Blood and Wolf

by S. M. Gaither

  “Well that spell should confuse him and slow him down. Though not for long, given how good his senses are.” He grabs my arm and pulls me into a quick jog. “So let’s hurry. Carys is this way, and she’s still alive—”

  “Still alive?” I repeat, dazed.

  He said it like we’re incredibly lucky about that fact.

  Feeling like I’m going to throw up, I race after him. It’s not hard to catch up. He’s slow—too slow, and obviously struggling; I can’t imagine how much power it must have taken to create such an elaborate illusion on top of everything else he’s done today.

  Luckily, we don’t have to go far to find Carys.

  Unluckily, she’s in even worse shape than I’d prepared myself for.

  She’s tucked back into a shallow cave—it’s more of an overhang of rock, really. Her black fur is damp with blood, glistening in the little bit of sunlight reaching her resting spot.

  I hold my breath at the sight of her, not releasing it until she finally shows movement—one single, pitiful thump of her feathered tail.

  “Carys?”

  She lifts her head a few inches, only to drop it almost immediately back to the ground. She closes her eyes.

  “Stay awake,” I command. “Talk to me. Tell me what happened. Or just…I don’t know, finish telling me about mirror legends or something. Please?”

  She snorts.

  I choose to interpret that as a laugh. And I choose to ignore the thin line of drool and blood that’s dribbling from the corner of her mouth.

  I try thoughtspeech, thinking it might be easier for her to understand and focus on. (Carys? Did you hear me?)

  Awful silence for several seconds, and then: (I heard you.)

  (Then what the hell are you waiting for? Random mirror facts! Now! Go!)

  (I’m tired. I just want to sleep.)

  (No you don’t!)

  (You’re so annoying,) she muses. And then she’s quiet for another moment before she begins with: (Random mirror fact number one: Some cultures believe that it’s imperative to cover mirrors after a loved one’s died, so that their departing soul can’t get confused by the mirrors or even trapped in them.)

  (Fascinating.)

  “Should we try moving her someplace safer?” Soren asks, but I wave him off; I’m terrified that moving her might break her completely. And right now I just want to keep hearing her not-dead voice.

  (Number two.) Her voice is a distant echo in my head. (The number two fact…I don’t know, I think I remember reading something about breaking mirrors in turn breaking souls. Or did we already talk about that earlier?)

  (You said a properly blessed mirror reflects a person’s soul. And that if they break it then parts of that soul will be trapped in…)

  I get slowly to my feet, realization dawning over me and a plan rapidly forming in my mind.

  “What’s with that look on your face?” Soren asks.

  “He broke one of the mirrors.” I close my eyes, trying to sift through all of the mythology facts that Carys has been feeding me these past twenty-four hours, until I finally remember one creature in particular. “Furat-diavol,” I whisper. “He compromised his soul by breaking the mirror, and now it’s taken him, and I…We have to…”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  I take a deep breath. Crouch, and put a hand on Carys’s head. Then to Soren I say, “I know you’re tired, but can you protect this little cave for a bit? And keep talking to her. Keep her awake.”

  “I—” He stops short at what must be a crazy, desperate look on my face. “Yes,” he says. “For a few minutes, at least.”

  “Good. I should be able to draw him away.”

  “And then what?”

  I don’t answer, except to promise Carys that I’ll be right back. A promise I might not be able to keep, but it’s better than telling them the actual plan running through my head. Because spoiler alert: it’s kind of a crazy plan.

  And I’m just really hoping it doesn’t end with me killing my best friend.

  Fifteen

  Shadows and Souls

  It’s started to drizzle rain again by the time I make it back to the wall of mirrors.

  I crouch immediately and start to sift through the mud and broken shards, trying, somehow, to remember exactly which one he broke. Exactly which one Liam’s soul might be trapped in, if the legend is true. I thought I had a general idea of where that one had fallen. Of what it looked like.

