Darkstone

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Darkstone Page 34

by D. Jordan Redhawk


  “From an old friend,” Naomi said. “I don’t know his true name, but he’s been here since the closing.”

  The elf looked past Joram and Naomi, calling out in his language.

  Joram felt an expanding bubble against her mind, the surface of it tightening until it popped with an inaudible vibration. She was startled by a presence and a voice directly behind her. Spinning, she saw another elf had appeared, this one wearing jeans, button-up shirt and a black Stetson hat.

  “Yeah, yeah! Hold your horses. I’m right here.”

  “Nathan!”

  Joram glanced between Naomi and this Westernized caricature. This was the elf that had trained Naomi in martial arts, the one at the monastery? She mentally shook her head at the incongruence. Though she’d never had the opportunity to see Naomi in action, she wondered why Naomi had been Chosen as an assassin when she seemed so…compassionate.

  “Hey, little filly. Looks like you were right. You couldn’t do the job.”

  An interesting shade of red crossed Naomi’s face. She ducked her head. Joram knew Naomi felt a mix of embarrassment, failure and rebelliousness, easily picking the emotions out of the air. Narrowing her eyes, she stepped between her empress and this Nathan character, giving him her most formidable stare. “You shouldn’t have asked her to do something against her nature. I thought elves didn’t do that sort of thing.”

  “I’ll give you that point.” Nathan grinned, his pearly smile more fang than friendliness. “But don’t believe everything you hear about elves.”

  The lead elf spoke again, his voice reminding them all of the current situation. Abashed, Joram took Naomi’s now healed hand and stepped aside to allow Nathan room to pass.

  Nathan answered the elf, the green light seeming to soften the edges of his face. He studied the knife in the other’s possession and smiled. “Ah, you found it! I was wondering where it went.” He gave Naomi a sidelong glance.

  “Mama brought it to me.”

  He nodded. Gesturing at the elven man, he said, “I’d like to introduce you to my brother.” He said a name that Joram couldn’t even begin to pronounce beyond the first three syllables. “But you can call him—Frank.”

  “Frank” looked slightly affronted with the moniker but didn’t argue. His command of the English language was rudimentary, but not so incomplete that he couldn’t understand the conversation. He and Nathan began an intricate discussion between themselves, their language one of harmony and balance.

  Joram felt the magic dissipating around her, heard the restless rumble of the audience. Looking up she still saw butterflies in the rafters. Whatever she’d done tonight, they appeared to be permanent. Past the door in either stage wing she saw movement as roadies and technicians had gathered to watch the phenomenon. She smiled at the sight of Chloe’s bright hair and the flash of Jubal’s reflected sunglasses. Time to finish this.

  She once more held out the piccolo, cradled in both hands, her fingers a hair’s breadth short of the shimmering shield. When Frank turned his attention to her, she nodded and lifted her palms. “A gift of music between my people and yours. For peace between us.”

  He examined her a moment, eyes flickering to his Americanized brother. A word and the shield fell, the magic casters lowering their hands for the first time since their arrival. He gently accepted the flute. “For peace between us.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Joram stood at her condominium’s balcony railing, enjoying the heat of the sun against her skin. The city of Los Angeles spread out below her, looking the same as it ever did though a week had passed since Invocation’s last concert.

  No, there was one difference. The air smelled fresher and the hills looked greener than before. There’d been a refreshing rain just that morning, the stone tiles of her balcony still slightly damp and smelling of wet concrete. Random drops of water remained on the iron railing, creating a shock of coolness against her forearms.

  The fey folk, as Naomi called them, had been appalled at the long-standing California drought. About three dozen of them, all elves, had immigrated to the Los Angeles forest and began “singing to the trees” as Nathan called it. There’d been a bracing rainstorm every morning since, combating the prolonged lack of rainfall in the area.

  The elves weren’t the only people to decide a change was in order. Hundreds of creatures had come through the original door Joram had opened in the casino. Beings who breathed magic had scattered across the globe, locating similar weaknesses and opening more thresholds, the trickle of strange races returning to Earth becoming a flood.

