There was much room for improvement, of course…
If only Evan would hurry up! I’m stuck here, she thought. Stuck and blind. I have no idea what’s going on outside Pera.
It may be dangerous…she had been told. Yes, she knew that when she got into it. It is important what you do…It is vital. Vital for our way of life. And you will be compensated. Sometimes, thought Fiona ruefully, money was just not…sufficient. She had become immortal, but even that had not been enough! They did not know… they could not know, she thought. How could anyone have guessed the existence of the Light Veil? And now, she was stuck behind it! Why couldn’t they simply capture Patron’s ship and come and rescue her? Surely Evan would think of that…she had told him the last time she had been able to cross the Veil. She had even provided the coordinates of the Veil! What was he doing? She drained the glass of wine. A sneak attack…the way Orion liked it…She shook her head.
His presence was the immediate problem, though… Orion is here and he’s coming to see me, she sighed. How did he ever get through the pirate trap? She gnawed at her lower lip in consternation. Since that story about Shadow telling them must be a lie, how did they know about the pirate attack? Maybe the pirates had refused to attack? She shook her head. Unfortunately it was not possible to get information now. The pirates had all contracted with Teodor and he was… dead by now. And his crew would be under heavy observation by the police, and, most likely Orion too…
Noticing that her glass was empty, she poured out another generous measure of red wine.
At least, I got word to the Elder about the Cypress girl, she thought. The messenger should have arrived by now. She recalled the message she had dictated. A few carefully placed words:
“Elder, Cypress Ritual intercepted by the Flying Fish bearing a group of new immortals and Orion. Expect committee forthwith.
Fiona Manx, Assistant Mayor.”
If it ended up in the wrong hands – such as Orion’s – there was nothing incriminating in those words. Naturally, under such circumstances, a committee must be set up to deal with the issue. And naturally, such a missive would be sent from the mayor’s office… Nothing suspicious. She took a gulp of wine.
But after all, was Orion really such a threat to her? The wine had made her braver, more self-assured. Orion was dangerous, yes, but to others… She was an immortal; one of his kind. They had slept together, for God’s sake! He ignored her, yes, and could be unbelievably rude, but dangerous? Not really dangerous, to me, she told herself.
But the knives…
They are for others, she told herself. He had never threatened her, not actually made a verbal or physical threat.
Not one, but many knives… said the insistent voice in her head. She took another gulp of wine.
With respect to the Elder, Orion would probably be a real, physical threat, she thought. That made sense. But then, the Elder wasn’t such an idiot as to miss the warning about Orion. And anything might happen to Orion before he had a chance to pay them a visit… Anything. Fiona closed her eyes. There he was, forever burned into her memory: that bewitching smile, those playful blue eyes…his voice – so gentle…Orion. Why did it have to be like this? You and I could have been on the same side, she thought sadly. You didn’t have to turn against me. Why did you? I didn’t mean you any harm. I wouldn’t have let anyone hurt you.
“Your precious Pera?” she spat. “What’s so special about it? A stupid, backward place where people worship a dumb crocodile! You are the traitor.” You are protecting this strange, foreign place. Protecting it from what? From me? From your own kind, Orion… From your people? The people of our world. And what do you think will happen to this precious Pera of yours? Nothing. Nothing that shouldn’t happen to such a backward place! Civilization, for one. Proper laws, for another. I hate this place!
“Yes, you are the traitor,” she said out loud. “You will pay…I swear. You will pay.”
After all, there had been that other note too… she smiled. There was nothing to trace it to her; more importantly, she had no knowledge to give. None that he could take from her. Her mind was clean, her memory empty. “I have no idea where he is,” she said. “I have no idea where he was living, or where he might go… I don’t even know what, if anything, he knows.”
She was startled out of her contemplations by a rapid knock on the front door.
And suddenly all the wine in the world could not dull the fear. No amount of yoga could ease the knot in her stomach.
Orion!
But she would have to open the door. If it was Orion, the door would present not so much a barrier as a minor, fleeting inconvenience, and if it wasn’t Orion... well, she had no neighbors: the nearest residence was a kilometer away down a steep hill, and in any event very few people, apart from her fellow immortals knew where she lived.
What if it is Orion? Fear tinged with hope, or is it just wishful thinking?
Hesitantly she stepped out of the living room, and across the hallway, barefoot to still the noise on the cypress wood flooring. Not that it would matter if Orion were standing without…
The knocking grew insistent, impatient. Someone really wants to tell me something, she thought.
“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” she called out irritably, quickening her step…
32
“You mustn’t despair. There is a way.”
Another impossible dream. Another promise… to be broken. There was no way out of this… was there?
“I don’t believe you,” Sinclair slurred thickly.
“Tut tut,” Evan Nightshade replied and shook his head gently. “This is no way to face your future.”
Sinclair closed his eyes, his breathing was labored. It was always like this after the treatment… Always the same, for several days, and for what? A few months’ respite?