  Now that I’m here, they all look the same.

  And there are dozens of the broken ones scattered around.

  The rain and wind continue to pick up, obscuring the sounds of Liam’s approach. I managed to lure him away from the other two, and I’m sure he was following me; I can still hear the distinctly light lifting and falling of his paws. I can’t tell exactly how far away he is.

  But it definitely sounds like he’s getting closer.

  I grab a rock and start smashing shards of glass into dust that reflects nothing. I think I see thin wisps of grayish-white float up from a few of the crushed pieces, but it may just be a trick of the light—or the lack of light, really—mixed with the misty rain. That mist coats my skin, joining the sweat that makes my grip on the rock and pieces of glass slippery. But I don’t stop.

  Grab the glass, crush it, repeat.

  Over and over until the motions are manic, desperate and without thought.

  Until my vision blurs and my hands feel numb.

  “What are you doing?”

  The sound of Liam’s voice—when I know it’s not really his voice at all—breaks me out of my rock-crushing trance.

  I glance over my shoulder, almost hoping I’d imagined that sound.

  But there he is—human again, probably because that demon inside him knows that the sight of his crooked human grin makes it even more difficult to think about fighting him.

  I turn back, intending to quickly crush the last few pieces of broken mirrors. But the ones still hanging above me catch my attention before I can.

  They’re reflecting him, of course.

  His current, true reflection—which doesn’t feature that crooked grin at all. Instead his smile is wicked looking, paired with eyes that look almost red and skin that’s crawling with living shadows.

  When I look over my shoulder, he still appears normal.

  Back at the mirror, and I see those bits of shadowy blackness writhing on his skin, wrapping his arms and neck in a poisonous embrace.

  I jerk down one of the hanging mirrors and run forward, thrusting it into his face, desperately hoping that the real Liam is still buried beneath those shadows. That he might be able to do something—to fight— if he just sees what’s going on.

  But he just laughs.

  “I’m looking particularly good tonight, aren’t I?”

  It almost sounds like something the real Liam would say, and it’s so convincing sounding in his stolen voice that it makes me furious. I draw the mirror back, ready to slam it directly into this demon thief’s face.

  “You break that mirror, and I’ll take you next,” the demon says in a smooth voice. “I’m always happy to grow my collection.” At the word collection, he pats a thick leather bag hanging from a belt I didn’t notice before now. It jangles with the unmistakable sound of glass scraping glass, and it’s obvious, suddenly, where the mirror that Liam broke is. Where the pieces of his broken soul are.

  But I think there’s more than that.

  Because I swear there’s a faint glow coming from that bag, and the harder I concentrate on it, the brighter it gets. And suddenly I feel the same tingling sensation over my mark that I did back at that lake in Ireland.

  So this asshole demon is a guardian, apparently.

  I set the mirror carefully down, draw my sword, and circle back to the demon. I move so that he’s between me and that mirror that I definitely don’t need to break. His eyes follow me.

  “You have two things that belong to me,” I say
evenly, “And I intend to take both of them.”

  He smirks. “By doing what? Killing me? While I’m using your friend’s body?”

  “He would rather die than live with you, I’m sure,” I reply.

  The demon’s eyes continue to size me up; they fall on my mark, and suddenly, briefly, he looks as confused as he did earlier, when he told me I shouldn’t have this mark. But before he can start rambling nonsense like that to throw me off-guard, I strike.

  The thought of actually hitting Liam brings me physical pain, but I have to immobilize him so I can steal that bag of glass, somehow.

  I rush forward and swing low at his ankles. He jumps at the last possible second, and brings his fist down onto my wounded shoulder and shoves me aside. I stumble forward but keep my balance, and I spin around just in time to lift my sword to meet his second driving fist.

  Blood sprays my face as the blade scrapes across his knuckles.

  He howls in pain.

