by Karen Chance
He’d almost healed, in the few moments that he’d been slogging upstream, so the surprise on the regal features was easy to read. And so was the fury the second he figured it out. Or when someone told him.
I laughed again, not intentionally, but because I couldn’t seem to stop. I pulled and I laughed, and I laughed and I pulled, and for a moment, it was sweet, sweet, so freaking sweet I couldn’t believe it.
And then he pulled back.
Chapter Eight
T he jerk was so hard and so unexpected that it sent me staggering. I ended up waist deep in freezing water, not sure how I got there or what I was supposed to do now. Because the power drain wasn’t stopping. If anything, it was getting faster and harder as he pulled from me.
And not just me. I suddenly realized that I’d put others in danger as well. Mircea, along with his whole family, and Pritkin . . . could Zeus drain them, too, through me?
I very much feared that the answer was yes.
Will you gamble with your world, he’d asked? And I guessed I had. Because they were my world—
And he didn’t get to do this to them, I thought, fury swamping me.
He didn’t get to do this to anyone.
Not when that wasn’t even Zeus, not fully, or I’d have been dead by now. That was Aeslinn, somehow channeling the power of a god. And while I couldn’t stand up to the real thing, a fey king with delusions of grandeur?
Was a whole different ball game.
I staggered back up, looped the power around my fist, and pulled back.
And then more than pulled, because in a contest of strength I didn’t know who would win, especially if it dragged on. I needed to end this fast, and I didn’t care how. Pritkin had taught me that, when you’re battling for your life, anything goes.
So, I took his advice and flung an abandoned barge right at Aeslinn’s oversized crotch.
My aim had never been great with guns, and it wasn’t any better with the Pythian power, but a nine-story tall fey king was a hard target to miss. The barge connected with enough force to make him yell, a furious, bellowing sound like a clap of thunder, and try to stomp me. But I shifted to a sinking boat, out of harm’s way, and threw the bonfire at him.
All of it.
The remains of the blazing coal looked like a speeding comet hurtling across the water, with small explosions still coming off of its surface. It was the biggest damned fireball I’d ever seen, and I was sorry that Pritkin wasn’t here to see it, too. It was his favorite spell.
And when it hit, Aeslinn staggered, toppled . . . and went down.
I had to shift again to avoid the tidal wave that the huge body sent up, and when I reappeared on the bank, he was still floundering about in the water. So, I pressed my advantage, using my stolen energy to hurl any and everything I could find, battering him with planks of wood off a barge, with the barge itself, with the remains of buildings, some still on fire, and with the cargoes of a dozen boats, including one filled with a mountain of gravel headed to the port to provide ballast for ships, and now providing a million little projectiles that left Aeslinn a bloody mess.
In return, he was churning up the water, creating huge waves that forced me off every perch I found and threatened to drown me. Water, fire and smoke were everywhere, confusing my senses; adrenaline was coursing through my body, further throwing off my aim; not to mention that I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. But Aeslinn didn’t seem all that skilled, either.
Huge and powerful yes; practiced and finessed, no. He looked like a kid who’d been given a new toy that he didn’t quite know how to use. And like a BB gun that was cracking windows instead of finding its target, the energy bolts he was throwing missed as often as they hit, skewing wildly or sizzling off into the sky. They were frying the few remaining birds still airborne, and sending up geysers of steam whenever they hit the water, but not doing much else.
Maybe it wasn’t so easy for the gods to work through our limited mortal faculties, after all, I thought.
That had been true for the mage I’d possessed, and why Mircea had been able to distract Ares long enough for me to get away. The same shouldn’t be true here, with Aeslinn being a demigod, or so the rumors went. Yet he was acting just like that mage, as if Zeus was giving him pointers, but they lagged behind my attacks. It wasn’t by much, but it was enough to give me an advantage, and I tried my best to capitalize on it.
Unfortunately, I was running out of projectiles that were still in a condition to do any harm.
The riverbank was a fiery wasteland, with much of the local boat traffic in pieces on the shore, including a barge that had ended up on top of one of the warehouses. The river itself was dotted with burning cranes, with more flaming pyres of what had been ships, and with floating islands of debris. And while drifts of smoke obscured much of the rest of the scene, what was there looked like a war zone, with dozens of bodies bobbing among the waves.
The only reason the Pythian power wasn’t screaming at me about changes to the timeline was that I hadn’t made any yet. This was all still potential: real for us, but not for everyone else. Not until we dropped out of transition and time solidified around us, turning all of this into history. I needed to take Aeslinn out, then rewind time and erase the record, otherwise . . .
I didn’t know if even the Pythian power could fix it.
But while Aeslinn might not be able to react to everything that a god was whispering in his ear, he was an age-old warrior himself. He knew how to fight, and as soon as the battering slowed down, he threw out a hand. And tore a swath through the embankment behind me, exactly as if a lightning bolt had just hit down.
My hair went electric, standing up like a cartoon character’s; my body crawled with electric worms; and a long dirt wave blasted skyward, obscuring the sun and sending clods and rocks pelting down in a wide arc.
I shifted out in time, but that had been close, enough that I felt dirt sliding down my back when I rematerialized upriver. And whatever other abilities I might have, super healing wasn’t one of them. I had to finish this—now.
