“I think you just helped me pass test number one.” A test where failure meant death. If Mab hadn’t been there …
Mab stood, breaking off my thought. “Come inside, child. I want you to use that salve. It will minimize scarring.” She extended a hand to help me up.
I reached for it, then paused. “Mab, look.” My jacket was a tattered mass of ribbons, except for one spot untouched by cuts and slashes. “The Morfran left my demon mark alone. It was the Destroyer. Pryce released the Morfran, and the Destroyer used our bond to call it to me.”
She inspected the jacket, looking thoughtful. “That does seem likely.” I groaned as she helped me to my feet. The pain had diminished, but I still felt like I’d lost a fight with a giant cheese grater.
Mab put an arm around my shoulders, and I leaned on her. Together, we made our way across the lawn. As I limped past the fallen slate tile, I thought about the Morfran locked inside. It gave a whole new meaning to the phrase “a murder of crows.”
22
I MAY NOT HAVE BEEN THE MORFRAN’S USUAL TARGET, BUT I sure looked like a zombie as I staggered into the house in my torn blood-covered clothes, slashed and gouged from head to toe. When she saw me, Rose screamed and covered her face with her apron.
“Get the comfrey salve in the blue jar,” Mab instructed her. “Bring it to Vicky’s room.”
Rose’s wide eyes appeared over the edge of the apron. She nodded vigorously and scurried off toward the kitchen.
Mab helped me up the stairs. It was hard going at first, but by the time we made it halfway up the second staircase, I was managing by myself.
Rose had left the jar of salve on my bedroom dresser. Mab helped me undress, which was harder and more painful than it sounds, because my clothes stuck to my newly formed scabs.
“I’ll do your back,” she said. “Then I’ll leave you to take care of the rest.”
The salve felt like a blessing on my skin. As Mab spread it on, a tingly coolness washed away the burning. When Mab left and I took over, the wounds closed almost as I watched. Gouges filled in and smoothed over without a scar. Good stuff. I wondered if it worked on regular wounds or just the kind inflicted by bloodthirsty, demonic crows.
I dropped the shreds of my clothes into the wastebasket, then took a long, hot shower. I dried off, marveling at the wholeness of my skin, put on a clean sweater and jeans, and felt good, almost back to normal. I was even hungry. I went downstairs to see what was for dinner.
Mab waited for me in the dining room. For a large, formal manor house, Maenllyd’s dining room was surprisingly intimate. A small chandelier hung over the round table, which seated four. French windows overlooked the terrace and lawn, although now the drapes, moss-green and cream stripes, were drawn. The walls were cream above mahogany wainscoting. The buffet was also mahogany. Gilt-framed landscapes of the green Welsh hills hung on two walls. Mab sat at the table, holding an empty sherry glass. Although her pursed-lip expression didn’t change when she saw me, a light came into her eyes.
“How are you feeling, child?”
“Better. Amazingly so. I want some of that salve.”
“You shall have some. Although I don’t think you’ll need it again.”
As I sat down, Rose appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray. She beamed a smile at me. “Oh, Miss Vicky, you’re looking well now. I do hope you’re hungry.”
“For your cooking, Rose, always.”
Her smile broadened as she set down the tray and served up two bowls of cawl, a Welsh stew made of lamb, bacon, leeks, potatoes, and whatever other veggies Rose had to toss in. Nobody cooked like Rose. She’d written down some recipes for me in the past, but since my acquaintance with my own kitchen was limited to knowing which drawer held the can opener, I’d never been able to reproduce them.
Mab poured herself a glass of red wine and held up the carafe, eyebrows raised. I shook my head. We both seemed reluctant to say anything. The subject of the Morfran attack sat between us like an impossible pink rhinoceros that had plunked itself down in the middle of the table. So we talked of other things. I told Mab about Tina and how she’d given up being my apprentice to pursue a career as a zombie pop star, and Mab got me up to speed on the village gossip. Then she asked a question that made me choke on my stew: “And what of you? Surely you’re seeing a young man?”
