by J. A. Pitts
How was the witch surviving inside there? And what would happen if she finally succumbed? Spirits were still drawn here, angry things, violent things. Trisha had reported hearing them battling inside, hunting and consuming their own kind. Katie and Sarah had described it before, and he shuddered to think of his baby sister, alone inside there, while Sarah and Qindra were trapped by whatever it was that had held them there.
Of course, Katie had saved Sarah, but Qindra had stayed behind, sacrificing herself to keep the nasties locked inside. He respected that. It’s what he would’ve done.
She continued to maintain the dome, but he knew it was more than that. She had a dedication, a driving conviction to keep the world safe; he saw that. And his crew had things under control on the outside. Or, at least, they had the illusion of control. What he could do, besides figuring out the meaning of the ring, was to help find the bastard necromancer, Justin. What a pussy name for a serial killer and overall wicked badass. But that didn’t stop those girls from being dead. Didn’t stop the fact that he was hunting Sarah and by extension, Katie.
He hated feeling so fucking helpless.
Tomorrow he’d get with Gunther and Stuart. Maybe it was time to do something more, something daring. Stuart would be happy, he was sure.
Skella knew about this Justin prick. He’d check her for information. The freak was a protégé of Jean-Paul, the Vancouver dragon, Sarah had snuffed. Maybe Skella’s people would have some leads.
He just knew he couldn’t sit back and do nothing.
Twenty-seven
Frederick Sawyer lounged in the penthouse suite at the Fairmont Hotel in downtown Seattle, sipping a cup of English breakfast tea and watching the sunrise over the mountains to the east.
He let the morning wash over him, keeping his chi balanced with the rhythms of the waking city. Soon, he thought.
A quiet knock broke the silence, and he allowed a smile to touch his face. “Come in.”
Mr. Philips strode into the room, his presence as reassuring as always. How ever had he lived without this paragon of efficiency?
“I have news,” Mr. Philips said.
Frederick nodded once to his servant and went back to his tea, listening.
“Your sources have confirmed your understanding of recent events,” he said, referring to a small notepad he pulled from his jacket. “One of Jean-Paul’s minions has attacked and killed your operative in Bellevue, the young barista you had hired to keep an eye on the special subject, Sarah Beauhall.”
Frederick sat his tea to the side, careful to not upset the pot of tea on the small table. “She was quite pretty, as I recall.”
“Yes, sir. You do have an eye for a certain type of woman.”
Ah, women. He considered how his life was enhanced by their subtle curves and willing spirits. And so many baristas. Was there any wonder the smell of a strong cup of coffee could give him an erection? “That must be rectified,” he said. “I cannot have those in my employ become the victims of some deranged lunatic. How does that make me look?”
“Quite right, sir,” Mr. Philips agreed. “The twist, however, will interest you.”
“Go on.”
“Word is that the fair Qindra has not been seen in weeks, perhaps as long as six to eight.”
That was most interesting. “And?”
Mr. Philips turned the page in his notepad, jotting down several check marks before continuing. “Her grace Nidhogg has apparently decided it prudent to bring Sarah Beauhall into her employ.”
Frederick leaned forward, steepling his fingers together in front of his mouth. “Now, that is delicious news. The smith, a lackey for her most bloatedness.” He stood, paced over to the desk, and opened a file folder. “I would have believed, after the incident with Jean-Paul, that Ms. Beauhall had chosen sides against our kind.”
“None of my sources indicate the level of interaction with the community that Qindra had exerted. But it is known in many circles that she is Nidhogg’s and to cross her is to cross the grande dame herself.”
“Impressive. I believe we have been played, Mr. Philips. This Beauhall is either one of life’s anomalies that bumble along, falling into success without even trying, or she is more attuned to the game of thrones than I’d given her credit for.”
Mr. Philips nodded. “She is indeed a cipher. One we are well advised to underestimate at our peril.”
Frederick didn’t react to the bluntness of Mr. Philips’s reply. That was one of the things he valued most highly—the ability to get a clear assessment of things. More than once, Mr. Philips had an insight into something that Frederick himself had misread. He knew dragon kind, that was for sure. There were moments where he considered the man almost a peer, at least intellectually.
“Arrange to handle my business from here for a few days,” he said, pacing back to the windows. Seattle was a concrete and steel island amid turbulent waters. How would they weather the storm to come? “And arrange for a meeting with Nidhogg, or whichever functionary she deems appropriate. No need to have her discover our little jaunt northward on her own. We will be open and forthright in our business here. Allow her to extract her pound of flesh. But believe me,” he said, turning back, “I will have answers from this so-called necromancer. He does not serve Nidhogg’s interest. Perhaps it is time the old cow and I had a common goal, something to endear me to her. What do you think?”
Mr. Philips flipped back through several pages of notes before answering. “I believe it prudent to uncover the motives and goals of this necromancer. If we can win points with her eminence, it would serve your cause well. If I may say so, sir, I find myself most interested in how this may all tie in with Ms. Beauhall.”
“Yes,” Frederick agreed. “That is a most interesting connection. See what you can find.”
