Still Not Dead Enough , Book 2 of The Dead Among Us

by Doty, J. L.

  The rapier caught Paul in a slashing blow across the ribs, and had they been in Faerie it would have sliced him in two, cutting through bone and flesh and organs. But here, while it cut him, it didn’t have the hardness to slice through bone and it bent into a misshaped arc around his ribs. Simuth hesitated, lifted the bent rapier and frowned at it stupidly. Paul swung the skillet, put everything he had behind a two-handed blow and hit Simuth in the side of the head. The skillet made a surprisingly pleasant clang as it crashed into his skull, and the Winter Knight went down like a sack of potatoes. He groaned, didn’t attempt to rise.

  Paul staggered, leaned against the kitchen counter, nausea threatening to empty his stomach as a wave of agony from his shoulder lanced through him. But he gritted his teeth and waved the skillet at Simuth like a sword. “Touché, you sack of shit.”

  Blood oozed from the slash across his ribs, ran down his face from more than one cut on his forehead, but he didn’t have time to worry about that if he hoped to get Katherine back before the chaos in the Unseelie Court cleared. He pulled open a drawer in which he kept a mix of all sorts of knives. The smaller ones like paring knives and steak knives weren’t terribly sharp, but he didn’t need sharp so he stuffed three of them into his pocket. There was a small box of two-inch nails, and on a whim he stuffed a couple of handfuls into the other pocket. Behind him Simuth groaned, attempted to get to his feet. Paul turned back to him, gave him a two-handed swing with the skillet to the side of his head and the asshole went down a second time.

  There was one big butcher knife he kept sharp, good steel that held a good edge, and another one that didn’t have a sharp edge, did have a good, sharp point. In some unknown memory he recalled someone saying, . . . decapitate them, separate the head from the heart. Then impale both the head and the heart on cold iron, and hold the iron fast until their struggles cease. He staggered back to Simuth. . . . you must show no hesitation, no mercy, no compassion . . .

  Simuth struggled to his feet in the middle of the living room, stood there for a moment dazed and unsteady. Paul approached him from behind and grabbed his hair, kicked the back of his legs and he dropped to his knees . . . show no hesitation, no mercy, no compassion . . . Standing behind Simuth, Paul raised the butcher knife with the sharp point, said, “This is for Suzanna, you shithead,” then plunged the knife into Simuth’s chest.

  The Sidhe screamed; the skin around the knife hissing and spitting and smoldering. Simuth screamed again, tried to grab it, but as his fingers touched the hilt they too burned and sizzled and sputtered. He threw his hands out away from the knife in his chest, looked at it and screamed frantically. “No, no, no, no, no!”

  Paul said, “All right, asshole, let’s go back and teach everyone a lesson.” He clutched the other butcher knife in his right hand, grabbed the hair on the back of Simuth’s head in his left hand, concentrated on that spiral twist of reality and the Unseelie banquet hall, and he and Simuth appeared amidst the chaos he’d left only a few moments earlier.

  They were back in Faerie, Katherine standing a few feet away holding that god-awful, giant, sheathed sword, a stunned look of awe on her face. She saw Paul, and extended the hilt toward him.

  Simuth flinched, clearly realizing he’d be more powerful now. But before he could react, Paul said, “This is for Cloe,” and without hesitating he cut Simuth’s throat with a broad slash, then pressed the blade of the big butcher knife in the open wound. As Simuth’s throat sizzled and spit a greasy smoke, filling the air with the smell of burning flesh, he screamed a long wailing cry of dread and fear. Paul held the knife steady, put a knee in the small of Simuth’s back, pulled on his hair, arching his neck upward, then stabbed the knife into one of Simuth’s eyes. Simuth wailed like a strange beast

  . . . show no hesitation, no mercy, no compassion . . .

  “Paul, look out.”

  Paul looked up at the sound of Katherine’s voice. Two Sidhe warriors were running toward him. Paul reached into his pocket, pulled out two of the small knives, pulled all the power he could hold, tossed the knives in the air and fed the power into them. They took the two Sidhe by surprise, dropped them both to the floor screaming at the cold iron in their chests. He reached over and past Simuth to the sheathed sword Katherine had extended toward him, gripped the hilt in his right hand and pulled it free. The blade glowed with a strange hoary light.

