus…or a fledgling succubus. It was a place perfectly tailored to meet their needs without causing lasting damage to humanity.
And now they were missing. And their master had run mad.
Tod tried not to panic as he turned the problem over in his mind. Azrael had responded without a flicker of recognition to the names of his two closest friends, his lovers. Mal, indeed, was practically a part of him.
He is suffering from some form of possession. It couldn’t be complete possession. Azrael was functional enough not to alarm the servants, although they were certainly whispering that he was behaving oddly. He knew his way around his own domain. He was building something in the gardens, and he was very specific about the supplies he required. He hadn’t asked for anything he didn’t own, nothing truly bizarre. He spoke to servants by name. And that meant… He’s only allowed to remember what his attacker wants him to remember.
Tod came from a long line of wizards. He’d had magic himself before the wolf bite. Tod couldn’t use magic. Not after the wolf. But Tod knew about magic.
Could Mal be doing this? The thought sickened Tod, but he forced himself to consider it. Technically, yes. Demons, especially astral entities, could wear a human like a skin suit. An incubus might even consider that the ultimate form of penetration, whispered a nasty voice in Tod’s head. Gods knew Azrael had dropped all his guard around his charming familiar. Mal could have taken possession of Azrael and consumed Jessica, just as a larger predator might consume a smaller one. Mal could then ride Azrael’s consciousness without completely devouring him, allowing the sorcerer to perform the magic Mal required for whatever he was planning.
Tod shrank from that possibility. He did not want to believe anything so horrible had happened to Jessica. And besides… Mal wouldn’t do it.
Even before Jessica’s arrival, Tod would have laid odds that the incubus was attached to his master on more than a superficial level. That wasn’t to say Tod trusted him. He would not have been surprised to learn that Mal had devoured his master in a moment of weakness or instinct, but this calculated cruelty, this long strategy game? I cannot believe he would do that.
But if it isn’t Mal…
That might be even worse. Azrael was a memory specialist. He’d gotten very good at memory magic while cleaning up the misunderstandings, hurt feelings, and broken hearts that Mal left in his wake. For someone to get the better of Azrael with memory magic… Gods, we are in a bad place.
In spite of Tod’s larger fears, one thought kept drowning the others: I have to find Jessica. Tod didn’t know what to do about Mal—either to stop him if he’d gone bad or to help him if he was in trouble. But Jessica was Tod’s friend, and they had looked out for each other in the past. Romantically, Jessica would never be more than a casual lover—a fact to which Tod had reconciled himself early in their acquaintance. But they were true friends, and they had each other’s backs. If Tod had gone missing, he had no doubt Jessica would have done everything in her power to find him.
That would be easier for her, Tod thought wryly. Jessica has the ear of the most powerful person on this island, and I do not. Azrael had looked very unfriendly in the garden. Whatever’s riding him will not let him help me.
Tod asked about her, of course—among the staff and the courtiers. No one had seen her since the Revels. Jessica had a lot of friends, but not many in whom she confided. She was the sort of person to whom people told their secrets, not the sort who did the telling.
Near noon of the next day, Tod got up his nerve to go to the unassuming wing where Azrael kept his simple rooms. He knew Azrael was in the garden, but that didn’t mean the rooms were unwatched. Tod tried the door. Locked, of course. He knocked—softly at first, then more forcefully. At last, he threw caution to the wind and shouted, “Jessica! It’s Tod; are you in there? Jessica!” Tod strained his ears, but the whole wing seemed profoundly quiet.
Screw it. Tod stripped right there in the hall, cursing every gilt button on his servant’s livery. Then, he changed.
It was always painful, more so when he tried to go too fast. Muscles and bones broke, tore, reformed. There was always a moment in the middle when Tod didn’t think he could bear it. He would just give up halfway—a deformed monster with its guts on the floor. Then, abruptly, the pain ceased.
Tod stood lower to the ground. The world beyond his eyes looked grayer, but the world beyond his nose and ears came alight. Scents for which men had no names bloomed into stories in Tod’s mind. Vague, distant noises sharpened into focus. Azrael had left his rooms this morning with traces of salt an
d silver and horse on his shoes. The maid who stocked his pantry had come and gone. And there was Mal’s scent. And there was Jessica’s.
Tod sniffed all around the door and even grew bold enough to go to the end of the hall. Not many people came this way. Mal and Jessica’s scents were easy to identify. They were also disappointingly old. Neither of them had been down this hall in three days, not since the Revels. Tod sniffed carefully under the door itself. He listened intently. I don’t think they’re in there.
He couldn’t be positive, of course. Tod could think of all sorts of scenarios that would not have brought their scents or sounds to him from the depths of the suite. But they’re not just going about their business. If they were in the suite, they’d been tightly confined.
It was one more piece of the puzzle, at least. Tod shifted back into his human form without being disturbed. He dressed and returned to more populous regions of the palace, thinking furiously. An idea had occurred to him, emboldened by his successful reconnaissance.
I’m a werewolf for gods’ sakes. I can track damn near anything.
He would have to make some adjustments first, adjustments that frightened him, but Tod wouldn’t let himself think about that. It won’t work anyway if I don’t have something of hers.
Tod felt amazed and a little sad to realize that he didn’t have a single thing. He had had Jessica’s clothes through his hands more times than he could count—her hair between his fingers, her tongue in his mouth. But he hadn’t kept anything. He’d avoided that on purpose. When she’d written him letters sealed with spit, he’d told her to stop doing that—to use some other adhesive. Then he’d burned those envelopes to protect her. She was a magical creature. She had to be careful. Blood, hair, spit, fingernails—those things could be used against her.
The thought of the letters gave him an idea. I wasn’t the only person she wrote. Who else on the Shrouded Isle? Anyone besides Azrael?
Tod didn’t have to think about that for more than a second. Yuli. She wasn’t at the Revels. Gods, I hope she hasn’t disappeared, too. At least Tod knew where to find her room. At least it wasn’t guarded by a possessed sorcerer.