by SL Figuhr
“I still call bullshit,” Eron muttered off to the side but no one paid him any mind, not even the duchess; surely she of all people would disbelieve this tale?
“How did you recognize the secret?” Colin asked.
Rage contorted the young man’s face for a moment, then he sneered, “The kid recognized enough of it to identify it. He kept the paper, but made me what I am in return for help escaping those men. Aid was cheap in exchange for a gift like that.” He rattled the chains. “Now let me go, you assholes, before the royal guard finds you and makes you suffer for what you have done to me.” Where the hell is my demon?
The young man tried to call again, mumbling the words under his breath and making it seem like he was complaining about them to himself. He still didn’t feel the sensation which let him know his summons was being answered, and his rage grew. They would all pay for this! Including his damn demon.
“Check his leg.” The unexpected voice was raspy, as if it still hurt to talk. “He...” the man stopped to cough and continued in a much diminished tone, “bears a mark...”
“I, but, of course.” Colin said dubiously and knelt before the young man. “Your pardon, my lord, but I must see your leg, for the truth of your tale.”
“Denied!” Nicky hissed, but what was supposed to be menace came out more like fear as he tucked his legs underneath him. “How dare you question my word over that of a known traitor? The king shall hear of this...” Then he yelped as his legs were suddenly pulled straight by Her Grace’s slave.
“You’ll regret this! I’ll kill you! I AM THE KING’S ADVISOR!”
“Let’s get this over with.” Eron struggled to keep his hold as the man howled and screamed and kicked and thrashed.
Colin wrested their prisoner’s boots off and raised his left pant leg. Above his ankle was the mark. Colin let out a low whistle.
“You bastards! I will see you dead! No one lays a hand on me and treats me this way! Every undying has a mark there, they had better or they shouldn’t live! I will see you dead!”
“Did the kid have a mark like this? Colin!” Eron demanded.
“I, yes. He did, same place. But, that, that doesn’t mean. It could be a trap, meant to mislead us, I mean, not every Undying...Immortal has them.” Colin replied, still shaken. “It’s, it’s possible the kid convinced the advisor to have the same mark tattooed there, just in case, you know, to throw us off. I think...perhaps...perhaps you should tell me what Her Grace wishes me to know.”
Eron and Illyria flicked a glance at each other. Nicky’s eyes narrowed speculatively; that was clearly not a master-slave relationship. The slave released his leg and stepped away out of kicking range.
“Your Grace...” the voice was thin and reedy, “I beg of you...a dying man’s wishes...”
Nicky watched as the duchess paced toward Rablias and crouched down near his head, so she could keep an eye on both him and the advisor.
“Speak, if you have anything that isn’t lies, otherwise, remain silent and take them to your grave. There is nothing I nor anyone can do for you now.”
It seemed the man would not talk again, and Nicky glared at him, willing him to die. The Head Questioner coughed once and his mouth moved; they all leaned in close to hear what he said.
“The advisor is more than what he seems. Knows things. Fantastic things. I...have...seen them...with my own eyes. He...he is a child of but twelve...he can make himself...into the man...you see... before you now.”
Rablias went into another coughing fit. Nicky fumed as Eron walked out of hearing range to have a heated though low-voiced discussion. He couldn’t understand why his demon wasn’t answering his summons, Rablias had to be behind the betrayal; perhaps his demon had taught the traitor something to prevent or block Nicky from summoning his pet. The young man looked toward his acolyte fighting for breath on the floor. The man would be dead soon, and with his passing, any magic he may have worked.
“There is... one more... thing...Your Grace...” the man whispered and feebly motioned for her to come closer.
She bent near him, as his lips moved. He spoke for several minutes before expiring with a gasp. The duchess regarded Rablias for a moment before turning her evaluation to the two men still arguing in hushed tones just inside the door.
