by Cat Adams
While the others were distracted, Tal pulled on the power of the stone Mila had given him to create his own magical cloaking and followed the Guilder out a side door of the building and into a darkened corner near the parking garage where a second man was waiting. It was dark enough that he didn’t have to worry about been seen, so he allowed the cloaking spell to slip off his skin. The familiar lightheaded sensation followed as the frayed edges fluttered into the breeze. Casting, for him, was much like attaching small lead weights to his clothing. At first you hardly noticed them. But the further you traveled, the quicker you tired. It wasn’t difficult, but the concentration required to maintain distance and speed was taxing.
“Did you get them? He’s grown tired of waiting.” Tal’s attention was drawn to the nearby conversation. Edging closer until his back was pressed against the cool concrete, while the smell of auto exhaust stole his breath, he listened intently to the whispers from the shadowy figures.
A small rustle was followed by a trembling tenor. “No. She hasn’t called me yet, Cardon. I don’t know what the problem is. All I’m getting is her voice mail.”
The resulting growl from the witcher, Cardon, made the first man flinch. “I told you before, Bowers—don’t ever call me by my name. Names have power where I come from.”
Indeed they did, and Tal couldn’t help but smile. There couldn’t be many men in the witch guild with such a name. Five years ago, it would have been short work to bespell the man at a distance, without knowing a thing about him, to make him reveal all he knew. But such techniques were very magic-intensive, and were now only used in the most dire cases. Still, there were enough lesser spells that could be cast with a name that the same purpose could be achieved. Cardon … it didn’t sound like a given name, but he knew most of the surnames of the older witch families, and didn’t recognize it. I’ll have Alexy check it out when we meet back up at the house.
Whether she liked it or no, Mila’s house would be their temporary base until they could make other arrangements. There were layers of protective spells already in place. Too, he wanted to keep an eye on the Penkin women—and not just because the younger was so distractingly pretty.
By now Alexy should have contacted several guildercent friends in the city to try to find another place for them to lay low when it was time to move on. They needed time to figure out what was happening below. He’d been right—Alexy hadn’t liked the news from Kris at all. But after he’d finished a vigorous, and rather creative round of swearing, he’d calmed down and helped to plan their next move. They’d agreed there must be a reason why Sela had chosen to live with Mila Penkin, yet not ever discuss Agathia or her role in the O.P.A.
Bower’s voice snapped him out of his musings. “I’m sorry, Car … I mean, sir. She was supposed to get them at a lunch meeting and call me, but something must have happened. Tell Vegre I’ll keep trying, no matter how long it takes. Where can I reach you after you leave here?”
Cardon let out a muffled noise that could have been a swear, a curse, or just a note of frustration. “There’s no way to reach me once I leave. Even satellite signals can’t get through to Vril.”
Tal fought the impulse to laugh out loud. Short of returning to the foot of the prison, Vril was the one spot in all of Agathia where Vegre couldn’t hide from him. Tal had both family and friends in Vril. Someone would have noticed Vegre and the others. It was a tight-knit community where strangers didn’t often tread. If only there was some way to go there myself … talk to people directly. News traveled slowly to the region, set deep under the mountain range the topsiders called the Appalachians. Unfortunately, neither he nor Alexy had enough local currency to hire transit that far. Unless perhaps the women—
“We’ll find you. Just get the package, locate the source, and stay put until we come for you.”
“Oh … um, about that.” Bowers’s voice raised a few notes and he edged away from Cardon. “See, after the old guy dumped his stock and killed himself rather than sell to me, I decided to be more cautious.”
Cardon froze and raised one hand. It didn’t seem to frighten Bowers, but Tal tensed and struggled not to leap out to stop the possible murder. “You’re making me nervous, Bowers. Tell me everything now, or I’ll have my master ask you instead.”
Bowers raised his hands and waved them quickly. “No, no. It’s not a bad thing. It’s just that I hired a third party to do the buying this time. It’s her job—she acts as a middleman when a buyer doesn’t want his name known. So, I don’t know the name of the crafter who’s actually making the eggs. You hadn’t said that locating the artist was required.” The tone of his voice made it clear that he didn’t relish that part of the job, and was trying to find some way around what was being required of him—which made Tal suspicious about what would happen to the artists he located.
