by Doty, J. L.
~~~
“No,” he pleaded. “No. Alice isn’t ready yet.”
But I am diminished and I hunger, I need.
“But she’s not ready. And the little boy is in the way.”
Then someone else. Now! Tonight!
“But there’s no one else ready. It’s too dangerous. If we’re caught they’ll banish you and it will all end.”
But I need, I hunger.
“I know. But you’ll have to be patient. I’ll accelerate preparations for the little Mexican girl.”
Hurry.
“Yes, I’ll hurry. Just be patient.”
Chapter 6: The Secret Uncovered
Simuth stalked warily up the stairs of the old fortress in the non-aligned territories. His suspicions had grown for years, and it had taken careful planning on his part to trace the movements of the Winter Princess. One moved cautiously in such matters.
The fortress was ancient, had been abandoned long ago and had decayed little by little as the centuries passed. He’d searched the lower floors methodically, but nothing had been out of place. He’d gone through dozens of chambers and rooms, all strewn liberally with the detritus of past ages. On the upper level he found more rooms filled with the debris of neglect and decay. He was beginning to doubt his own suspicions as he turned toward the north wing, the only portion of the fortress he had yet to search.
How could he have been so wrong? he wondered. He’d found nothing in the rest of the fortress, and with growing certainty he knew he’d find nothing here. He was about to turn back and abandon the search when he recognized the subtle influence of the spell; doubt, uncertainty and misgivings induced by the delicate application of understated magics. It was well done, extremely well done, crafted by a powerful mage, but with restraint and control.
He stepped back out of the north wing, spent some minutes crafting a counter-spell, then returned and released it. The debris in the hallway disappeared in the blink of an eye. Dust still carpeted the floor, and the signs of age and decay remained, but someone had gone to some trouble to clean this portion of the fortress. And the farther he penetrated into the north wing the more confident he grew that his suspicions were correct.
Instinct led him to a large, oaken door at the far end of the hall. It appeared to be ancient like the rest of the fortress, but it swung open easily on beautifully maintained hinges. And beyond it he found a suite of rooms arrayed with the most elegant of furniture and tapestries. There was a small, intimate dining chamber, a grand sitting room, and most importantly, a bed chamber that reeked of the scent of his prey.
The sheets on the large bed were tousled and tumbled in disarray, but among them he found a beautiful, silk scarf he recognized. He lifted it to his nose, and was not surprised to find the arcane scent of Taal’mara. And most damning of all, mixed in with her scent was that of Anogh. He threw his head back and laughed . . .
Simuth watched Anogh report to Ag and recalled that day more than six centuries ago. He enjoyed evoking those memories and the events that followed, for it had been a great personal triumph over his most hated enemy.
~~~
“Conklin,” Katherine shouted, standing in the middle of Salisteen’s kitchen, holding a broken high-heel in one hand and pointing an angry finger at Paul. “You are absolute hell on a girl’s wardrobe.” She turned and stormed across the kitchen, hair in wild disarray, her expensive suit torn in several places, walking unevenly because she refused to abandon the one high-heel that wasn’t broken.
Paul leaned over the sink while Salisteen administered to his bloody nose and the cut on his cheek.
Stowicz demanded, “What the hell happened back there?”
Ramirez had quickly hustled them out of the morgue before anyone started asking questions they didn’t want to answer.
Paul said, “How the hell should I know. One minute I’m sitting there comforting poor little Monica, and the next she pukes up some monster, and it’s trying to kill me. If Katherine hadn’t given me that sword, I don’t know what we would have done.”
They all turned to look at Katherine with a mixture of distrust and anger. In a more subdued tone McGowan asked, “You gave him a sword?”
Katherine stopped her angry pacing and frowned thoughtfully. “Ya,” she said, shaking her head as if trying to recall some lost memory.
“Where did you come up with a sword?”
She continued to shake her head, her frown deepening. “I don’t know.”
“And where is it now?”
“I don’t know.”
Stowicz gave Paul a look of intense distrust and growled, “I don’t like this. What are you pulling here? How do I know you didn’t bring a demon over?”