  My stomach twists.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry—” I mumble. Even as I’m apologizing, I’m already darting around behind him so I can slam the hilt of my sword into the back of his head. But my footing’s off, and so the pointed blow isn’t as hard as I meant it to be.

  He twists around, still conscious enough to retaliate.

  I land a violent kick in his side. And then a punch, and then I hear what I’m pretty sure is at least a couple of ribs cracking.

  He staggers.

  I decide it’s now or never, and I quickly sheath my sword and grab my dagger instead.

  I dive for the bag.

  My hand wraps around it and we fall together, tangled and fighting our way over the dirt and rocks and what feels like a few chips of glass thrown into the mix just for fun.

  His head slams into a particularly sharp rock. It dazes him for a split second—enough to give me a chance to tighten my grip on the bag. I pull that bag until the belt it’s attached to is taut and I can slip my knife beneath it, and then I cut through with a quick jerk of my wrist.

  I try to escape with my spoils, already searching for a rock I can use to crush the shards holding the real Liam. But as I’m crawling away, the demon latches onto my ankles and yanks me back.

  I twist awkwardly and try to swipe at him with my knife, but I catch mostly air.

  His claws come out.

  They dig deep into my calves—deep enough to give him an excellent hold on me so that he can easily lift and fling me into the nearest tree.

  I don’t think about bracing myself for impact. I’m only thinking about not losing the bag in my hand.

  So the impact is not pretty.

  I slam into the tree headfirst. My vision goes black. Sounds and smells go with it, and my entire existence is down to my hand, my grip on the thick leather, the only thing I can think about…

  I’m not sure how long this mostly-unconscious moment lasts, but when my eyes flutter open, I find Liam’s staring back at me.

  His hand is around my throat, squeezing.

  “Give. It. Back,” he growls.

  I didn’t even realize I still had it—the glass bag—before now. But now its position is obvious: Secure in my closed fist, crushed between my back and the tree.

  My other fist is empty, my knife resting several feet away.

  His fingers tighten their grip until I’m choking, weakly coughing and trying to swallow even the tiniest bit of air.

  I try to shove him off, but he’s a lot bigger and stronger than I am—even more so than usual, it seems, with the demon’s added presence. I only manage to pull away from the tree by a few inches. Just enough to get a less awkward grip on the bag. And since it looks like that’s all I’m going to get, I make the quick, painful choice to start crushing the bag and its contents in my own fist.

  I squeeze hard enough that some of the glass edges shove through even the thick leather, cutting ribbons of blood across my palm. But I can feel my inhuman strength surging, powerful enough that the bag of glass is quickly turning to a bag of dust.

  I squeeze harder.

  So does the hand around my neck.

  But the demon seems to have realized what I’m doing, because he’s trying even more desperately to reach that bag, trying to choke me and pull me out of his way at the same time.

  I drop the bag.

  On purpose, because it makes him lunge recklessly for it. His hold on me relaxes, and I slam my knee forward into his chest, knocking him off balance. As he struggles to regain it, I throw the rest of my weight into him.

  We roll to the ground together, scuffling for several feet before I manage to break away. Using a fallen log as a springboard, I bounce back to the base of the tree, and I stomp as hard as I can on the bag. Over and over, even as I hear Liam scrambling to his feet and sprinting toward me.

  One large shard refuses to be crushed—the key, I’m guessing. Its glow is getting brighter and brighter.

  My mark is pulsing like mad.

  Everything seems to be moving in slow motion—I can’t seem to crush the shards fast enough, however hard I stomp. I bend and frantically snatch the bag, intending to race away to a safer place for stomping.

  I’m too slow.

  Liam dives, claws outstretched.

  The only reason he doesn’t hit me is because Soren hits him first.

  I see a flash of steel in Soren’s hand—my fallen knife, recovered—and I’m paralyzed for a second at the thought of them carving each other to pieces with claws and blades.

