The Ghoul Vendetta

by Lisa Shearin

  He led us the full length of the Archive lab through a pair of sliding doors and into what appeared to be an observation room. An opaque window that was the length and height of a whiteboard was on one wall, with a long desk beneath. The window looked like the one that had separated the small conference room from Ian’s infirmary room.

  Moreau saw my glance. “Yes, there’s a switch on the other side, that renders the window clear. When the requested manuscript has been brought up from the vault and is ready for study, the window is cleared.”

  “What manuscript have you requested?” Rake asked. “And why have I, of all people, been allowed into SPI’s inner sanctum sanctorum?”

  “Because, Lord Danescu, the words on a page cannot always be seen with the eyes.”

  “A bespelled manuscript.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Don’t you have mages for that kind of thing?”

  “We do, but they have been unsuccessful.”

  “And what makes you think I’ll have any better luck?”

  “It is a curse, written and cast by an inhuman dark sorcerer.”

  “And it takes one to know one.”

  “I’m hopeful that is the case. Agent Byrne’s life may depend on it.”

  25

  “WE have one of the original copies of a book known as Lebor Gabála Érenn,” Moreau said, “or as it’s known in English, The Book of Invasions. It chronicles the history of Ireland from the creation of the world to the Middle Ages. Most of what we know about the Tuatha Dé Danann comes from the LGE, as it is known in academic circles. It’s one of the most influential records of early Irish literature, poems, and sagas. In the eleventh century, an unidentified scholar compiled them all into a single work written in Middle Irish, a form of Irish Gaelic used from approximately A.D. 900 to 1200. There’s no mention of a curse on the Fomorians, how it was placed, or how it might be broken. However, we also have in our possession some of the original records of the Second Battle of Magh Tuireadh and its aftermath, which formed the source material for the eleventh-century author. Again, there is no mention of a curse—at least nothing that is visible to the untrained eye. We had our best mage cryptanalyst—who also happens to be a druid—review the folio, and he found the curse. Unfortunately, it is hidden by a spell and guarded by a particularly destructive ward.”

  “Meaning if the spell is broken to read the curse, the folio will self-destruct?” I asked.

  “He believes that would be the result,” Moreau replied. “He cannot coax the words from the page without breaking the ward, and he is uncertain of his ability to dismantle it, as he believes it to have been created by a sorcerer of demigod-level strength and skill. Our senior Archive staff strongly suspect that what’s hidden there will reveal why the Fomorians took Ian and what they plan to do with him—or at least provide us with a strong clue.”

  “A curse created by a god?” There was a faint note of mockery in Rake’s voice. “And you believe I can break his ward?”

  “They were beings beyond the men of their time,” Moreau replied coolly. “That does not make them gods; it merely makes them a great annoyance to those of us in the present time.”

  Rake laughed. “Good to know I’m not SPI’s only pain in the ass.”

  In less than a minute, the window slid open, revealing a glass-walled room and the gleaming white laboratory beyond. On the other side of the glass wall, a single sheet of parchment lay on an angled Plexiglas stand that was enclosed in a glass box like you’d see in a museum.

  The door to our room opened and a woman swept in, an entourage in her wake. Though people that short generally didn’t sweep, and two guys in lab coats did not an entourage make, but the sheer force of the woman’s presence made her seem as tall as Yasha, and multiplied her two assistants. Elizabeth Wellesley was the director, though I’d heard her called both director and dominatrix.

  Moreau handled the introductions. “Agent Fraser, Lord Danescu, this is Elizabeth Wellesley, our chief archivist.”

  Wellesley nodded, but no hand was extended for shaking. No surprise there. Alarms probably went off in the staff restroom if someone didn’t wash their hands.

  “I have heard of Lord Danescu.”

  My presence was ignored altogether. My feelings weren’t hurt.

  Rake spared one glance for the curse under glass. “Begging your pardon, Director Wellesley, but you must be joking.”

  “I assure you, Lord Danescu, this is not a joking matter.”

  “Not the matter,” Rake said, “the manner. It is no wonder your mages could not read the curse.” He gestured at the window separating us from the folio enclosed in its protective case. “Not one, but three layers of glass. The case itself, and this.” He rapped sharply on the window with a knuckle for emphasis, making the white-coated archivists jump. “An additional two layers. It’s a wonder your mages could read the words written on the page, let alone a curse embedded in it.” Rake paused. “Unless your mages were given direct access, and I will not be.”

  “Our chief cryptanalyst mage was given direct access,” Wellesley said, her words cold and crisp. “He was unable to break the code.”

  Rake peered down at the folio through the three layers of offending glass. “Then he may not have hit it hard enough.”

  “I am aware of your questionable methods.”

  “Are methods questionable that yield results?”

  The chief archivist turned to Moreau. “I cannot allow one of our folios to be subjected to potentially destructive magic.”

  “A piece of paper versus your top agent’s life,” Rake pointed out. “I’m really not seeing a comparison—and I would sincerely hope you do not, either.”