Cardon lowered his hand and instead grabbed the front of Bowers’s shirt, pulling him close. “Listen to me. The instructions were very clear and didn’t include third parties. You find psyanky crafters in the city, you buy their stock of eggs, deliver them to me with the location of the crafter, and dispose of them in a way that doesn’t make the authorities ask questions. Nothing more.” He shoved him away so hard that Bowers hit the building wall with a thud and then slid down to the ground, groaning. “Now, you get your ass back to work. You find this so-called third party, make her tell you the name of the crafter, and do the job you’re being paid for. Otherwise, your services will no longer be required. You know what happens then.”
Bowers leaned forward with a small sob, clutching at the other man’s flowing cloak. “No! No, please, Cardon. You promised to use your magic to save my wife. You visited her room, right? She’s going to be okay?”
Cardon’s voice lowered to an ominous chuckle. “That’s not why I was here, as you well know. I was looking for the woman. But yes, I did look in on your mate and did the first part to cast away the sickness. Still, what can be cast can be removed, Bowers. She’s safe … for now. But by the Blessed Tree, if you don’t … no, wait. I’ll amend our bargain. If you’re too squeamish to do what you agreed, then deliver the name and location of the crafter when you turn over the eggs. We’ll handle the rest.”
Bowers looked up so that his silhouette was that of a beggar praying for relief. “And you’ll still heal Maria? You swear?”
“You wife will be healed from her cancer. My word.” There was a sickly sweet edge to the voice that made Tal not trust the words, but Bowers apparently didn’t hear it, because he collapsed, burying his face in his hands in relieved tears. One of Cardon’s boots raised up and he kicked Bowers away from him. “Now get out of my sight until you have those eggs.” With a flourish of cloth, Cardon swirled and stalked into the darkness.
There was no need to follow Cardon. Tal knew where he was going. It was Bowers he needed to keep track of. Luckily, he was fairly certain the man was either full human or a very low guildercent who wouldn’t notice a tracking spell. By the time he met with Cardon again, it would have done its purpose. Then it would just be a matter of finding out what it was Vegre was trying to gather. It must have something to do with increasing his power over either the human or magic world. Nothing less would be worthwhile to Vegre. Tal had read his profile during his stint of guarding at Rohm. He was what the humans called a “classic megalomaniac.” To crush, to destroy, or to rule as despot. It was all he lived for, and no mere prison sentence—regardless of the number of centuries, would change that.
Tal closed his eyes and concentrated. Hearing Cardon and Bowers talk about eggs reminded him forcibly of Mila. Using the focus that had been in her family for generations gave him a ready link to her. With next to no effort his magic linked to hers, and he felt the power of her working. There was a darkness underneath the spell that made him wonder what in blazes was happening.
Bowers was getting up, but Tal felt irresistibly compelled to check on Mila, and he couldn’t be two places at once. Wait. Bowers said his wife is h
ere. And, if she has a serious disease, she won’t be leaving soon—especially after a “miraculous” cure. Human doctors distrusted the unexplained until there was no other choice. She would be here for several days to come, going through tests to verify what healing magic might achieve. Yet, Cardon didn’t seem the type to be a healer. Perhaps even that was a lie. But either way, Maria Bowers isn’t going anywhere soon. It was time to head back inside and find out why he felt so uneasy.
“Carole, be a doll and get me some coffee from the cafeteria?” Tim put a wheedling note into his voice. His wife gave him a long look through narrowed eyes, but rose from her seat next to the child’s bed. Mila got the distinct impression that, had the others not been present, Carole would have snapped at her husband, telling him to get his own damned coffee.
Still, she went, which was the main thing, with Candy and Tim following her out into the hall to guard the door so that Mila could work undisturbed.