“Duchess,” Nicky hissed, straining at the chains and manacles preventing him from being able to do more than kneel upright. “This is treason, you think the king won’t find out? I’m the only one who can save you from being condemned to torture and death. Let me free, take my side, and I will reward you. I don’t know what shit those men told you, but I thought you too intelligent than to believe their lies.” Her faint smile only further enraged him.
“You fucking bitch-whore! You will regret this if you don’t! You can’t kill me—I’m Undying! I always remember my enemies. For the rest of your life, you’ll wonder when I’ll strike. Think you can keep this secret? What I am? What you’re doing?” He screamed vilest invective until he lost his voice, and could only wheeze scatology.
She continued to regard him calmly, as he was finally reduced to hanging in his chains, bowed over his knees in exhaustion. He barely had any magic left, and he still didn’t know how to make the form he was in permanent. The last thing he needed to do was waste it on the slime before him; but if he didn’t get free, he would revert to original form, giving the brothers the proof they needed to back up Rablias’ claims. He had to escape, had to find a way out, a way to make them all pay for this.
Nicky refused to beg, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, and he wouldn’t! He was sick of begging: of the king’s forgiveness, of bowing and scraping and pretending to be less than royalty. He was Immortal! He was a god to mortals! They should fear him, they should beg him for favors, beg just to be allowed the privilege of continuing their miserable lives. He was no one’s toy, no one’s pet! It had taken him so long to make his demon his slave, rather than vice versa. The young man sucked in a breath perilously close to a sob.
“Duchess, duchess, forgive me, for cursing you, but you know this is a mistake to keep me prisoner. You know the only way to keep your life, title, and wealth once this is discovered is with my cooperation; persuade me to give it to you? Else you suffer as they.”
“I’ll take that chance. And you?”
“You could have had it all; my favor and friendship, my protection. Side with them and I’ll see you hang. Free me and live as my wife. All I ask is obedience.”
She flicked a glance at his chains, the abrasions on his wrists. What the hell was wrong with her? Any woman in her right mind would jump at the chance he was offering them.
“One more chance, my lady. Speak now or lose my hand of friendship and you will die as painfully as these men.” He didn’t want to call in the favor she owed him, not while other means to freedom existed.
She glanced at his nemesis, dead on the floor and he softly chanted the words to call his pet. Whatever Rablias had done to block him had died with the man.
As he finished his chant, the duchess knelt beside him.
“Too late...” he started to taunt her but he was astounded to realize she’d sliced his pant leg with a dagger he hadn’t seen her draw, exposing his right thigh and what was tattooed thereon. “You can’t, you don’t... NnnnooOOOEEEEEAAARRGH!!!!!” The keen blade sliced deep and the blood welled up, smelling of cinnamon, ambrosia and sulfur as the words devolved to shrieks.
Colin and Eron were startled out of their argument when they realized what she was doing, but halted their approach as the duchess held up a chunk of flesh. There was so much blood pouring off the advisor’s thigh, she couldn’t tell whether the tattoo was coming back.
The men stopped speaking as the temperature plunged, breaths pluming white in the sudden cold; a feathery whiteness grew up the walls, across the floor and ceiling, coating the dead man in a glittering sheet.
“What, what’s going on?” Colin asked.
Mica’s eyes opened. “Somethin
g’s wrong,” he rasped. “What did you do?” he accused the still-screaming advisor.
The coldness intensified, the metal chains frosting over as Nicky writhed and twisted frantically, babbling to anyone who would listen to free him.
“What did you do?” Mica screamed at Her Grace as his brother came over to help him sit up.
Eron didn’t want to get caught in whatever was about to go down, but he also couldn’t leave his friends. He’d barely made it to Illyria’s side when the torches were snuffed out as if by a sudden wind. A growling echoed in the chamber and the darkness lit red.
“You bitch! Someone get me free! I’ll give you whatever you want! Please! Hurry!” Nicky’s face contorted in terror as he stared at the redness. Blood flowed from his wrists where the manacles had abraded them in his struggles.
“Illyria, what did you do?” Eron cried out, staring in fascinated horror at the advisor.