  I stepped between Rake and Director Wellesley. I’d had it with the bickering, and Ian didn’t have the time. “Rake, can you read that curse?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  I looked hard into his eyes. There was no sign of cockiness or pride, just calm self-assurance and a certainty in his skill. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  I turned to the Elizabeth Wellesley. “And you’re saying that you’re unwilling to risk that folio even though Rake is certain he can break the ward that’s concealing that curse?”

  Unlike Rake, Elizabeth Wellesley hesitated. “It is one of the oldest documents in our possession. There are no copies; it is the only one known to exist.”

  I stayed calm, but it wasn’t easy. “So is Ian.”

  “My apologies, Director Wellesley,” Moreau said. “I must agree with Agent Fraser. Regardless of the age, rarity, and value of a document, I value our agents more—and I am certain Madame Sagadraco would fully agree. Open the case, remove the folio, and give Lord Danescu full access.”

  • • •

  Every white-coated or clean-room-suited archivist in the lab below stopped what they were doing and stared in horrified but enthralled wonder as Rake reached into the case and removed the folio with his bare hands. If that room hadn’t been soundproof, I was sure we’d have also heard gasps and possibly a few distressed whimpers.

  To Rake’s credit, he had washed and sterilized his hands in accordance with Archive protocol, and he handled the page with the care usually reserved for a bottle of nitroglycerine, but that didn’t change the fact that he was touching it with his bare fingers.

  He raised it to the light—apparently another no-no, judging from the cringe of the white-coat to his right—and smiled in grim satisfaction. I didn’t know whether that satisfaction was at the archivist’s reaction or at having seen what he expected to see on the folio page, but I suspected it was a little of both.

  Elizabeth Wellesley and her assistants were in the room with Rake. Moreau and I remained in the observation room. The speakers were on to allow us to hear each other.


  “I can assure you that I will remember everything that I read,” Rake was saying.

  “Can you read Middle Irish?” Wellesley asked him.

  “No, but I don’t need to. I will remember, and immediately write it down so that your eminently qualified linguists may translate it for us. I will, however, need paper and a pen or pencil readily at hand. Normally I would use my phone to type what I see, but my phone lacks Middle Irish characters. Speed is important; I can’t hesitate while searching for a close approximation.”

  Wellesley glanced at one of her assistants, and he scurried to obey, probably glad to be the heck out of there, if only for a few minutes.

  Rake changed the angle of the folio to the light and squinted. “By the way, Chief Archivist Wellesley, what happens in this room when there’s a fire?”

  “The room fills with a gas that will instantly extinguish the fire.”

  Rake raised a brow, but never paused in his study. “And concerning those of us who require oxygen?”

  “The gas dissipates quickly enough not to have prolonged effect on mortal respiration.” She didn’t sound thrilled that it wouldn’t, at least not where Rake was concerned.

  “Prolonged effect,” Rake mused. “So you take the oxygen out of the room to protect the paper, but your staff is expected to . . . I don’t know, hold their breath?”

  Rake was annoying her, he knew it, and he was enjoying it. I was starting to see a pattern here. I could also tell Moreau was thinking about stepping in, but that was all he did. Perhaps Rake wasn’t the only one who had an issue with the chief archivist’s priorities.

  The assistant returned with a notepad and pen, put them on the table in front of Rake, and hightailed it back to the door.

  “Is that a reaction you can override?” Rake asked with complete politeness. “Because I can assure you that this folio will burst into flames. The sorcerer who wrote it was apparently quite the showman—and pyromaniac. No doubt he wanted to be there when it was attempted. He probably wouldn’t have bothered with the fail-safe if he knew it wasn’t going to be read for four thousand years. Where’s the fun in sending something up in flames if you’re not going to be there to enjoy it?” He thought for a moment. “Will the door lock automatically, as well?”

  “No, it will not.”

  “Oh good, then we won’t be trapped like rats in a sadistic experiment.” He smiled cheerfully. “I’m ready when you are.”

  “Would you like a respirator?” Moreau asked him, when Wellesley didn’t make the offer.

  “While I sincerely appreciate the offer, there cannot be anything between me and the page. I’m quite proficient at breath holding. I’ve dealt with nasty wards before; and since I’m still here and in one piece, I’ve always been successful and I do not anticipate that today will be an exception.” He turned to the chief archivist. “There is no need for either you or your assistants to remain in here with me. I can assure you this page will burn, and when the gas is deployed, there is need for only one rat in the room.”

  Wellesley sent her assistants out of the room—much to their relief—but she remained inside with Rake.

  “You wish to stay?” he asked her.

  “I wish you weren’t going to destroy an irreplaceable document, but as there is no other alternative, I feel I must remain until the end.”

  “Very well. You may want to stand by the door. While I don’t anticipate a large fireball, better safe than scorched.”

  Rake carefully put the folio on the reading stand in front of him, and rolled up his sleeves to nearly his elbows.

  He spread his hands the width of the folio apart, his long fingers framing the bottom of the page that presumably contained the curse. A soft red light started in the center of his palms, slowly spreading outward until his hands were glowing from wrist to fingertip. He stood perfectly still, his dark eyes intent on the page.

