by Petra Landon
“I am jetlagged, Duncan” Raoul reiterated.
His friend merely arched his brow in response, without a word.
Duncan never gave up on the things that mattered. Raoul knew that the English Shifter would wait it out patiently until he was ready to talk. It was something he remembered from the early days, when the Duncan had patiently nudged and pushed alternately to bring a young boy, struggling to subdue his beotan and restore the natural Wyr equilibrium, back from the brink.
“The Siren stuff has me thinking” he admitted.
Duncan met his eyes. “You don’t know why your blood leaves the leeches screaming, Raoul” he stated unwaveringly. Duncan had long wondered about this. But after the Mistress’ disclosures about Sirens, their purported magic and the Clan’s enmity with the group, it was no longer something Raoul could ignore. The game had changed about this in a major way.
The Alpha threw up his arms. He could be honest with his friend. “I have no idea, Duncan” he affirmed. “And frankly, I’ve been a little preoccupied with other matters. Also, my history with the leeches is fairly recent. Until the witchling joined us, I’d rarely had occasion to skirmish with them. Since then, of course, it’s become a regular old pastime.”
Despite the sober subject, Duncan’s lips quirked. “You hate it so, don’t you?”
Raoul let out a chuckle. “I wouldn’t go that far. Kicking leech ass always makes my day.
The Were-Alpha approved wholeheartedly with the sentiment. He too enjoyed going up against the Clan immensely. When it came to physical strength and reflexes, the Vampires were the only Chosen who could offer the Shifters a decent fight. The other Chosen tended to use their magic more than their physical attributes.
“What’s the problem, Raoul?” he asked, wondering why the boy spent his time on a vague and nebulous threat, when Bianchi could easily be removed from the chessboard.
“I can’t reconcile why Durovic and Franciszka have such contrasting views on something she says affected both the First Ones and the leeches.”
Duncan shrugged. “Does it matter? The leeches have a distorted view of the world and their place in it. For all we know, this Siren legend is part of some heroic war the Vampires have convinced themselves they won against the Ancients a long time ago. It wouldn’t be the first time the Clan has made up a narrative to glorify their past.”
The insecurity and isolation of the Vampires allowed such fantastic legends to thrive, without the other Chosen calling them on it. A false narrative could never survive in the other factions because, no matter how much they became self-involved with their individual causes and traditions, there would always be historic ties to bind the Ancients, Wizards and Wyrs together. Even when such ties became tenuous during uncertain times, they had never broken completely between the children of the Forebearers. The original factions of the Chosen, who traced their lineage to the first Magicks to walk the earth, had historic links from their common ancestry that had proven to be robust against all challenges, after many centuries of interdependent coexistence. The Vampires, on the other hand, were like the young, immature and troublesome newcomers. They united the others in the unspoken concern that the johnny-come-latelys needed strict adult supervision or would spiral out of control and bring the Chosen down with them.
Raoul knew that Duncan was correct about Clan fantasies and narratives. Under other circumstances, he would never give a narrative based on a leech Mistress’ word any legitimacy. That he possessed other knowledge on the subject was what gave him pause.
“My blood is merely troublesome for the leeches, Duncan. We both know someone whose blood is lethal” he said slowly.
“Tasia” Duncan acknowledged. He’d made the connection a while ago. “That she possesses some very unusual magic is not a secret to us, Raoul. But she’s a Wizard. How could Tasia have any connection to what is being alleged.”
The Alpha’s eyes met the English Shifter’s, and what he saw in their depths had Duncan sit up. “She has First Ones blood?” the Were-Alpha exclaimed.
“Blood Elemental, from her mother” Raoul said quietly.
In the silence, the audible hitch of Duncan’s breath was loud. He looked stunned.
Raoul came clean. “The witchling says there was a war, long forgotten, between the Blood Mages and the leeches.”
The English Shifter looked grim. “Quite the conundrum” he murmured, finally comprehending the dark clouds on Raoul’s brow.