Colleen said, “Charlie, you saw the little people.”
“Ya, so?”
“You know full well they wouldn’t help Paul if he trucked with demons.”
Holding a wet towel to his nose Paul sat down in a chair at the kitchen table. He couldn’t get the poor little girl out of his mind, kept seeing her lifeless body lying on the stainless steel gurney. And every time he thought of her he saw Cloe lying there, and he couldn’t get her out of his mind, and his hands shook with anger. But he just didn’t know who to be angry at.
Ramirez towered over him. “Buck up man,” he growled. “Show some cojones. We’re depending on you.”
Katherine stormed up behind Ramirez, grabbed his arm and spun him to face her. “Back off, asshole.”
She stepped around Ramirez and spoke softly. “It’s Cloe, isn’t it?”
Ramirez demanded, “Who the hell’s Cloe?”
Katherine spun back to him. “His daughter, you jerk. Killed about a year ago. About the same age as Monica.”
Ramirez’s shoulders slumped and he deflated like a balloon with a bad leak. “Ah shit!” He shook his head. “Why didn’t someone tell me?”
Katherine didn’t let up, “I just did, asshole.”
Colleen stepped between them. “Everyone calm down. Let’s try to reconstruct what happened. And let’s do so without all the shouting.”
Ramirez turned and stormed out of the kitchen. Katherine sat down opposite Paul, reached out and took hold of his hands. She spoke carefully. “Tell me what you saw.”
Her hands were warm and soft, and his stopped shaking as he carefully put all thought of Cloe out of his mind. “I saw Monica. Dead Monica.”
Ramirez marched back into the kitchen carrying a bottle of bourbon just as one of the male-model servants put a cup of coffee in front of Paul. “Sorry, man,” Ramirez said as he pulled the cork on the bottle. “I didn’t know.”
He poured a healthy splash of bourbon into Paul’s coffee. “This’ll help a little. This’s got to be hard for you.”
Colleen sat down next to Katherine and held her coffee out toward Ramirez. “I could use a wee dram of that too, darlin’.”
They passed the bourbon around as Paul took a sip of his coffee and Katherine said, “You were telling us about Monica.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” Paul said. “She looked pretty normal, except her eyes were dead, no life in them at all.”
“What did she say?”
“She tugged on my sleeve and said I had to help the little Mexican girl and boy. She said he wanted her and I had to help her. She called her Alice. Then she opened her mouth and something like black smoke came out. But it was a lot nastier than just smoke.”
McGowan made Paul and Katherine describe in considerable detail what they remembered. “I don’t know where I got that sword,” Katherine finished. “But when I saw that monster it was just there, and I knew Paul needed to use it to stop that thing.”
Throughout the retelling of the events Stowicz had stood silently at the far end of the kitchen. He stepped forward, coffee cup in hand. “You said she said he wanted her. She didn’t say it wanted her.”
Paul thought about it for a moment, tried to reconstruct the few brief words she’d uttered. “No, not it. She
definitely said he.”
Salisteen, McGowan and Stowicz exchanged a rapid sequence of surprised looks, while Colleen just stared into her coffee cup and nodded.
“What is it?” Katherine demanded.
“My dear,” she said. “Information you get from a spirit can be quite obtuse. But in some respects they’re very precise. If Monica had been killed by a demon, and if it was a demon loose on the Mortal Plane stalking this little Mexican girl, Monica’s spirit would have referred to it as it, not he.”
Paul asked, “So what’s that mean?”
Colleen swirled the coffee in her cup, continued to stare at it as she said, “We’re not merely looking for an emergent loose on the Mortal Plane. We’re looking for some sort of human killer that somehow feeds like a demon, or is maybe working in concert with a demon.”
She looked up and her eyes bored into Paul’s. “And it makes me wonder if that means we’re looking for another necromancer?”
~~~
Anogh spurred his steed into a gallop as they approached the seat of the Unseelie Court. For a diplomatic mission of this nature, he wore the full regalia of the Summer Knight—the hereditary armor, the masked helm—and he was accompanied by a retinue of twelve twelves of Seelie warriors, all arrayed similarly.