  In response, the bottom of the folio began to glow, and through the clear reading stand, I could just make out the outlines of lettering, about a quarter of the page worth. The glow was golden—the gold of a newborn flame.

  The letters appeared as fire.

  In less than a second, the entire page exploded off the stand in a ball of flame, followed by a loud hiss as the room filled with gas. However, the fireball never left the area between Rake’s spread fingers and the small shield he’d used to contain it. Within two seconds, the paper turned to ash, Rake released the spell, and the folio’s ashes floated featherlike to the floor.

  The room was still full of gas, but Rake didn’t budge. He picked up the notepad and pen and began writing nearly as fast as Noel Tierney had sketched the scenes from Ian’s dream.

  At last Wellesley was forced by airless necessity to open the door to let more air in. Only then did Rake leave and come back into our observation room—not that he was competitive or stubborn or anything.

  “Do you read Middle Irish, Chief Archivist Wellesley?” he asked her.

  “I do.”

  With a flourish, Rake presented her with the notepad.

  Wellesley took one look, her lips compressed into a thin, angry line. “This isn’t Middle Irish, Lord Danescu.”

  Rake looked down at it from over her shoulder. “It isn’t?”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Then the hidden text wasn’t written in Middle Irish, because this is what I saw.”

  Alain Moreau took the pad from Wellesley, glanced at it, picked up the phone on the table, and keyed in a four-key internal number. “We need you in the Archives. Immediately.” He disconnected from that call, and pressed a single key. “William, please let Amelia Chandler in when she arrives.”

  • • •

  In less than five minutes, Amelia Chandler was scanning the page, her brow furrowed. “I’d rather not speak these first four lines out loud. I believe they’re a curse, and a highly potent one at that. Perhaps since I’m not a mage, and I would be speaking the words in translation, it wouldn’t activate the curse, but—”

  “It’s better not to take that chance,” Rake said.

  “Exactly.” Amelia winced. “Especially since it apparently banished an entire race of godlike beings. However, these shorter stanzas say how long the curse will remain, and the conditions under which it could be broken.”

  Moreau sat back against the desk. “Read those, please.”

  With these words and my will,

  this ban shall stand

  and those condemned to swim the seas

  shall not walk the land

  as long as these three eternal be

  the land holds fast to its locks

  the veil stands strong

  and the scion of Lámhfhada lives.

  “And I thought goblins held on to grudges for a long time,” Rake murmured.

  “Ian’s the scion of Lugh Lámhfhada,” I said, feeling more than a little sick. “Three things must happen before that curse is broken—and killing Ian is one of them.” I took a breath and forced my mind away from that. “What about the two lines above that? How does the land’s locks hold fast, and a veil stand strong?”

  “The veil could refer to the veil between the worlds and dimensions,” Moreau said. “Tomorrow night is the summer solstice, when the veils are the thinnest and passage between the worlds, dimensions, and realms of the living and dead require the least effort.”

  “But what about land locks?”

  Silence.

  That wasn’t what I—or Ian—needed to hear.

  26

  “DO you truly enjoy being a pain in the ass?” I asked Rake once we were out of the Archive and library.

  “Yes, I do. Especially when my being so thwarts unwarranted rules, bureaucracy, or wanton stupidity.”

  We were in the hall waiting for the others. Amelia Chandler came out, saw us, and made a beeline.r />
  “I’ve got more on that not-so-mystery man in Noel’s drawing,” she told us. “According to Conor, the uniform marks this Janus as a member of King Balor’s personal guard—and the symbol engraved over the heart on his armor indicates that he was their captain.”

  “That thing doesn’t have a heart,” I told her.

  Rake barked a laugh. “An underling who screwed up, and he’s been trying to make up for it ever since.”

  “Is Janus his real name?” I asked her.

  “Conor doesn’t know. But he did say that all of Balor’s bodyguards had to be sorcerers—and the captain of the guard had to be the best of them all.”

  “Anything about him being a shapeshifter?”

  “Nothing. At least not yet.” Amelia reached out and put her hand on my arm. “We’re going to keep digging, and we’re not going to stop.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Thank you.”

  She glanced down at her watch. “It’s nearly midnight. When was the last time you slept?”

  I had to think about that one for a minute. “Actually, I’m not sure. It’s been a really long day.”

  “And tomorrow is going to be the same,” she said. “You’ve done all you can right now. We’re making great progress, and you’re not going to do Ian any good if you’re too tired to think straight.”

  I knew all of those things were true. We were close to finding where Janus had taken Ian, and I couldn’t be on the verge of exhaustion when it happened.

  “You’re right. But I’m not going home. I’ll sleep here.” I managed an anemic laugh. “I’ve slept here so often; it feels like a second home. I actually keep a weekend bag here now.”

  Moreau’s voice came from behind us. “I just got a call from Ambrus Báthory.”

  I turned to see a rare satisfied smile on my manager’s face.

  “He wants to meet.”

  • • •

  As cliché as it was, a vampire mafia don had made us an offer we couldn’t refuse.