Grave Mistake (Codex Blair Book 1)

by Izzy Shows

  The next bolt caught my other forearm, feeling like a sharp smack from the blunt of a blade. Must have just barely caught me, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell. I swore under my breath and forced myself to focus on the situation.

  “Incendium,” I said, calling a ball of fire into my hand and tossing it over the top of the car. I ducked down again immediately after.

  I heard the sharp rapport of bullets being fired before I saw anything, and I had to rely on instinct to get my shield up and in the right direction in time to avoid being riddled by the bullets.

  They smacked against my shield, turning to flat metal as they hit, and I felt the impact in my hand. Not as bad as a bullet, more like catching a hammer in the hand not quite at full speed.

  There was no way I was going to take down three guys slinging magic and shooting bullets at me.

  I dropped my shield to conjure a larger ball of fire that I heaved up and over at them, before I legged it the hell out of there.

  I know better than to stick around for a fight I can’t win.

  27

  MANY HAD LOST THEIR LIVES ON Tower Hill—Henry VIII’s wives were some of the most notable victims, and their stories had always been rather special to me. Anne Boleyn in particular. I wondered…I wondered if I could talk to her the way I had to Catherine, but dismissed it as a foolish notion. She, worthy of dignity though she was, was not a Queen. Anne Boleyn had been one of the most powerful women in her time, she had controlled a King. That, and I doubted that anyone had bound her spirit to the land there, or anywhere for that matter. Hopefully she wasn’t still tied to this plane, and had gone on to find peace somewhere else. I hated the idea of her drifting here, listening to all the theories of who she had been and the things that she had done.

  It wasn’t the shortest walk to Tower Hill, and it took me back up the way I had come from Catherine’s site, which was a little annoying. I tried not to get too close to Mitre Square, not wanting to disturb Catherine again. I bought my ticket once I arrived, opting for the voluntary donation, and made my way into the courtyard.

  I again extended my senses, hunting for something, anything that could tell me what I was looking for. It was rather exhausting work at this point, not knowing what you were looking for and simply hoping that you could stumble upon something.

  I took a seat at one of the benches near the ravens, and closed my eyes so that I wasn’t expending more energy than was necessary. I listened, with more than my ears, to the bodies moving around me.

  There was a child whining not too far from me, it’s parents struggling to keep them in check. The child whined about wanting food or to play or to do something else, alternating from one to the other rapidly and just, in general, throwing the kind of fit that you would expect from a child that age. This was what my ears picked up. A closer look revealed that the child was responding to tension in the air, truly wanting to be anywhere but here.

  Children are sensitive to things that adults have taught themselves not to listen to, they haven’t felt the pressure of society to mute their senses. This child was picking up, and putting off, a tremendous amount of anxious energy. I tilted my head in the child’s general direction, hoping to discern something more from them. Was it a general fear of the place, the solemnity of it all, or was there something more to it? That was what I wanted to know.

  It made sense that a child would be anxious in a place that had held so much pain, like how one would feel in a graveyard, but that wouldn’t really get me anywhere. And no, that didn’t seem to be it. It wasn’t paying attention to the actual Tower, where torture upon torture had been meted out, or the green beyond it, where so many heads had rolled.

  It was afraid of the ravens.

  My eyes popped up, narrowing even as they did. What was there to fear in ravens? I stared at each of them, trying to figure out what it would be. Perhaps the child had an irrational fear of birds…but that didn’t seem to fit, and if that were the case they would be able to recognise it and the child’s complaints would be directed at the birds instead of being general complaints about wanting to leave.

  I ignored the child now and focussed my senses on the birds. Again, I didn’t know what I was looking for, but felt that it would probably be obvious after a moment. There were six of them, as was tradition. The six ravens of the tower had a bit of a superstition to them—London would fall if the six ever left the fortress.

  Of course, these were not the original six, and likely not even the entire set of six that had been present at the beginning of the year. A spare is always kept on hand, and sometimes one will manage to go ‘missing’ even though they’ve all had one wing clipped so that they cannot fly away. The Raven Master always keeps the tally at six, though it might dip to five for an evening if somehow two were to vanish at once.

  They looked the same as they always had whenever I visited—I like the Tower, and had generally visited at least once a year, even though it was a tourist attraction—and yet…there was something different, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

  I squinted, and noticed that one of the birds seemed a bit…blurry? How was that possible. It was as though there was a film over it, and yet if I shifted my vision to one of the other birds to ensure that I wasn’t losing my mind, they all came into focus quite easily. Yes, it was this one bird that was odd. My forehead itched, and I scratched at it absentmindedly.

  The action seemed to draw the bird’s attention, and it was now staring back at me. That wasn’t entirely odd, and certainly didn’t draw the attention of any of the other visitors. Animals stared at people all the time, usually when trying to figure out if someone was a threat or not. That was no doubt what the raven was trying to do. If that was the case, I should stand up and move away—ravens are notoriously territorial, and a bite from one of the massive birds would royally suck.

  Heh. Royally.