I wiped my mouth with my napkin, like that would do something about the heat rising in my face. In all my life, Mab had never asked me such a question. Never. I didn’t want her to ask it now. But in my world, when Aunt Mab asked something, I answered. Truthfully. “Um, two, actually. Sort of.”
She lifted her wineglass, took a sip, and replaced it on the table. “Tell me about them.”
“Oh. Okay,” I said, trying to look nonchalant despite my scarlet face. “Well, there’s Alexander Kane. We’ve dated off and on for a couple of years. He’s a lawyer.”
“And a werewolf, yes? Active in promoting paranormal rights in the States? I’ve heard of his work.” U.K. laws about paranormals were more enlightened than America’s hodgepodge of wildly varying state regulations. And the European Union was using U.K. policies as a model for its own draft policy for paranormal rights. Here, paranormal rights were a given, and people watched Kane’s progress stateside with a combination of admiration and bemusement.
I nodded. “That’s Kane. He’s all about work. And that’s our problem—we never see each other. He’s been in Washington for three months, but even when he’s home our schedules keep us apart.” I felt a pang as I said it. “When we do get together, half the time we’re arguing. I mean, I like him, but he can be politically correct and just plain pigheaded.”
Mab raised her napkin to her lips, but she wasn’t quick enough to hide the smile.
“Okay, so I can be pigheaded, too. Occasionally. But maybe that means we’re not a good match.”
“And your other young man?”
“Daniel Costello. He’s human, a homicide detective. When Maria was kidnapped, he helped me rescue her. And he saw me shift—believe me, that wasn’t pretty—and still wanted to know me afterward.” I swallowed a spoonful of stew, then shrugged. “But I don’t know him very well. And he’s not used to being around paranormals. He’s trying, but …” Okay, there’d been that one toe-curling kiss. But there were even more awkward moments. “I feel like he’s way too careful around me. One time, we were out together and a sip of my drink went down my windpipe. I had a coughing fit. When it passed, he was gripping the edge of the table, looking like he expected me to shift into God-knows-what at any second.”
Mab laughed, and I looked up in surprise. Her eyes twinkled. “Don’t be too quick to judge, child. Human or otherwise, it takes time for two people to understand each other.”
“I know. But maybe we’re too different. In his world, I’m a liability. His boss hates paranormals—I don’t want him to get fired because of me.” I’d spent more than enough time entertaining Mab with the lowdown on my personal life. “Anyway, there it is. My lack of a love life, in a nutshell. Two guys, and neither is destined to be my soul mate.” Not that I needed a soul mate, or even wanted one. “Can we please change the subject?”
“Relationships are important, child. For you especially, I think. Don’t take them lightly.”
Oh, come on. This was Aunt Mab, not Dear Abby. I’d listen to anything she had to say about fighting demons, but I didn’t need her advice on relationships.
“Why not? I’m not going to take Gwen’s path—settle down and raise a family. I thought you of all people would understand. You’ve always told me that demon fighting takes complete dedication. That’s how you’ve lived. Why should my life be any different?”
Now it was Mab’s face that reddened. “Do not assume you know everything about me.” Her voice was gentle, but her words stung with rebuke.
“That’s what Pryce said, that there are all kind of things I don’t know about you.”
“And so there are.” She toyed with
the stem of her empty wineglass. “He probably told you I’m older than I appear. That’s true; some of our kind are blessed with extraordinary longevity. But it doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be young.” Her eyes went unfocused, like she was gazing far into the past. She blinked and pushed her glass away. “Forgive me, child. Tonight’s attack frightened me, and I know so little about your life. If I’d lost you …”
She didn’t finish the thought, because Rose bustled in to clear the table.
“Ready for dessert? I made your favorite, Miss Vicky: chocolate-toffee trifle. Would you like tea or coffee to go with it?”
“Coffee, please.”
“And I know you’ll be wanting a nice cup of tea, Miss Mab.”
“Yes, Rose. Thank you.”
We sat in silence while Rose was in the kitchen. I felt like a self-centered jerk. When did I bother to get in touch with Mab? When I needed something from her. I never called to say hi or ask how she was doing or tell her my news. She wasn’t asking about my love life out of nosiness; she was asking because I never told her a damn thing. I’d known Kane for three years, dated him for two, and tonight was the first time I’d mentioned his name to her.