  Soren draws him farther and farther away from me, slashing at his arms and legs with expert, annoying strokes. Not cutting deeply—just enough to aggravate him and make Liam’s wolf side want to fight back. Every time the demon tries to turn Liam’s head back toward me, it’s met with a swipe of the dagger instead, until with an irritable roar, Liam fully abandons me for the moment and dives for Soren instead.

  I have a painfully clear view of the claws that Liam rips across Soren’s chest. The way the blood flowers across Soren’s shirt. The way his body buckles—

  My mark throbs again, reminding me of what I still have to do.

  I turn away before Soren hits the ground. I drop to my knees and pound the largest stone I can find over the bag several more times before I see wisps of white trying to slip up through the drawstring top. I undo that drawstring, and I dump the contents of the bag out: sparkles of ground up mirror, and one large, intact shard that glows so insanely bright that I instantly have to recover it with the bag just so I don’t go blind. I don’t know what this bag is made of, but it seems to have some sort of magic, neutralizing abilities.

  Once my eyes readjust following the near-blinding, I can see those strands of white growing bolder and brighter as they twist their way toward Liam, who is down on one knee and holding his side. There’s blood puddled next to him on one side.

  On the other side, Soren is lying crumpled up and still.

  The rain has started to fall harder, almost a solid sheet of it that makes my body feel even more exhausted and heavy and off-balance. I stagger to my feet anyway.

  Liam’s head jerks to me.

  The look on his face is pure, enraged demon.

  I draw back just as the white wisps surge forward and gather together before plunging like a javelin into his chest.

  He convulses, and his skin changes from its usual tan to a sick, milky shade of grey. He grabs desperately for his head, fingers digging in like he’s trying to rip the demon from himself with his bare hands, trying to make room for that white soul-stuff that the smashed shards have released.

  I wipe the rain and sweat from my brow and I run forward, left hand clenching the wrapped second key. My other hand is ready to draw my sword against whatever Liam might pull out.

  I’m less than five feet away when the demon emerges.

  I pull sharply to a stop as shadows spring toward me. I pocket the key and grip my sword with both hands. As those shadows reach me, they fall into a shape that resembles a tal
l, thin man with glowing red eyes, his hand drawn back and ready to strike.

  I strike first.

  I heave my sword up into the creature’s center, cleaving into a body that gives more than a human’s would, maybe, but that is still very much solid. My arms shake and my knees threaten to give out underneath me as I push my blade deeper and deeper.

  The creature lets out a blood-curdling screech. So loud and piercing that I have to fight the automatic instinct I have to drop my weapon and cover my ears instead. No way is this sound good for my sensitive hearing.

  The creature envelops me as it screams, curling its lithe figure directly over my body and scraping tendrils of shadowy claw-like appendages across my back. Wherever it touches me, my clothing melts. My skin burns and stings as it pulls away, like the feeling of hot wax being ripped from that skin.

  But I’m not the only thing being ripped apart, at least.

  Because along a line where my sword has cut through, the demon is beginning to unravel.

  Literally.

  Pieces of its body are peeling away, curls of shadows spilling like guts to the forest floor. Those shadowy guts squirm around my ankles, weirdly alive looking and still solid and threatening my balance. I kick them away, but they instantly spring back—not to me, but to their host body, which they attach themselves to and then begin to meld with, putting it back together so that it looks even larger and more terrifying than before.

  The air is chokingly thick with the scent of blood—a heady mixture of Liam’s and Soren’s and mine, along with the pungent, burnt smell of my own skin. Liam is lying on the ground, but still alive; I hear him groaning softly, and my chest unclenches a bit.

  But it tightens and takes my breath all over again as my gaze flickers to Soren.

  He still hasn’t moved.

  The demon finishes reconstructing itself. It swats its shadowy claws at me, jerking my attention back to it.

  I lurch sideways and just out of reach, stumbling a bit as I try to put even more space between us. My knee slams into a rock. I swallow a hiss of pain, brace myself, and turn back to fight.