The invitation from Ag had been vague, which was not unusual, but it nevertheless required the appropriate response. It might be some trivial issue Ag wished to discuss, possibly some slight he had imagined. They would discuss and dispute the matter for several days, eventually come to a resolution, then Anogh and his retinue would return to the Seelie Court to debrief Magreth. If nothing more it would be an excuse to see Taal’mara, though only from afar. They dare not meet in secret under such close scrutiny.
The gates of the great Unseelie castle stood open for them. Simuth sat astride his own steed waiting just outside the castle’s mote, backed by a similar troupe of Unseelie warriors. At a discreet distance Anogh raised his hand and brought his troupe to a halt. Then, as required by the ancient formulas, he and Simuth both rode forward at an easy canter and met half way between the two forces.
“Brother Knight,” Simuth said. “By what warrant do you traverse the Unseelie territories?”
Anogh bowed his head lightly. “I come in peace, Brother Knight, by invitation of your sovereign.”
“And you bear the proper warrant?”
It was an ancient formula established in a far distant past. Anogh reached into his tunic, saying, “I do, signed personally by your king, and it bears his seal.”
He retrieved a parchment and handed it to Simuth, who pretended to read it, for of course he had known of this visit and the invitation well in advance. Simuth nodded, “Then do accompany me, Brother Knight, as my guest.”
With the formalities complete, Simuth turned and nudged his mount toward the castle. Anogh and his retinue followed.
In the castle yard their horses were taken in hand by grooms. Anogh must first present himself to the king, so Simuth led him through the halls of the Winter Court, though having followed this formula many times through the centuries Anogh well knew the way.
When he stepped through the massive entrance of the great throne room he paused, and waited while the chamberlain announced him to the waiting throng and the king. It took some seconds to speak his many titles and his full name, but when the chamberlain finished Anogh marched forward, his pace carefully dictated by protocol. Taal’mara stood beside her father on his left side, dressed in a gown of pale green brocade, her hair piled high atop her head and decorated with gems of all colors. But as Anogh walked the length of the great room, while his thoughts could not turn away from his heart’s desire, he was careful to keep his eyes on Ag seated upon his throne, to give no hint of his love for the Winter Princess.
Simuth climbed the dais and took a position at Ag’s right hand. Anogh stopped at a discrete distance from the bottom of the dais. He bowed from the waist. “Your Majesty, as you requested I have come, and I bring the felicitations of my queen.”
“Rise,” Ag said. “Face me, Summer Knight.”
Anogh stood straight and tall and looked up to the Winter King. Ag regarded him carefully as he lifted a glass of wine to his lips. His eyes locked on Anogh over the rim of the goblet as he sipped delicately. When he lowered the glass he raised a silken scarf and lightly dabbed at his lips.
Taal’mara’s eyes darted to the scarf, and with a look of surprise and horror all color drained from her face.
Simuth smirked openly.
The scarf was not the kind of thing one would ordinarily use as a simple napkin, more an elegant thing of beauty to be worn by a courtier. But Anogh couldn’t understand why the sight of it brought such fear to Taal’mara’s features. It was just a scarf, one that seemed slightly familiar, but still just a scarf.
Slightly familiar! Anogh had seen it before and he dredged through his memories to recall where: draped delicately over Taal’mara’s shoulders as she joined him in their hidden love nest. They had chatted briefly and tried to restrain themselves, but it had been many months since he’d last experienced the taste of her skin, and once his restraint had faltered, it had vanished quickly. He’d personally removed the scarf from her shoulders, dropped it to the floor of the bed chamber, the first of many articles of clothing he removed from her.
“Yes,” Ag said, smiling unpleasantly. “I can see by the look on your face, Summer Knight, that you have now gleaned the purpose of this meeting.”
Taal’mara dropped to her knees and bowed her head. “Your Majesty. Please, we have done nothing.”
“Now, now, my child,” Ag said, reaching out and patting her gently on the top of her head. He put a finger beneath her chin and tilted her head up to meet his eyes. “You have done quite a bit, haven’t you, daughter?”