He turned back to the window and watched the sheep pursuing their petty lives. They packed the roads like lemmings. Would they not be better off under his loving wing?
The irony of the thought was not lost upon him. The soft click of the door closing told him that Mr. Philips had gone to his duties. “I wonder what the art scene in this deprived community has to offer one as discriminating as myself?”
He called down to the concierge. Let the city entertain him while his minions sifted through the crumbling pieces of Nidhogg’s domain. Soon enough he would stride onto the scene, rescuing her people from a century of malaise and neglect.
“Yes,” he said into the hotel phone. “I’d like to inquire as to the available performance art options for this evening.”
He patiently waded through the young man’s questions.
“Another thing,” he asked before disconnecting. “Where might I find a truly decent cup of coffee in this city?”
Twenty-eight
Trisha and Efrain sat naked in the middle of his living room. Efrain had drawn circles within circles upon the bare wooden floor, each drawn with blood, salt, and wax. Trisha sat in one, while Efrain sat in a second. Those circles were wrapped in two other circles intertwined, like a number eight, or an infinity symbol.
Finally, all of it was in a greater circle drawn with chalk runes and other arcane symbols.
When he first started speaking of real magic, she thought he was being coy, speaking in metaphor. But when he offered to show her, she hesitated. Now, she was glad he persisted.
She knew of magic from the horrors of that night with the dragon and his minions. But the witch had helped them, and she wielded magic. Maybe she could learn from him. Magic had been fiction until recently. Why not take advantage of it? Then, maybe, she could save those she loved, instead of seeing them cut down.
She’d never felt more alive. There was a sexual energy in the air unlike anything she’d ever known. She could feel her body reacting, her nipples stiffening and trills of pleasure running down her abdomen and into her groin.
He chanted words she did not understand, but the power of them was like raindrops of ecstasy. As he wove his magic, sh
e saw how excited he got, how his manhood rose with each word, until he was rigid.
“You see?” he asked.
Her breath became rapid and her heart raced. He hadn’t touched her, yet she neared climax. “Yes,” she breathed.
“Not everyone appreciates the power, nor revels in it the way I do. Can you feel it, Trisha? Does your blood quicken?”
“Oh, God. Yes!” She struggled not to touch herself, to bring herself to that final peak. He had insisted she wait. Promised that it would be beyond anything she could imagine.
She yearned for release, but watched him, waiting for his signal. Letting all this be in his hands. And they were such beautiful hands, she thought. Untouched by the scars that criss-crossed his body. She loved his body, there was no mistaking it, but the scars were startling in their abundance and intricacy.
“Blood,” he said, drawing her attention back to his mouth. “Blood is the key. There is more power in a thimble full of blood than in a ton of uranium. Imagine being able to wipe out your enemies without destroying the world with nukes.”
Part of her rebelled against this, the blood magic he spoke of, but another part of her thrilled with the thought of it all. Being that powerful, controlling the energy needed to defeat your enemies and save your loved ones.
Between them, in a smaller wrought circle, sat a woven basket holding two doves. He took the basket and carefully plucked out one of the shaking birds. Before Trisha could react, he snapped the bird’s neck, chanting words she’d never heard before. A white mist rose from the murdered dove, and he inhaled it. She watched intently as the glowing vapor slid into his mouth and nose, vanishing in his long inhalation. When he exhaled, the vapor was gone—incorporated into his spiritual reserves.
He nodded to her, taking the second dove from the cage. “Just inhale when I hold it to you,” he said, smiling like a thousand-watt billboard. “I promise you it will be okay. When we are done, we will restore the birds, as the power of life is greater than the power of death.”
She nodded once, terrified to move a single muscle.
He snapped the bird’s small neck and held it to her. The mist began to dissipate under her face. In a panic, she inhaled quickly, and the vapor filled her nostrils, her head, her spirit. She could feel the dove, understood his joy for flying free, experienced the amazing sensation of absolute freedom.
Then it was gone, like a memory of glory. She flagged a moment, desperately craving the taste of the mist.
“You can revive them?” she asked, desperate to believe him.
“Raising the dead is within our grasp,” he assured her. “There are those who fear it, fear the loss of control, are horrified by reviving the dead, but it is not only feasible, but practical.”
He held up the broken dove, spoke an arcane word, and threw the bird into the air, where it cried once and began circling them, beating its wings with panic.
“You see?” he asked her a third time.
And she did see; she accepted his power and wept for the joy of it. So many had died at Black Briar when the dragon and his minions invaded. Her best friend, her would-be lover.
She looked at Efrain guiltily. They had not consummated their relationship, but they’d done things, she’d done things, that she never dreamed of.
“Save the best for last,” he told her when she begged him to make love to her the last time they had been together. How many times would he bring her to the brink, right up to the very edge of climax, and then leave her, allowing it to settle back, leaving her frustrated and angry.
“But it is vital,” he told her, “that we do this right. This cannot be something you throw away, to be forgotten in the gutter. This will be beautiful beyond your wildest dreams.”
So she waited, frustrated and anxious. Would this be the moment he allowed her to touch him, to feel him inside her?
He spoke more words of power, and the lust in her was so great, she thought to crawl to him, to ravage him against his will.