  It hopped closer to me and I felt my breath catch in my chest, my heart start racing. This felt important, somehow, and I didn’t dare to move a muscle. Of course, my nose immediately started to itch, but I kept my hand carefully still. I caught myself wanting to disappear, and afraid that my new-found abilities would make it so, I tried to change the thought patterns in my head. I needed to figure out what the bird was.

  Was it dangerous?

  No, not dangerous in the sense I was looking for. Dangerous the way the ocean is—a force of nature that will move you without so much as a thought to what you are—not in the way that a blade is

  Well where had that come from?

  Another hop closer, it’s head cocking to the other side in an inquisitive fashion. Hop. Its beak opened and shut. Hop again. It was merely a few feet in front of me now. “Hello.”

  My eyes almost popped out of my head in surprise, and I darted a quick look around to see if anyone else had heard the bird speak.

  “Don’t be silly. They aren’t listening.” It ruffled its feathers in a fashion almost like a human would shrug its shoulders. I stared, mesmerised. “But you are. You’re here, wide open and broadcasting what you’re doing like a radio station. That’s not very smart.”

  How did it know? What did that mean, broadcasting? How was it talking? A thousand questions jumped to my mind, but I simply stared slack jawed at the bird. Its beady black eyes peered at me and I had the sense that I was being judged, measured.

  Found wanting?

  “Speak up, girl, or I might as well go back to enjoying my little masquerade.”

  The science was all wrong here. That body should not be capable of making sounds like that, I knew that much for certain. But hadn’t I already broken several laws of science in the past forty-eight hours?

  “Um.” I managed the sound, sucking air into my lungs afterwards and trying to pull myself together. “Yes, hi.” Pathetic.

  “Very good, but adapt faster. You’re going to need to.” It hopped closer again. I could reach out and touch its head, if I were of the mind to lose one of my f
ingers, or get banned from the Tower grounds.

  The obvious words rose in my throat—you’re talking, how are you talking?—but I struggled to push them down. That wouldn’t do, I’d only look like a fool, and besides the responses wouldn’t really get me anywhere.

  Focus, Blair, focus on what you can glean from this.

  “What am I broadcasting?” I managed to ask, whispering the words, afraid that someone would see me talking to the raven and chase me out as a loon.

  “Good, very good. Get your head on right, you’ve no time for gawking. You’re broadcasting your intentions. You’re trying to find something, something bad, and anyone with an inkling of understanding can pick up on it. You’re lucky they aren’t here, or you’d be completely and utterly fucked.” My eyebrows jumped up when the bird cursed. Somehow, I had not been expecting that to happen. It just didn’t seem to fit. Ravens…well, usually people associate ravens with elegance.

  “How do I stop doing that?” I focussed on what was most important, though I made a mental note to circle back to how the raven knew ‘they’ weren’t here. That would be important information, but unfortunately it paled against making sure I didn’t alert someone to my presence without even realising it.

  The black eyes gleamed approvingly at me. “You’re too active, you must learn to be passive. Allow the feelings to wash over you, and trust that when you feel nothing, that there is nothing to feel. Anyone who quests can be seen.”

  I nodded, uncertain if I could trust the advice of a random and rather frightening raven—oh my Gods, had I gone insane? Was that what this entire weekend had been? A sudden descent into madness? No, that didn’t make sense. I remembered the few psychology books I’d read in school. Those afflicted with such an illness were usually aware of it. But was this me being aware of it? I chewed on my lip, caught in the anxious turmoil of my thoughts.

  “I’m real.” I don’t know if birds could roll their eyes, but I had the distinct impression that’s what was happening. “As real as everything that has happened since you came into existence.” A shiver rolled down my spine, and I suddenly felt very exposed. “Blair Sheach, you are alone in this world and you must find your bearings.”

  That was not the first time today someone had mentioned me being alone. Must be obvious.

  “I’m trying.” I whispered the words in a small voice, not because I feared anyone hearing me, but because I feared hearing me.

  “I know. It is hard for you, even now you doubt what you are seeing. I can show you the truth of me, if you’d allow it.” The bird spoke again.

  I hesitated, glancing around—no one had taken note of my madness. Perhaps that was an indication that I wasn’t truly mad. Someone would have noticed a girl babbling to a raven, right?

  I nodded. “OK.”

  The bird spread its wings and jumped into the air—my eyes went wide, because I thought they couldn’t fly, I thought their wings were clipped—and it landed on my shoulder. I tried not to flinch, but couldn’t really help it. Thank God for the leather jacket. I edged my head to the side to accommodate him, and he responded by placing a talon on the flesh of my neck.

  The world swam before my eyes.

  28

  JUST AS I HAD IN THE dream world with Mal, I found myself outside of reality.

  I seemed to be falling through time, watching snatches of events from the past flying by me. It was all around me, moving quickly, removed from me at the same time.

  I watched legions of Romans fighting, I saw a man nailed to a cross, watched as Genghis Khan addressed his soldiers, glimpsed what could only be an alien race float through a crowd of people.

  So much knowledge flew past me, and I was incapable of doing anything but watch as it went. I could not interact, I could not slow down to take in more than those little snippets.