“I promise, there is another way,” Nightshade smiled as he patted Sinclair’s hand. A blotchy, repugnant thing that Sinclair could not bear to see… to claim as part of his body. This new, disgusting body that he could not escape. It was not possible. He had tried… everything.
“I know it feels impossible now,” Nightshade continued, “but you have to trust me. This time, it will be different.”
“What?” Sinclair managed.
Nightshade retrieved a small glass bottle filled with a clear liquid from his jacket pocket. He unscrewed the top and placed it on the coffee table in front of the black leather sofa upon which Sinclair was lying. “Drink this. It will make you feel better.”
“Huh,” Sinclair grunted, reaching for the bottle. “What is it?” he muttered, peering unseeingly into its transparent depths.
“It’s the promise of a new life,” Nightshade smiled thinly.
Sinclair stared at him venomously through filmy blue eyes. His unsteady hand clutched the bottle. “Liar,” he slurred.
“No.” Nightshade shook his head softly. He leaned closer. “No. I am not lying. It is not in this bottle. That will simply give you some energy. I will not lie about that. It is not a cure. It will not extend your life… But there is something that will.”
Promises. “All lies,” groaned Sinclair.
“Children,” Nightshade said. Sinclair looked confused. “Wha-?” he managed.
“Just one…” Nightshade said meditatively, gazing out of the window towards the concrete Manhattan skyline. “Just one actually,” he repeated.
“Wha’re you talking about?” Sinclair asked as clearly as he could manage through what felt like cotton wool coating his throat.
Nightshade smiled, rising. “I am sorry, Mr. Davis. I know you’re not feeling well right now. Perhaps you would be kind enough to call me when you’re feeling more yourself.” He began to walk towards the front door.
“Wait–” Sinclair called out. “Come back,” he said, raising himself with difficulty into a semi-seated position. He sighed.
Nightshade smiled to himself and took a seat in a matching black leather armchair. “Why don’t
you drink the medicine I brought first?” he suggested, pointing to the small glass bottle.
Obediently Sinclair drew the bottle to his lips and drained its contents in one gulp. The effort appeared to have exhausted his meager supply of stamina as he collapsed back into the unforgiving leather. “Tell me,” he managed through what felt like cotton wool stuffed in his throat.
Nightshade steepled his fingers, lost in thought.
“Well?” Sinclair prompted.
Until now the experimental treatments had consisted of an injection of stem cells, and although more effective than Acyuta’s cell cleaning techniques, the efficacy was short-lived, as Sinclair could attest, Nightshade explained. “But now…” he whispered as though imparting a great secret. “Now, it will be possible to practically replicate LiGa…”
“Practically?” Sinclair asked suspiciously.
Nightshade shook his head. “Well, this isn’t LiGa, but it is the next best thing. You see: LiGa’s genius lies in transferring the regenerative power of one person’s cells to another. Now…” he repeated, smiling serenely. The waning afternoon sun reflected dully on the smooth, pale skin of his scalp upon which thin strands of grey and white lay in a neat semi-circle. Nightshade removed his glasses and carefully polished them with a piece of crumpled tissue retrieved from a jacket pocket. Sinclair waited.
“Now…” Nightshade said again, replacing his glasses. He looked at the prone figure on the couch with an expression of compassion. It was a good expression, he knew, for he had practiced countless times before the mirror. The blue-grey eyes with their colorless lashes needed no prompting to direct their limpid gaze, and the formation of the facial muscles into this particular guise was so quick as to be considered genuine by most observers.
It was wasted on Sinclair however, partly because his eyesight was no longer sufficiently strong to catch such subtle permutations, but mostly because he did not care. “What about now?” he asked impatiently.
“Now we can too,” Nightshade said quickly.
“We? Who’s we?” Sinclair barked.
“The treatments you’ve been undergoing,” Nightshade explained. “They will change. Now you too can receive the regenerative power of cells.”
Sinclair snorted. “Whose cells? Yours?” He smiled unpleasantly. “I’d like that.”
Nightshade shook his head and chuckled as though at a familiar joke. “No, no. There are those who are at the end of their lives anyway; whose last act is one of generosity to another–”
“What? Old people? Sick people?” Sinclair asked with disgust.
“No,” Nightshade replied, wearing an injured expression. “Of course not. They would not have enough regenerative power left–”
“So? Who then?”
Nightshade coughed delicately. “There are certain young… umm… people…” he trailed off.
“What kind of young people?” Sinclair asked cautiously.
“Those without a future,” Nightshade replied. “These… um… donors, we’ll call them, are going to die young – I mean early – in any event. It’s part of their tradition. It’s not many, anyway,” he smiled benignly. “Just one donor a year. Luckily that’s all we need.”
“Isn’t that illegal?” Sinclair asked slowly.
Nightshade inclined his head. “I doubt anyone in law enforcement such as we know it could ever find out.”
“The long arm of the law–” Sinclair began.
“Not that long,” Nightshade interrupted him. “These donors are far, far beyond the reach of any legal system.” Any legal system that matters anyway, he thought.
Sinclair said nothing.
“It will mean getting your life back!” Nightshade said fervently. “You will grow young again.”