The chains restricting the young man’s movements shattered with a sharp retort as a vast darkness coalesced before him, two pinpricks of red centered in the cloud.
The boy seemed frozen in place; staring eyes white-ringed in a rictus of fear as his terrified breath whistled, high-pitched.
“What the hell is that?” Mica screamed as the oppression permeated them all; he stood, leaning heavily on his brother’s arm to the side and slightly behind the darkness.
“Take him and go!” she yelled, “and never return.”
“Oh, shit.” Eron had his own sword out, unsure who or what he was supposed to use it on.
There was another growl, and a slithering sound, as Nicky’s body was sucked swiftly into the darkness, the young man’s cries incomprehensible to those left behind.
And the darkness reached for Mica. He screamed.
Colin cried out, as he made to grab his brother. “Help us!” he shouted at the other two.
Eron and the duchess could only stare at the train wreck unfolding before them as he said sotto voice, “Perhaps an exorcism is in order?”
Mica grabbed his brother’s sword and plunged it into the darkness. The duchess had only enough time to step aside as the darkness flung Mica and Colin away. Colin’s flying body slammed into Eron and they smashed into the wall, Mica falling to the floor. She felt a brief pain across her throat and wetness as a silver blur flashed past her vision and her hands flew up to clutch at the wound. The scrap of the boy’s skin fell from her hands and disappeared in a lick of incandescent flame. Tendrils of darkness plunged into all Mica’s orifices, muffling his screams as his outstretched fists and heels drummed the floor.
Eron and Colin staggered to their feet, swords in hand, but attacking the cloud again seemed rather a poor idea.
“Suck it up, buttercup,” Eron spat at Illyria, who seemed to have a death grip on her neck, fingers red with blood welling out and over to drip upon the floor. Eron wrapped an arm around her waist and attempted to drag her toward the doorway, as Colin screamed his brother’s name.
Mica was now being dragged closer to the main bulk of the demon. Colin followed, fishing a bit of metal and gemstone out of a pouch at his waist, yelling in Latin. The duchess broke free from Eron’s grip and dived for Mica. She managed to grab his forearms and tried to brace herself but they were both now heading toward the darkness.
“Damn it!” Eron brought the sword down as if he could hack the blackness apart and sever it; when that didn’t work, he made a grab for Illyria with his free hand.
An actinic flare blazed before them. The polar cold suddenly became tropical, volcanic, solar as the ice ran in rivulets of water to flood the floor boot-high.
“Down! Get down!” The shout rang out, Eron and Illyria dropped to their knees with the other man as something streamed where their heads had been.
The tendrils oozed out of the passed-out Mica with a nauseating sucking, whipping wildly as their bright white counterparts smashed into the inky blackness.
“Colin! It’s forbidden!” Eron screamed at his friend, realizing the source of the whiteness.
“I’m not losing my brother!” he shouted back and dropped what he had been holding as it glowed white-hot.
The black and white tendrils shot out and grabbed the piece, merged into a formless gray. The darkness growled again, but its reverberation was counteracted by a high-pitched tone of chiming crystal. The soul gem glowed, the metal melted and the setting turned to ash as the gem itself shattered in a spray of shards. The white cloud boomed, hurtling inside Mica.
The immortal’s body rose and slammed down as the inky coils, wrapped with the white, snapped back into the bulk of the darkness with a sucking sound. The ground shivered as both black and white condensed into tiny balls, exploded outward towards the walls, washing over the body of Nicky in a river. In a moment, black and white and the body of the boy were gone, only the normal darkness of underground remaining. The temperature stabilized to its previous chill. The sudden silence left ears ringing.
“Anyone got a light?” Eron asked of no one in particular.
Chapter Seventeen
“How’s he doing?” Eron came into the room.
“Not so good, I’m afraid. I don’t understand why he won’t wake up. What did that thing do to him?” Colin looked sadly at his brother. “What if he never wakes up? What will I do then?” The man was slumped next to his brother’s bed, dejection in every line of his body.