And it had never occurred to me, ever, to ask Mab about her life. I thought I knew her so well, but all I knew was the teacher, the role model, the authority figure. She’d always been there, eternal and permanent, like the State House in Boston. Now, she studied her hands, neatly folded on the table. What was she thinking about? Her long-ago youth? Maybe a lost love? How would I have the slightest clue if I never asked?
“Mab—” I began.
“Hush, child.” She patted my hand, briskly. “You must overlook my moment of weakness. And we must not lose our focus on the task at hand.”
Rose, still in bustling mode, reentered the room, carrying a tray that looked bigger than she was. It was laden with a silver coffeepot, Mab’s favorite teapot, an entire trifle, plus cream and sugar and the cups, dishes, and silverware required to consume it all. I jumped up to help, but Rose had already eased the tray onto the buffet.
“You sit and relax, Miss Vicky. Let me do my job.”
Soon she’d served up everything. She stood by my chair, twisting her apron and watching me. Knowing what she was waiting for, I spooned up some trifle and tasted it. It was sweet and gooey and crunchy and creamy, all in one bite.
“Delicious, as always.”
She clapped her hands together, then bounced out of the dining room. I smiled as I watched her go. I felt a little less like a self-centered jerk when I could make Rose so happy just by complimenting her food.
When Mab and I were alone again, my aunt was ready to get back to business. “We must discuss what happened tonight. Obviously, my suspicion was correct. Pryce knows how to release the Morfran.”
“He said an incantation as he passed his hand over the slate. Then he hit it three times with an oversized walking stick.”
“An oaken staff.” I thought she’d quiz me on the magical properties of oak, but I got a reprieve. “And the Destroyer called the freed Morfran to your mark. We are so fortunate that the attack didn’t progress beyond the first phase.”
I checked my hands. The skin was smooth, not even a scar. Amazing. “You mentioned that before, the first phase. What is it?”
“A Morfran attack has three phases. Initially, the victim feels a pressure inside the head and the Morfran tears out chunks of flesh. That’s the first and least serious phase.”
That sounded way too familiar. But least serious? Given my experience of phase one, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear about the next two.
“In the second phase, which lasts longest,” Mab continued, “the wounds inflicted by the Morfran become harder to heal, because in this phase the Morfran feeds. The Morfran enters the first-phase wounds, pushing its way inside the victim. The pressure that began in the head fills the entire body and grows stronger. The Morfran invades the digestive tract, from which it forces the victim’s own digestive fluids to the surface of the body. You can tell this is happening when the edges of the wounds begin to blacken and dissolve.”
My stomach roiled. “You’re saying that Morfran victims digest themselves?”
She nodded. “With demonically enhanced gastric juices. The Morfran feeds off this process.”
Now I really didn’t want to hear about what came next. But I needed to know. “And in phase three?”
“The victim explodes.”
My mind flashed back to Creature Comforts, to the mess that used to be T.J. The black goo, the shreds of flesh, bone, and clothes. Exploded. No kidding. It looked like he’d swallowed a hand grenade.
“The internal pressure becomes unbearable as more and more of the Morfran pushes its way inside,” Mab explained, scraping the last spoonful of trifle from her bowl.
I still held my own spoon, but I put it down, my dessert unfinished. Just this once, Rose would have to understand. For a spirit of insatiable hunger, the Morfran sure had a way of killing my appetite.
23
THE NEXT MORNING, I WAS BACK ON THE LAWN FOR MORE practice—if you call three hours before dawn “morning.” Mab said I needed extra practice, and it had to be before sunrise. I didn’t like the sound of that, but here I was. Clouds blew across the gibbous moon, making darker shadows against the dark lawn. Branches rattled like old bones. I zipped up my jacket against the wind. The Morfran had shredded the one I’d worn yesterday, but I’d dug another out of my closet. When you’re a shapeshifter, you learn to keep extra clothes around.