  With his left he hand reached into his other pocket and pulled out a hand-full of nails. Katherine stood there unsteadily clutching at her torn clothing and holding the sheath. Paul shouted, “Katherine, down.” Her eyes widened and she dropped to the floor without hesitation. He pulled power again, threw the nails in the air, dumped the power into them and they streaked in all directions, buried themselves in random Sidhe targets like shrapnel on a battlefield.

  Simuth still knelt with his back toward Paul shrieking like a wounded cat, one knife protruding from an eye, the other from his chest, both crackling and spitting a greasy black smoke. Paul gripped the hilt of the great sword in both hands. It had the weight of a heavy baseball bat, so he pulled it back, screamed, “And this if for Katherine,” then swung it like a Louisville slugger in a long flat arc.

  It chopped into Simuth’s neck, and his head literally popped up a few inches before tumbling down, bouncing off his now headless shoulders and dropping to the floor. Simuth’s body knelt there for a moment, his head still shrieking, the two knives still sputtering and crackling. Then his torso toppled forward and collapsed about the knife in his chest.

  Simuth’s severed head screamed again, a long wailing cry of despair. Paul saw more Sidhe coming toward him purposefully. He grabbed the last of the nails, shouted, “Stay down, Katherine,” trusted she would, pulled dangerous amounts of power, tossed the nails in the air and fed the power into them. They pinged and zinged as they ricocheted off stone, popped and hissed as they punched holes in Sidhe flesh, brought on more chaos and pain.

  Paul turned back to the screaming severed head and the thrashing body. He rolled Simuth over and put a knee in his chest, and with one hand on the butcher knife in Simuth’s eye, the other on the knife in his chest, Paul poured power into them both. Simuth’s head screamed louder, and his body thrashed powerfully beneath Paul, but he held on, refused to let go, continued channeling power into the two blades. Slowly, bit by bit, Simuth’s cries died away and his body stilled. Paul held on, pulled more and more power, watched as the two pieces of the Summer Knight smoldered and sizzled, finally dissipating into a pile of gray ash. Into the silence Paul whispered, “And that was for me, shithead.”

  The Unseelie Court roiled with absolute chaos. Paul’s nasty little nails had done the job, and quite a number of Sidhe screamed in pain. All that remained of the Winter Knight were bits and pieces of clothing and jewelry amid the ashes. Paul sifted through it quickly, found Suzanna’s ring and shoved it into a pocket. He struggled to his feet, staggered to Katherine, almost fell over because of his knee, helped her to her feet and turned to Ag. There was no sign of the sword.

  The Winter King sat on his throne gasping in pain, a fist-sized hole burned into his side, and Paul realized he’d gotten him with one of the nails. Ag just stared at him, wincing at the pain.

  Katherine whispered, “They fear you. You broke a circle, killed several of their mages doing so. No one breaks a circle.” Her voice was filled with awe. “No one.”

  Paul didn’t tell her he hadn’t broken it, he’d just turned their own power back on them, turned the twisted spell that fed on their desires against them. But if that made them fear him, then they didn’t need to know the truth.

  Ag snarled, “You brought cold iron into the Unseelie Court. The penalty for that is death.”

  Paul shrugged. “Self-defense, asshole.” Then he pointed a finger at Ag. “You or any of yours come for me or any of mine again, and I’ll make this look like a walk in the park.”

  Ag snarled, “I’m going to kill you where you stand.”

  Jim’Jimin
ie materialized between them in a sparkling of pixie dust. “And you’ll have to be killing me first.”

  Ag screamed, “He violated Unseelie Court law. He murdered the Winter Knight.”

  Jim’Jiminie shook his head. “You were the aggressor here, Ag. And vendetta was justified. It’s settled. All Faerie stands against you in this.”

  Jim’Jiminie turned back to Paul. “Leave now, Young Mage, while you can.”