The child hadn’t even stirred. In fact, she was so still and pale—her skin nearly as white as the starched sheets on the bed—it was alarming. Mila didn’t even need to open her senses to know that something was seriously wrong with this child that had nothing to do with inflamed tonsils.
Stepping next to the bed she gently stroked her hand across the child’s smooth cheek. I’ll do what I can, Suzanne, she promised. Hang in there.
First, I need to see where the damage is. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift, forcing aside her sorrow to look at the sickness as a thing. More flashes of memory swept back. Darkened bedrooms in strange houses where old people speaking strange languages moaned and wept. And Baba gently encouraging her to open herself. Then more memories of Baba walking through the gardens with her, encouraging her to let the energy of the flowers fill her to refresh her after a healing. She remembered Viktor in that moment. He always reminded her of Friar Tuck from the Robin Hood stories, with a ring of white hair and a chubby tummy under a plain cotton tunic.
The recollection sharpened and it cleared her mind. She closed her eyes and opened herself. The moment her inner eye focused, she saw a pattern of colors. But then violent revulsion swept through her and her whole body recoiled so hard that her knees hit the sidewall of the adjoining bed.
Squirming, pulsing tendrils of blackish-purple energy covered Suzanne’s torso. They chewed away at the rainbow of other colors she’d come to expect from the girl. Mila had never seen anything like it in her life, and didn’t have a clue where to start to remove it. She leaned forward slightly and tried to sort out where it had originated and where it was going next.
There. It had started on the neck. There was a black spot, almost like a burn, just under Suzanne’s jaw. It was the darkest point on her small body, and all the runners were below it. Mila opened her eyes to see if there was any other sort of mark on her skin. She felt a surge of satisfaction when she spotted it. The faint bruise, in the final stages of yellow and pale green, was the contact point for the sickness. But now it was a question of what caused the bruise. She presumed that the doctors here would have checked for poison and drugs, considering she was getting ready for surgery. So she discounted them, as well as any sort of known childhood illness. Another flash. This wasn’t something she recognized—and she realized she knew what chicken pox, measles, mumps, and even meningitis looked like. Even a few rare cases from the old country … smallpox and radiation sickness, that had made her grandmother call in specialists. This was something totally new to her. She’d never seen this pattern, nor encountered so dark and pervasive a color shift.
Perhaps liak? Could this be a fear sickness? Should she do a wax reading to find out what sort of fear?
The part of her brain that was still trying to comprehend all these strange new ideas was appalled at the thought of using folk medicine over the obvious benefits of a hospital, yet her brain kept twirling on until the skeptic in her was silenced.
“There wouldn’t be a bruise with fear sickness,” she mulled under her breath while tapping one finger on her leg. “And it must have happened days ago by the condition. It’s just taken this long to manifest. No, something attacked you … whether intentionally or by mistake. What was it, sweetie? Who was it?” She whispered the words, knowing that Suzanne couldn’t answer.
There was no time to lose. She’d originally thought it was overkill to bring along a whole ten eggs, but Baba had been right—better to be prepared than be forced to return later.
She reached into the carton and removed the first egg. Her fingers checked it for damage by sheer muscle memory. A quiet rustling in her mind reminded her that the slightest crack would make it ineffective.
But no, it was perfect … snowy white and now warm to the touch between her sheltering palms. Words flashed like lightning the moment she stroked the smooth shell and she couldn’t help but speak them. “Misiatsiu novyi, sriblo-zlotyi, dorohyi,” she whispered in Ukrainian, and would follow in English. Yes, that was right. Baba had taught her the incantations, but decided her accent of the old tongue was so poor that the extra words would guarantee the healing spirits would understand what was being asked of them. “New moon, golden-silver moon, dear.” With a flourish, she held the cupped egg to the window. Darkness was falling outside and she could see the faint edges of the moon through thick clouds. “Pomahai, ochyshchui vse. Help, cleanse all. Zmyvai, obchyst’, obmyi, osviaty. Wash, cleanse, wash, bless. Shchob buva zdorovyi, iasnyi, chystyi, iak, ty. So she will be as healthy, as bright, as pure as you.”