  I could only see what moved around me.

  The world came to a sudden stop and I found myself standing behind a crowd, a dais before them with three thrones. Two sat empty, and in the one in the middle sat a woman of regal bearing. Her hair was pure white, no tint of colour to it at all, and her eyes were pure violet. Her gown, an icy blue, sparkled all the way down to the floor.

  Behind the throne there was a person…the form of which kept flickering. One moment a woman in a splendid gown, long silver hair caught up in a coronet. The next a man in extravagant garb, and again a knight whose face was hidden by a helm. No matter how hard I focused, I could not get the form to stabilise, and it felt very much that it was my own mind that caused the flickering, not the vision itself. I could not take in the rest of what occurred, it was disorienting watching the figure change.

  You humans, so desperate to mash every shape into a recognizable box.

  The raven’s voice sounded inside my head, and all at once the form came to a stop. A person with long silver hair hung loose about their shoulders, gazing out at the crowd with no expression on their face. They wore grey, both trousers and tunic, not calling attention to themselves with any garish or resplendent colours.

  I do not fit into your boxes, Blair. What I am exists beyond your human notion of gender.

  I winced internally at the reprimand, feeling like a child who should have understood a simple concept. How was I supposed to know? Their presence faded from my mind, and the tableau shifted into movement again.

  The silence was deafening, as the two on the dais stared into the crowd and the crowd stared back at them.

  “Our borders are frayed like threads of worn fabric.” A voice in the crowd broke the silence.

  “Indeed. The battle grows weary.” The Queen replied. “Yet we fight on.”

  “As it is always known here, strength will not win this battle.” The voice in the crowd sounded again.

  “It never has.” The Queen smiled, a glint in her eye. “You’ve come for reassurance, and I will give it to you. The Watcher will be dispatched at twilight.”

  The entire crowd turned their heads toward the silent figure behind the throne, with the eyes that saw not the crowd. Silence returned, no one dared to speak.

  Their eyes met mine.

  Time spun around me, and my stomach lurched at the sensation. My mind tried to make sense of what I was seeing, of why I was being shown any of it.

  Who was the Watcher?

  The world settled again, and again I was in a royal court, in some age that I couldn’t pin down without some sort of reference. It was decidedly different from the congregation I had just witnessed. Several people lounged about on various seats, clearly nobility. Their clothes were ridiculous, but demonstrated their wealth. If I had to guess, I’d say I was in France now. I recognised the Watcher from the previous vision, standing as stiff as a board. I could see their face more clearly now, and they looked so…serious.

  Their silver hair was cropped short to their head now, and their features were utterly unreadable. Their clothes were not as fancy as the nobility spread around them, though a careful eye could see that the quality of the clothes was nothing to scoff at.

  “Come on, then, and let us have some fun.” One of the women, laying in the lap of a man, called out. She seemed to be directing her words at the Watcher, and I wondered what she meant. I’d clearly missed something.

  The Watcher’s chin moved upwards slightly, though they were otherwise unaffected. “Believe me, I have no desire to impede your amusement, however I will not be joining in.”

  “Do you think it even knows how?” A man jeered from the other side of the room, clearly inebriated and—if I had to guess—feeling jealous that the Watcher was receiving the attention of the room rather than him. I frowned, trying to figure out what was meant by that.

  Regardless of what was going on, my mind recoiled at the use of the word ‘it.’ That was cruel, no matter the century.

  “Oh, it’s got to. Everyone knows how. But the real question is does it have working bits?” There was more leering, this time from a woman. Her colourful gestures allowed me the realisat
ion of the point of the conversation and my cheeks burned with embarrassment for the Watcher.

  Oh, this was horrid. They were discussing whether they had genitalia, as if they weren’t part of the room. My heart ached and I wanted to rush over and tell them that it would be OK, that they didn’t need to stand there and listen to these horrid people, they could go somewhere else and be with those that understood them. Their genitalia weren’t anything of these people’s business. I knew, somewhere in my mind, that I was judging people with social conventions that had been established long after they’d died and been forgotten, and that this was silly, but I was still angry. It should be basic human decency.

  The Watcher simply looked bored. How did they stand this?

  The world spun again and this time I wasn’t anywhere, or I wasn’t anywhere that I recognised. I was standing in a dark room.

  I turned in a circle, trying to find my bearings, and found that I was staring in the face of twelve variants of the Watcher I had seen in those visions. Some had black hair, some blonde, some red and some brown. All variants of eye colour were visible, their skin tone changed from one to the other. The only constant was the body stature and the expression on the faces.

  They were many and they were one.

  “Who are you?” I gasped, surprised to find that I was capable of speech now.

  “We are protectors.” They answered me, all their mouths moving at once and the same voice coming from them. And they all moved as one again, to kneel, one of each of their hands forming a fist and finding a home at the opposite shoulder. Heads bowed, and I realised that they were all bowing to me.

  It was obvious in that moment, what it meant. They were my protector. I didn’t understand why, I didn’t understand what any of it meant, but I understood that they had been tasked with my safe keeping, and that I would be safe with them.