  Paul gripped Katherine’s hand, thought carefully of that spiral twist in reality, thought of McGowan’s kitchen.

  ~~~

  He was getting better at it each time. They still came back four or five feet off the floor, but he’d managed to make sure Katherine was on top so he didn’t crush her with his weight, and they came out over McGowan’s kitchen table so they only had a few feet to fall.

  They hit the table with a thud and crash of scattering dishes. Katherine’s weight on top of him reminded him painfully of his broken ribs.

  “Oh my god,” Sarah cried, standing in the kitchen.

  Katherine rolled off Paul, groaned painfully. Paul rolled the other direction, rolled off the table, bounced off a couple of chairs before hitting the floor in a tangled mess of chair legs.

  “Mr. McGowan,” Sarah screamed. “Colleen, they’re back. And hurt.”

  Paul didn’t try to disentangle his legs from the chairs. He no longer had the strength, and every breath brought a sharp stabbing pain in his chest.

  As McGowan and Colleen rushed into the room, Katherine staggered to her feet. Colleen tried to help her stand but she pushed the older woman away, and gave Paul an odd, wary look. Her voice came out in a hiss. “He broke a Sidhe circle backed by thirteen Sidhe mages, killed several of them. Killed Simuth, butchered him there in front of the entire Unseelie Court.” She collapsed in a faint, and McGowan caught her just in time to ease her to the floor.

  Paul didn’t have the strength to hold onto consciousness, found a place without pain, a place where he could forget the look he’d seen in Katherine’s eyes.

  Epilogue: Doubts and Fears

  “I all but raped your daughter. No wonder she doesn’t want to see me.”

  Paul sat at his little breakfast nook, McGowan standing over him. McGowan had gotten him to his surgeon friend. They’d stitched him up and covered him in bandages. He’d had two days to recuperate, which meant the soreness from the cuts and sprains and bruises was at its worst. He’d spent most of the day half-stoned on painkillers.

  “No, Paul,” McGowan said. “Simuth raped you both. And he raped Katherine repeatedly over a period of several days. She just needs some time, time to come to terms with her own feelings. She’s having a little trouble with the brutality of the situation. I confess I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  It saddened Paul that what, at the time, had seemed the only way to save them both, had frightened Katherine so. Paul didn’t know how much he could tell McGowan, didn’t understand much of it himself. “I was scared shitless, backed into a corner. No way out but take him down, knew that once I started, I couldn’t stop, dare not stop, until it was done.”

  McGowan sat down at the only other seat in the small nook. “You broke a circle from the inside, a circle backed by thirteen Sidhe mages. You killed four of them, by the way, left nothing but four piles of incinerated ash. How did you do that?” McGowan’s eyebrows narrowed in a look of unmistakable distrust.

  Paul had yet to confess the truth of that to anyone. He could always fess up later, but right now their misconception that he’d actually broken a circle had everyone he didn’t like steering well clear of him, which was a good thing. He trusted McGowan, but still decided to keep his own counsel. “If I ever figure it out, I’ll let you know. But I don’t think I really broke it.” There, not a complete lie.

  “Could have fooled me,” the old man said. “And all of Faerie too, which, by the way, is abuzz with such amazing news. And where did you find out how to kill a Sidhe immortal?”

  “That too I don’t know.” Not a lie, this time. Every time he tried to think about that, he had the vaguest impression of vast, dark wings obscuring the moon overhead, but he couldn’t put the thoughts together into a coherent chain.

  “Well, you scared the hell out of a lot of Sidhe. Hasn’t been anything like this come along in centuries. By the way, you’ve graduated to the third tier of wizardry.”

  Paul frowned, winced, had yet to find a muscle that didn’t complain when used, including minor facial muscles involved in simple expressions like a frown. “How do you mean?”

  “I can no longer sense how powerful you are.”

  That came as a surprise to Paul, though now that he thought about it, on a subconscious level he’d gotten in the habit of continually clenching those magic muscles that damped other’s sense of his capabilities. And apparently it now worked on other practitioners as well, not just demons. Next, if he could figure out a way to conceal the fact that he was a wizard from other practitioners, he could disappear for a while; have some time to think through this wizard stuff.