  Three tribes of trolls had taken up residence in Mammoth Cave near Brownsville, Kentucky. Blurry photos showed giant people with heavy facial features, large noses and ears and copious body hair. One intrepid reporter had barely escaped with his life when he attempted to interview one of them, resulting in the closure of the tourist attraction and a mass exodus of Brownsville residents to safer locales.

  A feathered serpent had made an appearance in Mesoamerica. Headlines had screamed, “Quetzalcoatl Returns!” Those countries were in turmoil as long-held Christian sensibilities abruptly butted heads with ancient belief. As they scrabbled for some sort of religious equanimity, the serpent began nesting in the Bosawás Biosphere Reserve.

  The Americas weren’t the only continents being plagued with new arrivals. Joram’s magic had substantially weakened all rifts throughout the world. As elves located doors on this side, others remained in their homelands to search out others, bursting through from within. Military troops stationed in the Middle East had banded together despite political distrust to battle against an incursion of the djinn attempting to reclaim their old lands.

  Not to be outdone by elves, black dwarves had made an appearance in India. They were called Yaksha and had been seen in the Himalayas where their mythological kingdom had once been. These at least were somewhat friendly to the humans who discovered them. Their king, Kubera, wasn’t pleased with the state of the forests of the world however and had made his displeasure known by evicting all the villages encroaching on his new territory. Embracing modern technology, he allowed a video interview where he stated that he’d rescind the expulsions once the trees had been properly returned to their former glory. The video had hit the three million viewers mark on YouTube and the count was still climbing.

  The Internet was abuzz with thousands of other stories: warnings to not approach unicorns, the care and feeding of pixies and advisements for hikers in Japan to carry cucumbers to appease the recently returned Kappa. Naomi had been right. The world they knew had ended, destroyed by this sudden influx of mythological creatures and people.

  There were darker stories out there, ones that had nothing to do with the return of mythical peoples and animals. During the twentieth century, Wicca had become common in many cultures as an alternative religion, one that took personal affirmations a step further by creating rituals to focus mental energy toward a common goal. Few individuals saw more than the occasional coincidence, which they pointed to as proof that magic existed in a world with a paucity of it.

  Rumors had spread about spells that had begun working as previously only imagined. Love hexes creating emotional slaves of their targets, vindictive thoughts seemingly causing real damage and protective enchantments that created solid barriers between the caster and his or her enemies. Haitian bokors had re-created true zombies, psychic predictions had become more precise and mediums stated that more spirits now walked the earth than ever before.

  These stories scared Joram more than any of the others. Anders had searched the world over and had Chosen her. Somehow he’d known she had the depths of power he needed to break through the door sealed so long ago, a task he was incapable of doing himself despite his own formidable power. Music was the base of Joram’s strength, music steeped in memories of murder and injustice. Granted, Naomi’s ballad had shown that she could break from the musical tradition in which she’d immersed herself, but the fact remained
that her anger, her deprecation hadn’t gone away. So many people were stumbling over their newfound abilities, small covens or individual practitioners, each dealing with the unexpected repercussions of their actions. And she had a following of thousands, all eager to give over their will to her.

  Anders had said something just before she’d gone on stage that night. “The very best part of you is me.” If he was right, how could she inflict that sort of pain and fury on the world? According to Naomi he’d originally been one of the good guys, sacrificing everything to seal the door he’d so recently schemed to reopen. Over the course of millennia he’d become an aberration of himself in his quest for power. Joram didn’t have the benefit of righteousness to begin with. She was broken—had been broken from the first—and she had a suspicion that she was stronger than Anders had ever been. To play music was to create magic.

  But without music, what am I?

  “Hey.”

  Joram set aside her pensiveness. Worries never lasted long when Naomi was in her presence. She turned, one elbow leaning on the balcony. Naomi stood in the open doorway of their bedroom, red hair tousled from sleep. “Hey yourself.”

  Naomi looked good wearing nothing but an oversized long-sleeve T-shirt. She stepped barefoot onto the balcony and into Joram’s waiting arms. “Brooding again?”

  “Are you psychic?”

  Smiling, Naomi snuggled close. “No. I just know you.”