“And how much will it cost me?” Sinclair asked. Habit made him cautious, suspicious of grandiose promises.
“Well… yes, you are right, of course. The treatment is still in its last stages, and we do need funding… for the final breakthrough–”
“I thought you said the treatment was ready!”
“Yes, of course. The treatment definitely works, but we need...more funds. Our scientists are working out the final kinks–” he paused at the sound of a key jiggling in the door. “That must be your lovely wife. I think I ought to leave. I don’t think she likes me very much.”
Within seconds, Natalya appeared in the doorway carrying a small mountain of shopping bags.
“Hi baby–” she stopped in mid sentence when she caught sight of Nightshade. “Oh hello, Evan,” she said frostily, as she walked daintily past them towards the bedroom.
“I– I should be going in any event,” Nightshade burbled. “I do hope you will feel better after taking the tonic.” He pointed to the empty bottle on the coffee table.
“What is that, baby?” Natalya asked sharply.
“Oh, Mrs. Davis,” Nightshade interjected, looking worried, “it’s only some harmless medication I brought for your husband. It’s perfectly fine. It will help with the side effects of his treatment.”
“Oh.” Natalya regarded him coolly, her arms folded.
“See you later, Nightshade,” Sinclair said by way of dismissal.
“Why do you see him?” Natalya asked after the door had closed behind the man. She sat next to him and rubbed his arm. “He’s not nice.”
Sinclair snorted derisively. “Who wants nice? Nice is for pussies. He might be useful…”
“I don’t like him,” Natalya said vehemently.
33
The keeper of truth,
My brothers,
By the Dark One is protected.
From the truth, my sisters,
Not even the Golden One is excepted…
So it is written in the Book of Shadow. And who am I – a simple vassal, a cipher in the vast darkness – to challenge the wisdom of my Master? Who, indeed, am I to defy the wisdom of Night himself?
Defiance? Never. Compliance? Ever. Said the Dark One: Night’s Shining Master.
It is said that there are times when the Hunter walks where Twilight walks.
When the Hunter walks thus, how can I – as insignificant as a grain of sand that I am, less worthy than the shameful Land – defy his wishes, deny his presence?
Defiance, never; compliance, ever…
Unless, my friend…
Yours faithfully.
Fiona screwed up the parchment and tossed it viciously into the unlit fireplace. Why couldn’t he even write on proper paper for God’s sake? A perfectly serviceable warmlight occupied pride of place in the living room. She regarded it venomously and let out a yell of frustration. ‘Unless, my friend’ the spineless, useless bastard had written! Unless?
I will tell the Hunter unless you get me out of here…
Stupid, stupid bastard! Fiona growled with rage, pacing for inspiration. “It’s not my fault you fucked up the ritual!” she cried. “How hard could it be? You throw a slip of a girl off a rock into a storm and she drowns. Pretty straightforward, no? How do you mess that up? And not just mess it up in a small way, but royally. You go and get her rescued by the pirates and Orion! Orion! And then this ‘veiled’ letter. Who’s it supposed to fool? Orion?
But he means it, she thought with alarm. He will tell Orion everything he knows. Well, everything he knows, is not everything there is to know, but… he knows enough for Orion to be getting along with.
“Stupid, stupid man…” Useless man! Running to me for help as soon as his part of the plan gets messed up. What am I supposed to do about it? Doesn’t he know I have enough problems of my own? Orion. Besides, how can I get him off the island?
She let out a sigh of frustration, gathering her mane of hair into a loose bun on top of her head.
She stopped pacing. There was one option. She chewed her lower lip. It was not a good option. Especially after she had gone to such lengths to maintain ‘plausible deniability.’ It might be too late, anyway… not that she knew all the details, but there h
ad been instructions to destroy all evidence. Nevertheless, it was an option. It would have to do, even if it meant potentially exposing herself to scrutiny in the future. At least there would likely be a future…
Fiona went back into the living room and onto the balcony. She breathed deeply. This was a long shot, and if it worked, could be risky…
She walked to a large cage on the side of the balcony where it wrapped around the wall. There were no windows here. It would be good to finally get rid of the bird; it had been keeping her awake for the better part of a week.
“I don’t know why you’re so unhappy,” she grumbled. “It’s not as though I haven’t fed you.” The disconsolate bird was huddled against the far corner. It gave a loud squawk as she worked to unlatch the wire door.
“Shit! Ow!” she cried, finding herself unexpectedly entangled with a light bird thirsting for freedom. For some moments, the corner of the balcony was a clanging mass of angry bird, woman and a surprisingly (for Fiona) sturdy and ungainly wire cage.
The light bird retreated to the far reaches of the balcony railing and fixed her with a baleful, disapproving stare. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she could have sworn the bird had clicked its tongue at her.
“Well, what do you want from me?” she asked in an accusing tone, massaging her knee. “I fed you, didn’t I? And this is how you repay me. All right, I’m going to let you go. In a little bit– wait here.”
The bird waited. It was part of its training. Blind policeman training.
the Dark shall do what Light cannot Page 32