  “And Karpov is making noises that you’re dangerous, out of control. That you murdered a Sidhe royal, alienated a valuable ally. But don’t worry about it. The leprechauns are making sure the real story is getting around, that you were the injured party, acted only in self-defense.”

  Paul dearly hoped to find a way he and Karpov wouldn’t have to butt heads. Karpov didn’t like those who didn’t see things his way, needed to have them change their outlook to one more compatible with his, meaning Karpov as the head honcho, the rest of them towing his line. Paul wanted to keep a low profile, let more experienced practitioners like McGowan and Colleen deal with Karpov.

  “You scared the be-Jesus out of Magreth. No Sidhe royal likes to see a mortal kill an immortal. Makes them uncomfortable. I still don’t understand how you bested him in Faerie. They’re just too powerful in Faerie. Katherine says you disappeared with Simuth there for a moment, just before reappearing and beheading him.”

  It was a question, a big question. Paul decided on the truth. “I dragged him to my kitchen, here, where he was weaker.” The cast iron skillet still sat in the sink. Paul gave McGowan a blow-by-blow description of his fight with Simuth here in his apartment.

  McGowan shook his head. It was the first time Paul had ever seen him at a loss for words. “You shouldn’t be able to do that, kid, not just pop between the Realms like that to any location you choose. Must take an enormous amount of power.”

  “It’s more complicated than that.” Paul tried to explain the spiral twist in reality between the Mortal Plane and Faerie, and how it didn’t require any power, was more like understanding the right door to open. The look on McGowan’s face told him the old wizard didn’t understand a word. A knock at the door interrupted him.

  McGowan stood and said, “I’ll get it.” He took two steps toward the door, but stopped short and turned back to Paul. “It’s probably best if you don’t mention this spiral slippage thing to anyone. And in any case, everyone thinks you bested a Sidhe Royal in mortal combat in Faerie. That makes you one powerful honcho, which you can use to your advantage. No need to enlighten them, is there?”

  McGowan turned back toward the door and opened it. The door, only partly open, hid whoever stood on the other side while McGowan spoke briefly with them. McGowan then opened the door completely to reveal Jim’Jiminie standing there.

  Jim’Jiminie doffed his hat and bowed deeply, like the finest of Sidhe courtiers. “Young Lord Mage, I come bearing a message. If you’ll grant me the grace of your abode, I’ll guarantee the parole of me inclinations for the duration.”

  Paul frowned at McGowan, and the old man answered his unasked question. “He can’t cross the threshold of your home without your permission, and guarantees his good conduct while here.”

  “Sure,” Paul nodded, waved his hand, the motion again reminding him of his bruises. “Come on in.”

  Jim’Jiminie sauntered up to Paul as
McGowan closed the door behind him. He stood with his chest out and spoke officiously. “Young Lord Mage, I come to act as the intermediary between yourself and an ambassador of Her Most Gracious Majesty, Magreth, Queen of the Winter Court and ruler of all that is Seelie. Because of your previous relations with her chosen ambassador, His Royal Highness, Prince Anogh, august Knight of the Summer Court, she fears you will not readily accept his parole so that he may discuss the business of the Court with your noble self, so she asks you to accept her personal parole, and that of the Crown of the Seelie Court, allowing his presence in your magnificent domicile.”

  Paul had to think the words through carefully. “Magreth thinks I don’t trust Anogh, so she’s vouching for him so I’ll allow him here to deliver some message.”

  The leprechaun grinned. “Exactly.”

  Paul looked to McGowan questioningly. The old wizard said, “You can’t have a better guarantee than that.”

  “Ok,” Paul said to Jim’Jiminie. “Bring him on.”

  The instant Paul finished speaking there came a knock on the door. McGowan answered it and Anogh stepped into the room. Jim’Jiminie bowed, stepped aside. Anogh bowed deeply, again the bow of a Seelie courtier. “Lord Mage,” he said. He turned to McGowan, bowed again, “Old Wizard.”

  McGowan remained leaning against the wall casually, didn’t move a muscle.

  Anogh turned back to Paul. “I am indebted to you, for you freed me from the oaths that bound me to the Unseelie Court. And Her Majesty wishes you to know that the Seelie Crown is indebted to you for restoring me to my rightful place at the Summer Court. To show her gratitude, she offers you a boon. What boon would you have, Lord Mage?”

  Paul couldn’t imagine what he might ask for; decided having them indebted to him might be the best boon he could wish for. “Tell Her Majesty . . . I’ll think about it.”