But he knew of her need, felt her pulsing through the magic, she could tell by the way he looked at her. He knew exactly what he was doing, and she wanted the release more than her next breath.
She felt helpless in front of him, naked and wanting, so very frustrated and urgent in her needs. There was no way to reach him while in her circle, and he had impressed upon her the need to remain within the confines he built, to protect her.
In the end, her mind could no longer withstand the physical need, and she blacked out. There at the last, she saw him smile at her before the world faded to black.
When she woke, he leaned over her, chafing her wrists and wiping her face with a cool rag.
“Oh, good,” he said when her eyes fluttered open. “Welcome back to the living.”
She stared down, but he had covered her in a blanket. He had put on sweatpants, but his scarred chest was bare in front of her, within reach of her questing fingers.
For a moment, she let her hand rest on his chest; then she noticed the birds flying in the air above the couch. He pushed the hair from her face, and she saw he had bandaged his right hand. Red blotches showed through the bandages.
“As I said,” he held up the hand. “I brought them back, and I am no worse for the effort.”
She took his hand and kissed the back of it, where the bandage did not cover flesh.
“Magic is powerful, my dear Trisha. Powerful and terrible. Something that only the wisest and strongest utilize for the greater good. I have friends who are very loyal. Very interested in making things right.”
She smiled at his touch as the birds flew silently around the room.
“You should sleep,” he said, stroking her forehead. “You are exhausted.”
“Maybe just for a bit,” she replied, closing her eyes, slipping into unconsciousness.
Justin rose, sloughing off the Efrain personae like a snake shedding its skin. He chanted in a language of bruises, and the final vestiges of his alter ego faded with the flashes of collapsing quasars.
He held his wounded hand above her body. The blood rose in a thin red mist through the bandage, creating an intricate net that settled over her in layers, allowing the knots and strands to settle onto Trisha and seep into her.
“Soon I will take what is rightfully mine,” he crooned to her. “We will rise up and rule together. First, I will bring forth your greatness; then, I shall transform to match you. It is only a matter of time.” He chuckled. “And the death of a dragon or two.”
Overhead, the doves continued their lazy circling of the room, their dead eyes seeing nothing, their broken necks askew.
Twenty-nine
I tossed and turned through most of the night. There was something niggling the back of my brain, some avenue I hadn’t pursued. The talk I’d had with Skella came to mind, the way she and her grandmother were so sure that Gletts was out there somewhere, waiting to come home.
I woke with a start. Of course, how had I been so dense? I had a way to go exploring on my own. I’d done it before, even if I was too out of control to really have a handle on things.
Sure enough, the answer was clear. All I had to do was go walkabout. Shy of being hammered, or poisoned, I had no real idea how to get there again, but I was willing to bet Skella’s grandmother may have a clue. Ancient elf, lived for years under a dragon without being caught. She had to know something about it, being all magical and stuff. At least, Katie figured she was. What the hell did I know, really? If I could figure this out, maybe I could get out and talk to Qindra, scout the place out in Chumstick. Take some action instead of sitting on my ass and feeling useless.
I called Skella.
“Hey, girlfriend,” she said, as soon as she picked up.
“Hey,” I replied. Girlfriend I wasn’t sure about, but whatever. “I need to talk to your grandmother, I think.”
Skella laughed. “Seriously? She’s not touching a cell phone. She hates modern technology.”
Great. “Okay, I need to talk t
o her, all the same. Could I come visit, maybe?”
“Let me check with her and get back to you,” she offered. “She’s over with Gletts right now.”
“Call me back.”
“’Kay.”
I nuked the leftover coffee and took out my knitting. My hand had improved dramatically from the dragon-fire injury in May. I could probably get away without the physical therapy the knitting provided, but I was beginning to like it. I was working on a hat now. I’d given away three scarves. Well, Julie had taken the first two to stop me from trashing ’em. Katie asked for the third one. It was sweet.
“Ready?” Skella asked.
I looked up to see her climbing through the mirror in the hallway. “You should bring the knitting,” she suggested. “Might put Gran at ease. You’re a little high energy for her.”
“Let me finish this,” I said, counting off the completed row. I packed the yarn and needles into my knitting bag and got my jacket. “Did she say anything when you told her I wanted to speak with her?”
Skella shrugged. “No, but she’s still willing to talk.”
“Great. Let me text Katie, tell her where I’m going in case something comes up.”
Five minutes later, we were walking through the woods of Stanley Park.
“Any change in Gletts?”
She shrugged and dug her hands deeper into her jeans. “One of the others died last night.”
I stopped. “Damn, I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t even know his name,” she said, walking on. “Gran wasn’t sure he’d come back to us, in any case. He had other problems.”
We broke through the tree line and into the village they kept hidden from the outside world. Skella lived with her grandmother in a house that ran into the side of a hillock. There was plenty of room for guests, as I’d discovered.
But we were heading to the common house, almost a longhouse from old Norse culture. Only this one was a place of healing and peace. Several people watched us as we crossed the open spaces, some smiled and waved, but most watched us, well, me, suspiciously. Strangers rarely brought them anything but pain.