The Alpha rubbed his eyes wearily. He had not lied to Duncan. Exhaustion was setting in; the jetlag wearing him down. This was one malaise the Shifters did not handle well. “I promised her that I wouldn’t dig into her past. But I can’t let this go, Duncan. I’ve to figure this out. And quickly.”
Duncan understood the dilemma. If Tasia had any connection, even a vague one, to a group the Clan had once attempted to exterminate, they’d have a huge problem on their hands. One that would make their current difficulties with the investigation pale in comparison. Under such circumstances, Tasia must be kept far away from an investigation that was gearing up to go after a Pure Blood Master. If the investigation had been a threat to Tasia before, it would become infinitely more lethal for her now.
They lapsed into silence, each caught up in his own thoughts.
“Have you informed Faoladh about the Guardians, Raoul?” Duncan asked. Lady Bethesda’s impatience with the status quo was leading her to out herself. This was fantastic news and Faoladh would be relieved that she was breaking cover without them lifting a finger.
“Not yet. The Council is currently incommunicado.”
Duncan blinked. He’d been so preoccupied that the date had slipped his mind. Something historic was currently under way — the first ever Council of Chosen trial. “Any updates?” he asked.
“The Council is going over the evidence.”
“We’ll get Anderson, one way or another” Duncan said confidently. The hard battles on this had already been fought.
“I’ve no doubt of it” Raoul responded. “Faoladh finally has his trial. He’s not going to let this go sideways.”
“There’s that too” the English Shifter agreed. Faoladh was formidable in many respects.
Duncan’s eyes took in Raoul’s countenance. The boy looked bushed. It had been a hectic few days, but the trip had given them some crucial hints to follow up on. The tide seemed to finally be turning for the investigation.
“Atsá is convinced that the Oracle went to great lengths to obfuscate the key players in The Prophecy” Duncan asserted. “All to ensure that the future he foretold would be protected.”
Raoul did not disagree. He was starting to come to the same conclusion. “It’s a reasonable premise. There’s no way it’s an unfinished prophecy, not with the complex and involved scenarios and details woven into his short interpretation. Sparse it meant be, but it’s packed full of substance and subtle cues. The witchling read it right, as usual.”
Duncan had spent some time thinking about this, since the conversation this afternoon. “I’ve been pondering how the Seer characterizes Nandini in a single sentence. His portrayal is impossible without fundamentally understanding her. It is not a simple, superficial or uncomplicated statement about her. He could have done that, but instead, he tells us that he’s glimpsed reams about Nandini, her aspirations and her relationship with her brother. It’s the only way to etch her as he does.”
Raoul mused on the astute conclusion his friend had drawn. The same could be said about each of the players the Oracle had established as crucial to his prophecy. The analysis of the custodian as well as the champion was comprehensive, exhaustive and meticulous. The Seer had definitely left behind a set of carefully calculated breadcrumbs, without explicitly listing the destination they were meant to lead to.
“If he went to so much trouble, there is bound to be staunch opposition to what The Prophecy is meant to accomplish” he pointed out.
Duncan agreed unequivocally. “Until the champion s
teps forward, Raoul, it seems to be your job to protect the sisters and the sanctity, for want of a better word, of The Prophecy.”
Raoul stood up. “I need a drink. It will probably play havoc with the jetlag, but what the heck. Duncan?”
“Why not?”
Raoul strode to his desk, to unearth his stash. He cast a swift glance at his friend. Duncan had always been a restful and even-tempered man, not given to impetuosity or impatience. Yet, tonight, there was something different — a curious stillness and a faint pall that hung over the English Shifter. Almost a whiff of isolation and desolation. Raoul didn’t ever want Duncan to feel all alone. Not the man who’d cared enough to pull a scared, abused kid from the depths of hell, simply because Duncan’s sense of compassion had been stirred.
“Beltran is chasing Sara” he announced, coming to a decision. He would not sit this one out.
Like a man awakening from slumber, Duncan’s eyes blinked. “Who told you that?”