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
Colin continued like he hadn’t heard, “He’s my best friend. Did you know we had a large family? Six brothers besides us, and two sisters. I was the youngest, Mica the seventh kid. Our father was a moderately successful farmer. Our sisters married well, and our brothers had large prosperous farms of their own. Nobody but me saw the need to learn reading and writing. Mica, he defied my father and older brothers, apprenticed himself out and learned a trade; he sent for tutors for me. I was the first scholar of our family. Mica was so proud of me.”
He stopped to straighten the already ruler-perfect edge of the blanket covering his brother.
“We’ll find something to help him, Colin. The Duchess has pledged to put her considerable resources at our disposal.” What he didn’t add what he’d said to her to get her to agree.
Colin nodded. “Will you thank her for me? Let her know I shall do so in person later, just I don’t want to leave him now.”
“Of course.” Eron stood a few moments more but his friend seemed to have sunk into a reverie so he left.
Illyria was waiting outside the door. “No change,” she flatly stated, her nose flaring as she took in the scent of the man inside.
“What are you sniffing for? A bite to eat? Someone to steal daylight from?” His anger bubbled up and over.
She didn’t seem to notice his tone. “No,” she muttered distractedly, sniffing again. “Can you get Colin out of the room? Just for a few moments or so? I can’t tell with him in there; his scent is clouding Mica’s.”
“I’m not letting you alone in the room with him!”
She gave him a look full of scorn and impatience. “I don’t want to eat him, Eron. Despite our differences of opinions, and the debacle with his protégé, I do want to help. The demon did something to him, as it did to Nicky, I can’t quite tell what.”
He hesitated; she sounded sincere, but she always did, even when lying to your face. Illyria never called it that, she called it sharing strategic bits of information, and she always claimed there was a grain of truth in all she said.
“You can stand in the damn room if you wish, be his protector.”
The immortal glanced at the room, back at her, “That is one more item in a very long list of things we need to talk about. But if I see fang headed for his flesh, I swear I’ll lop your head off.”
It took him a few minutes to convince his friend to take a break, and not long after he had left, she came in. Eron stood near his friend’s head. Illyria stopped next to him, took in a big breath of air, and her eyes narrowed in con
centration. She picked up one of Mica’s hands and brought it to her nose. Eron’s hand tightened on his sword handle, expecting her to sink fangs into a vein. Instead, she took another big sniff, and looked more puzzled. Mica’s hand was replaced on top of the blanket, puncture free.
“Well?” he asked.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” her voice compounded of exasperation and disbelief.
“I think the demon did something which, from all accounts of what you’ve told me, should be impossible. His scent is conveying two conflicting messages. It would help if I could taste of his blood, blood does not lie.”
He exploded, “You do just want to steal daylight!”
She gave him a vexed look. “I don’t have to bite him, I can simply make a cut with my nails. The blood which wells forth will be sufficient.”
“Fine, a taste and no more,” he said, ostentatiously drawing his sword.
The vampire ignored his colossal rudeness and turned back to Mica. She spent long moments savoring the blood which welled from the scratch she inflicted on his arm. When she let his arm drop, the wound was gone. She had a look on her face he had seen on wine connoisseurs when they rolled the liquid about their mouth before swallowing. “He doesn’t taste Immortal anymore.”
“What the hell does that mean? Of course he’s Immortal! The wound healed on him, and he’d be dead if he wasn’t.”
“I healed him; we do that so the marks do not show. I am telling you, Eron, I know blood. When I drank of the boy, I could taste the corruption inside him. You and Colin smell pure immortal; Mica, not so much.”
“So you’re telling me we taste, or should taste, the way we smell?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes. However, I have not tasted of an Immortal who wasn’t demon-tainted since our time together so long ago, so there is a slim, however improbable, chance I am wrong.”
The second part of what she said finally penetrated. “Wait, so you want to bite me as comparison?”
“Since Colin does not know what I am, it would have to be you. But I need a comparison, a control, just the same amount I took from him.”