Mila felt the warmth in the egg increase, felt healing energy fill it until it seemed to glow with an inner light and vibrated against her skin. Rolling the egg on Suzanne would be like placing a baking soda poultice on a bug bite. It would both suck out the sickness into the egg and pour healing energy in its place. A shiver flowed over her skin and a buzzing filled her ears as she stepped toward the bed. As always, the scent of fruit blossoms filled her nose, covering over the faint but lingering scents of cleansers. “Schhob ii bile tilo, zhovti kosti, chervona krov, syni zhyly. That her white body, yellow bones, red blood, blue veins—” She placed the egg down on Suzanne’s neck with closed eyes. Panic surged through her for a moment. The girl’s back arched and her mouth opened wide, as though screaming. The egg fought violently against her pressing palms, struggling against whatever this was. “Tsila ii budova, duly zdorovymy vid vsiakoi boli! Her entire body would be healthy from all pain!”
With a reverberating screech, the egg exploded and her eyes shot open. Black goo covered the white sheets, thick as tar and smelling of sulphurous rotten egg. “Dear Heavens, what is this sickness?” There was no time to think about the fallout of a staff member walking in and seeing … and worse, smelling this mess. She reached for another egg and repeated the incantation, more quickly this time. The second egg also exploded, and the black tendrils she could see behind her eyelids had only shrunk the tiniest bit. It would take a case of eggs to remove this and it could easily take hours. The only thing she could do at this point was to patch things up as best she could and have a talk with Baba about how to proceed.
But … could she do the same thing for Suzanne that she’d done for Talos? Could she attach to the girl, use waves of her own life force to heal, instead of relying on the tiny bits of energy that the eggs would hold?
It was certainly worth a try, because what she’d done in the kitchen had only taken a few moments. There should be plenty of time. The risk was that if she opened her senses fully, the very thing that Baba had warned against might happen. She could accidentally seize onto the life force of someone who couldn’t afford to lose it. Or worse, every patient here might be able to attach to me—drain me completely. Hadn’t Baba once talked of healers who had been killed in the course of a healing? Mila couldn’t imagine any worse way to die.
But Candy would never forgive her if she didn’t at least try, and there was a good chance she wouldn’t be able to come back if Carole had her say.
She looked again at Suzanne
’s pale face, once again relaxed against the pillow. She was better, but it wasn’t enough. Mila knew she really had no choice. She needed to do this now, before she lost her nerve. Rising to her full height she steadied her stance and fixed her inner eye on the dark tentacles blossoming from Suzanne’s chest. There was no word for this, no rhyme or spell to be spoken. Instead, she had to open the door.
The moment she thought about it, another memory assaulted her. Baba had once explained that there was a locked vault door to all the magic in the world in her head. She’d actually taken Mila and Candy to a bank where she convinced the manager to show the two of them how the vault was constructed. “You see,” she’d explained, “the bars … how they slide into the wall in all the ways? That makes it strong—hard for those who seek to get in to break it. You must make such a door, Mila. Soon … soon it will be important that you lock yourself away, for it is not you that is locking the magic in, but the magic that you are locking out. Too much magic can contaminate, give sickness until you are stronger.”
And so she made a door, added layers and locks over the years—not even recalling she was doing it until today. But when she walked in the door earlier and had felt the needy reaching out to her, she’d strengthened the locks, spun the dial so they couldn’t get in. Even the incantation earlier was a form of lock. Like opening a single safe-deposit box in a vast room, each egg could only hold so much life force. Now she needed to open them all.
Except for the minor detail that I’ve never done it before. It had just happened in the kitchen. No planning, no intent. She hadn’t remembered it was there. And now she was so conscious of it, she was afraid it would stick closed.
Ever cautious of the sheer force of what could come through, she carefully began to unseal the locks in her head. She was still stinging from earlier, and wished she had a few hours to do this properly. Releasing a breath she didn’t even know she was holding, she cracked open the door, preparing herself for the neon bright rainbow of colors that made up healing magic.