“I have eyes in my head” Raoul retorted.
His friend said nothing, the steady eyes meeting the Alpha’s gaze head on.
“I hope that hot-headed brother of hers keeps a grip on his testosterones” he remarked, unwilling to back away, even as Duncan gave him no quarter. “You seem content with the match.”
Duncan took a deep breath, holding himself in check with an effort. The gold eyes, from across the room, held the gaze of the man who’d stood like an indestructible rock, when Raoul had hit rock bottom himself.
“Are you going to do something about it, Duncan?” the Alpha demanded, as the silence stretched on.
“I thought you liked Luis” the English Shifter responded.
“Of course, I like him. He’s capable, steadfast, a straight-shooter and a fucking good Shifter to have by my side. What has that to do with it?”
Duncan remained mute, his expression blank.
“But I’d choose you over him any day, Duncan. Always” Raoul reiterated quietly. It was one of those days when his friend needed to hear the words.
For the first time, Duncan’s eyes slid away from his, not meeting his gaze.
Raoul made a final pitch. “For once, allow me to return the favor and give you some advice. Do something about this or you’ll regret it forever.”
Weeks in the past, deep in the Belizean Rainforest
“You lied to me, Red.”
The rich tones reverberated in the cavern. Temi started, her eyes flashing to the man propped by the wall. He was awake. And by the sound of it, vastly improved. Having set a frenetic and punishing pace back to the cave, he’d slumped by the entrance into the inner cavern. An anxious Temi had been mighty relieved to note that sheer exhaustion was the cause of his collapse. He’d mustered the strength to hike back to the sanctuary of the grotto, only to succumb once they were safe. Her concerns alleviated, she had let him be. Though she’d replenished his depleted magic enough to heal his wounds and start him on the path to recovery, he still had a ways to go. The resurgence of his magic had been sufficient to allow him to shroud them both. Thanks to him, no Blutsauger could trace them through the forest or to this cave. It meant that he could rally without the threat of an attack hanging over his head.
“Monseigneur doesn’t need you to replenish his artifact” he asserted, as she remained silent. “He wants you because you are the artifact.”
By the quality of light streaming in from the archway, Temi could tell that it was dusk. She’d spent most of the day in the cavern, keeping an eye on him and reflecting on the attack in the forest. Though she had no regrets about her part in the momentous event, Temi recognized that her secret was out. ElMorad would have to be a buffoon to not guess her role in his miraculous reversal of fortunes, and he was no fool. Thus, Temi had come to terms with it and was ready to answer his questions.
“I didn’t lie to you” she said composedly.
“Some Blutsaugers might not understand the significance of your magic, Red. But Monseigneur is not one of them” he retorted.
“You’re right” she conceded. “However, Monseigneur is unaware about this particular power.”
Across the darkening cavern, he straightened. Temi sensed that she had surprised him.
“How?” he asked bluntly. If she’d spent her life with the Nest, how could the canny and ambitious Master be unaware of powerful magic?
“When I first started to come into my powers, my father warned me to keep it a secret from the Blutsaugers” Temi said simply. That had been the first hint of her father’s disillusionment with the Nest.
He chewed on her answer for a few minutes. “If he was disenchanted with the Vampires, why did he not leave?”
Temi sighed. “I think he’d burned his boats and had nowhere left to go. And towards the end, he was a virtual prisoner. The Venice Nest is a fortress. It’s no mean feat to escape that, not without help from the outside.”
As he lapsed into silence, Temi decided that it was time to indulge her curiosity. There were questions she wanted the answers to, from him.
“You can identify magic from its scent?” she asked, wondering whether he would answer her question. ElMorad had determined that she was not a Vampire from her blood. Having stood witness to his power to devastate in the forest, no manifestation of his magic would astound Temi anymore.
“No, but I can corroborate similarities with my magic” he explained. “From your blood, I could tell you had First Ones heritage, not Blutsauger. The Vampires might be descended from First Ones, but their blood is distinctive. Almost like a mutation. Also, your First Ones heritage is mixed with something else.”