Mab brought me a thermos of coffee, and we began. I’d lost ground with Hellforged. It took ten full minutes of centering meditation before the athame would lie flat in my palm. By the end of the first hour, I was doing super-slow-motion circles and managing to hold on to the dagger most of the time.
Mab watched, occasionally offering advice: “Don’t clutch the grip so tightly; you’re strangling it,” or “Purity, child. Remember purity.”
I was purely sick and tired of wrestling with the damn knife, but I nodded and tried to hold my double focus.
After two hours of practice, I’d made it through the whole routine—decreasing circles with the left hand, transfer to the right, and pointing at the slate while saying the magic words—three times in a row. But way too slowly. Whenever I tried to move with Mab’s lightning-quickness, I lost Hellforged in the transfer.
Mab picked up a two-foot-long stick that lay on the ground by her feet.
“This stick is oak. I’m going to—”
“No!” A sick tide of panic flooded me. “No, don’t. I’m not ready. I can barely get Hellforged from one hand to the other without it rocketing across the lawn.”
“I know, child. I’d prefer to have you work with just the left hand for a month.” Her words were sympathetic, but her tone was steel-edged. “There’s no time. Pryce can release the Morfran. He’s not going to wait until we’re ready before he makes his next move.”
She tapped the ground once with the stick and walked to the tile. Oh, God, please no. Not that pain again. My throat constricted, and Hellforged went crazy. I wasn’t centered. I couldn’t get centered, not when I couldn’t even breathe.
“Mab, wait. I can’t do it!”
“Of course you can. What’s more, you must.” But she paused. “Relax, child. Last night’s attack was Pryce’s first test. I don’t believe the Morfran will attack you again. But whatever happens, I won’t let it hurt you. You must learn this, Victory. Take a moment to collect yourself. Bear in mind, though, you won’t have that luxury in battle.”
Still panicking, I tried to relax, to turn inward, to notice my heartbeat and breathing. Easy. Take it easy. I pushed away all thoughts of pain and fear; muscle by muscle, I unclenched. Hellforged calmed, grew still. The cramping in my fingers showed how hard I’d been squeezing the grip.
Three gonglike chimes rang out as Mab struck the slate once … again … again. My stomach lurched. As the dark
mist emerged from the stone, I began to make slow, wide circles with my left hand. The mist rose up and floated in my direction, tendrils reaching for me like tentacles. Focus, Vicky. The mist stopped a few feet away, and the tendrils changed direction, reaching upward, toward the athame. They thinned as the mist was drawn into Hellforged’s orbit.
There was no buzzing, no headache. The dark mist swirled in wide arcs above me, following the motion of my arm.
I was doing it. A sensation of bitter cold passed into the athame as the Morfran locked onto my movement. The coldness traveled into my hand and crept up my arm; as it did, I made smaller circles and pulled my hand closer to my body. The Morfran followed. In another minute, the cold had reached my shoulder. My arm felt like it was encased in ice.
A jolt hit the obsidian blade and shot up my arm like a freezing-cold spark. Now. I switched Hellforged to my right hand; it jumped in the transfer but didn’t get away. I pointed at the slate, pushing the Morfran with my mind.
And forgot the incantation.
I stood on the grass, pointing at the target, my mind a complete blank.
The Morfran energy flowed up the blade, moving into my right arm. My fingers turned frostbite black. My wrist, my forearm, my elbow seized up from the icy energy.
Mab clasped her right hand around mine. She drew back both our arms, then flung the Morfran at the slate, yelling the words of power.
“Parhau! Ireos! Mantrigo!”
The cold shot from my arm. The Morfran hurtled into the slate target. It hit so hard, I thought the slate would shatter, but the tile stayed in one piece.
My arm ached and stung as though I’d mainlined a hypodermic of snake venom. I rubbed it, trying to chafe normal feeling back into my skin. I flexed my fingers, watching as they gradually grew pink, then red. I’d learned something about the Morfran—if it didn’t gouge you to pieces and digest you from the inside out, it froze you to death. I had an image of my frozen-solid body cracking into Vicky-flavored ice cubes for the Morfran to snack on.
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