  Joram clutched at her chest. “Yuh got mi, mi empress.” She closed her eyes, letting the sensation of Naomi in her arms fill her with an infrequent peace. They stood together for a long time, basking in the sun and their mutual attraction. Since the concert, Joram’s abilities hadn’t fully dissipated. She’d found she could sample the emotions of those around her, more so with people she knew and trusted. She did so now with Naomi, drawing strength from the acceptance and love and reflecting the same back. Eventually Joram took a mental step back from their mutual trance. “Have you heard from your mother yet?”

  Sorrow and concern welled across their bond. “No. Nathan says not to worry but…” She shrugged.

  “If anyone would know it’d be him.” Joram couldn’t help the stab of vexation that neither Inanna nor Anders had returned from their departure onstage. The longer it took the more troubled she became.

  “Hey.” Naomi peered into her eyes, reminding Joram that this woman of all the people in Joram’s circle could actually sense her emotions as well. “My mother trained him to begin with. She’s a goddess in her own right. He can’t win this fight.”

  Joram huffed a laugh. “Nathan called him a pipsqueak the other day.”

  Naomi frowned. “I’ll have a talk with him.” At Joram’s puzzled expression, she grinned. “He shouldn’t be insulting pipsqueaks like that.”

  Unable to help herself, Joram chuckled.

  “Have you heard from the lawyers yet?”

  That took the humor out of the situation. Joram sighed, staring back out at the city. “No. He has to be gone seven years for him to be declared dead, but at least my personal banking accounts are my own. It’s probably just as well. I’d raze all his compounds to the ground if I could.” She glanced at Naomi. “At least I’m lucky that he wanted to officially keep his name out of my career. I guess he was worried your mother would connect the dots long before she did.”

  “And the casino?”

  “Oh, that.” Joram blew a raspberry. “The lawsuit’s been dropped. They can’t prove I knew what was going to happen because I’m not talking. Besides Nathan’s brother has put their tribal council in contact with various American Indian cultures on his side of the door. The council decided it was in their best interest to drop the suit so they can focus on their new arrivals.”

  “That’s good.”

  They stood in silent embrace, watching the world. “You were right, you know.”

  Naomi shifted in her arms. “How so?”

  “Opening the door destroyed the world.” Joram still hadn’t decided how she felt about that but she couldn’t deny that her actions had irreparably changed the fabric of reality. She felt Naomi’s vague impatience coupled with sympathy.

  “Maybe so, but you and Rebecca were right too.” Naomi pulled back to look Joram in the eye. “The door shouldn’t have been closed to begin with. Yes, there’ll be a period of adjustment but things will settle. The world will continue on and be better than it was before.”

  Still uncertain, Joram pursed her lips. “You think so?”

  “I do.” Naomi kissed her, driving away Joram’s mental agitation. Her lips were soft, still slightly swollen from the myriad of kisses they’d shared when they’d awakened tangled together in Joram’s bed.

  Losing herself in the tactile sensation, Joram let Naomi bolster her uncertainties and shelter her from care. For now this was enough, this was everything. She was the Harbinger of the Invocation and madly in love with the woman who’d been sent to kill her. Unable to help herself, she inwardly smiled as musical notes slid across the shared arousal between them.

  There’s a song here.

  Glossary

  Ah sun it set–that’s the way it is

  All fruits ripe–all is great

  Balance–behave well

  Bashy–hot - referring to a woman being hot

  Big tings a gwaan–great, life-changing events are happening

  Doan fret–don’t worry

  Empress–girlfriend

  Gyal–girl

  Gyalis–player

  Hataclaps–crisis

  Inner luv–appreciate

  Irie–good

  Maad–awesome

  Mi lova–my lover

  Miting–“little mite” - medieval term of affection for small child

  Nuh linga–don’t be reluctant in your purpose, go forth

  Obeah man–spell man

  Ooman–woman

  Rhaatid–used to express mild irritation or annoyance (Damn)

  Shell dung–take by storm

  Sometimish–describing someone who is moody

  Tie–casting a dark romantic spell, hexing a person to stay with you using obeah

  Truss me–trust me, an expression when agreeing with someone

  Vex–angry or upset

  Wah gwaan–what’s going on?

  Yuh nuh–Don’t you

  Bella Books, Inc.

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  P.O. Box 10543

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  Phone: 800-729-4992

  www.bellabooks.com

 

 

 


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