Temi glanced across the cavern. “Wizard, I think” she offered hesitatingly. There was no way to confirm it, for she had no classic Spell Caster magic in her. Or at least, none that she could discern without a Wizard to teach her to tap into it. All she knew was that whatever her second heritage was, her First Ones magic had mingled with it to produce an interesting blend.
He arched an eyebrow. “You don’t know?”
“I was a baby when she left us. My father never talked about her.” Her voice petered out.
He threw her a penetrating glance but let the subject rest.
In the morning, Temi was awakened by the sound of splashing. She shot up in her makeshift bed, alarmed that they were under attack. Her eyes swept the cavern wildly for her companion, only to catch a muscled back and a very naked butt dive into the stream.
A relieved Temi hastily averted her eyes. “Jeez! A little warning the next time you want to get naked, please.”
More splashing echoed in the cavern, until a dark-haired head popped up in the water to respond to her. “Thought you were asleep, Red.”
It was fairly bright in the cavern, which meant the sun was high in the sky outside. She had slept nearly ten hours, Temi realized to her surprise.
“You make enough noise to wake the dead” she retorted, throwing his own words from their second encounter back at him.
He shook his head in the water, clearly enjoying himself. Droplets flew through the air in an arc around the cavern. “I like the water. And you have a puritanical bent for clothing. Must be the influence of Nest mores.”
Temi ignored the provocative pronouncement, but she knew that there was a kernel of truth to his remark. The Vampires were strait-laced and rigid, even prudish, about their bodies. This ambiguity about their mortal form was a result of their fundamental differences with their Chosen brethren. Unlike other immortal Magicks, Clan bodies did not escape the ravages of time. They were the Undead and their mortal bodies could not hide that fact. Many used make-up and other tricks of the trade to protect their vanity. Thus, while the Blutsaugers were ecstatic at their immortality, they were also self-conscious about their physical bodies. Temi was aware that this was not the norm outside the Clan. She’d heard that the Wyrs and certain sects of First Ones had a more laissez-faire attitude when it came to their anatomy. He certainly had a point that she was more attuned to the Bl
utsauger way of life, due to her exposure to their traditions.
She also had to admit that all the splashing was making her envious. Grime and sediment covered her from what ElMorad had unleashed in the forest. It would be nice to feel clean again. A bath in the stream and some fresh clothes would be fantastic.
“Coming out” he announced nonchalantly, well out of the water when he sent out the warning.
Temi turned her eyes away from him. “How much time do I have?” she asked him.
He was puzzled by her question. “For what?”
“Before we start for the town.”
“We’ll stay here a few days” he said casually.
Floored by the decision, Temi’s head whipped around to him. Clad only in a pair of denims, he scrubbed his hair vigorously with his discarded tee. For the first time in their short acquaintance, he looked worlds apart from ElMorad — an Archmage, whose mere name was enough to strike terror in Chosen around the globe. More than his reputation, it had been an image stoked by their first encounter and bolstered by the subsequent interludes. As the light from the archway silhouetted him, the sheer surrealness of her circumstances struck Temi forcefully.
Hiding out in a cave, her only companion a Chosen with the power to rupture the earth, while Monseigneur’s Blutsaugers chased her in the forest. The absurdity of it welled up in her. The irony was that, had she even an inkling of what ElMorad was capable of, she would never have risked going to him with her proposition. And yet, in a strange way, her journey with him, culminating in yesterday’s encounter, had also put to bed the last of her doubts. Irrespective of his motivations, he would keep his word, this dangerous creature who proffered her his services. And crucially for her, not only was he supremely capable of taking on Monseigneur, but by bringing out the big guns against the Blutsaugers, he’d also proved that he had the will to do so.
He pulled on a clean tee and shot her a glance, to catch her gawking. “The forest is treacherous right now. The Vampires will miss the ones I buried and redouble their efforts. We’re safe in here. Let them exhaust themselves, before we venture out again.”