Anogh stepped forward and said, “But, Your Majesty—”
Ag looked to Anogh and screamed, “Silence!”
He turned back to Taal’mara, and again he spoke gently. “You have allowed the Summer Knight to seduce you. You have allowed him to pluck the most delicate flower in the Winter Court. You’ve sullied yourself with base lust and desire.”
“I’m sorry, father, but we’re in love, a beautiful thing between us.”
“A beautiful thing, is it?”
Again Anogh stepped forward. “Yes, Your Majesty. I would gladly wed her.” He struggled to find some reason for Ag to forbear his wrath. “It would be a powerful union, joining both Sidhe Courts as never before. I would do anything to prove the honor of my intentions.”
Ag grinned. “You would do anything, eh?”
Anogh dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Anything, Your Majesty.”
“An interesting thought, my Summer Knight. Perhaps it would be of some benefit to join the two Courts in this way.”
Ag paused, clearly considering the matter. “Very well, I will grant you my daughter’s hand in marriage. But only on the condition you take solemn oath to protect her, to see that no harm ever comes to her, and that should you fail in that oath, you will be bound to the Winter Court for all eternity.”
Anogh looked up at Ag. “I cannot take such an oath, Your Majesty. My oaths to the Summer Court prohibit such an open-ended binding.”
Ag smiled. “Very well, then. Should you fail to protect the Winter Princess, you will be bound to the Winter Court until the death of the Summer Knight. And you may not take his life, nor arrange for another to do so. That’s not so open-ended, is it?”
“But he’s immortal.”
Ag’s smile widened and he nodded. “Yes, he is. Granted, it’s a subtle and fine distinction, but that is enough of a limitation that it will not violate your oaths to the Summer Court. Eh, Summer Knight?”
Anogh lowered his head again. “Yes, Your Majesty. I can take such an oath.”
. . . Anogh had been such a fool, all those many centuries ago. He knew that now, had even, deep down, known it then. But he’d been blinded by his love f
or Taal’mara, and his need to have her by his side. And in any case, no one would be foolish enough to harm Taal’mara and face the wrath of the Summer Knight and the Winter King.
Yes, he’d been such a fool.
~~~
It was McGowan’s idea to try to raise the spirits of the other victims. “It can’t hurt,” he’d said, “and maybe we’ll learn something.”
If they wanted to go to graveyards and raise the spirits of the dead, that was fine with Paul, as long as he didn’t have anything to do with it. Raising the dead; the whole idea was just too creepy. And then, listening to them talk, Paul realized it wasn’t they who were going to raise the dead. They expected him to do it.
“Me? Raise the dead?” he asked, pacing back and forth in Salisteen’s kitchen. “I don’t know anything about raising the dead.”
Paul turned to Stowicz, who nursed a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. “You’re this super, wizard magic guy. Why don’t you do it?”
Stowicz grimaced. “I could, but that’s extremely difficult sorcery, and quite dangerous. It takes days of preparation for anyone but a necromancer. And you’re the necromancer du jour. It’s supposed to be easy for you.”
“But I don’t know anything about necromancy.”
McGowan walked into the kitchen carrying a notebook. “The kid’s got a point, Charlie. None of us really know anything about necromancy.”
McGowan sat down next to Stowicz and opened the notebook. “Take a look at this. I got this grimoire a while back, gotta be thirteen, fourteen hundred years old. Pretty authentic too. Fellow who wrote it was a nut-case monk, but, based on the spells he documented, he was a pretty good sorcerer, claimed to have assisted the Merlin, documented some of his necromantic spells, though he was smart enough not to try them himself.”
McGowan flipped through the pages of the notebook, opened it to a particular page and spread it flat in front of Stowicz, then stabbed a finger at the page. “I think this one. What do you think?”
Stowicz’s head began tracking side-to-side as he read the writing on the page in front of him. Colleen and Salisteen crossed the room to stand behind him and look over his shoulder. Paul pointed at the notebook. “That doesn’t look fourteen hundred years old.”