My eyes scanned the riverbank, but there really wasn’t much left to work with. But I couldn’t shift him somewhere else, because my power wouldn’t hold him. I also couldn’t drain him, not with him pulling back as hard as I was pulling on him.
Neither of us was getting any added power currently, like an irresistible force meeting an immovable object, but Aeslinn was getting back to his feet. He towered over me, like an eldritch horror rising from the deep, dripping water, mud and blood in about equal amounts, and making his point without saying a word. The sheer size of him would end this, as soon as I made a single mistake.
Damn it! I couldn’t have fought so hard and fail now. I wouldn’t, but I didn’t know how—
But maybe somebody else did.
Pritkin, I thought desperately, trying to reach him through our bond. But either he couldn’t hear me, or he couldn’t respond from more than a century away. Mircea—but he was already doing all he could. I had power; I just didn’t know how to use it!
A giant booted foot came down, half a dozen times in swift succession, carving swimming pool sized divots in the riverbank. I watched them fill with Thames water from a perch on the embankment above, where I’d shifted out of the way—filthy, mud-covered, and panting. And desperate because I couldn’t think; I couldn’t think of anything!
But then it came out of nowhere, a single, shining picture in my mind. I didn’t ask who had sent it; didn’t care. I grabbed hold of the thought, concentrated on it, tried my best to will it into existence. And the next second, a whip of golden energy was coiling outward from my hand.
It felt solid, just buzzing slightly under my fingertips, and looked like the Pythian power as I’d seen it sometimes in my mind. And maybe it was, maybe this was my power guiding me, but I didn’t have time to wonder about it. Because Aeslinn had spotted me, and it looked like he’d decided to end this fight the old-fashioned way, and crush me t
o death.
Only instead of wrapping around me, his reaching hand—
Went sailing off down the Thames.
The whip I’d lashed out with had cut through flesh and bone as if they were nothing, sheering off his hand and cauterizing the wound, all at the same time. Aeslinn screamed, a strange, high-pitched sound, unlike anything he’d uttered before, and so loud that it was actually painful. It made me want to stop and hunch down, covering my ears, especially when it went on and on. But I didn’t stop. I lashed him instead, over and over, in a relentless flurry of strokes because I might be small, but the whip was as big as he was.
And it was easy; it was so unbelievably easy! It shouldn’t have surprised me, as the main problem with the Pythian power had never been with the power itself. It had always been with the exhaustion of the user. Humans weren’t built to channel the power of a god.
Unless they were jacked up on godly energy, as it turned out.
Because what I’d pulled off Aeslinn was life energy, giving me the stamina of—literally—the gods. The Pythian power flowed through my fingers like it was weightless. I felt no strain, no exhaustion, and for a moment no fear. I laughed again, in complete disbelief—
And saw a sight that I wouldn’t have believed just a few moments ago: a flash of genuine fear crossing those noble features.
Suddenly, it was all over. A wave was thrown at me, which I sliced through the middle of, sending freezing rain pelting down everywhere, momentarily veiling the world. And when I looked again—
Aeslinn was gone.
~~~
I swam back to consciousness again at Gertie’s, the familiar, lavender-scented sheets alerting me to my location even with my eyes closed. But there were different scents mixed in there, too, strange ones. A sharp, acidic reek tickled my nose, like the medicinal potions my Victorian counterpart brewed up to torture initiates who had anything from a cough to a sprain; the slick smell of ozone, cool and vaguely metallic, as if from a rain-riddled sky; and a warm and seductive scent that reminded me of sex, surprising and completely out of place in what was essentially a magical nunnery.
My eyes opened to find a pillow half over my face. I removed it, but it didn’t help my vision very much. There was no sunlight streaming through the window this time, just scattered moonbeams from the wind tossing the sheers around. I looked at them blankly, wondering what had happened to the day, then sat up, intending to go find out—
And oh.
Oh, God.
Oh, no.
I lay back against the bolster, arching and writhing, because everything hurt. Even my toes were complaining, although it was hard to tell past the throbbing headache and the screaming nerves and the pulse suddenly pounding in my throat like it wanted to get out. I groaned softly, and my voice sounded hoarse and raspy, as if I’d been screaming for hours.
Had I been screaming?
I had no memory of it. No memory of anything after Aeslinn fled. Just fog and darkness and—
“Get her onto the bed.” It was an older woman’s voice. Gruff, almost harsh. I thought I should know it . . .
“Get her to a healer! We can’t cure this!” another woman, her voice high pitched and frantic. A stranger.
“It’s too late for a healer. Are you blind?” a third woman demanded. Her voice was familiar, too, but so strained that I couldn’t name her. She sounded like I felt.
“Shut up!” Finally, a voice that I could name. It was Rhea, but calling out from a distance, as if she was by the door or out in the hall. “It’s all right, Lady, you’ll be all—”
“Get her out of here!”
I snapped back from the memory or vision or whatever the hell that had been, panting and shaking and more than a little freaked out. Not that I hadn’t had similar experiences in the past—when you’re a seer, it comes with the territory. But not like that.
When I Saw things, I saw them. Sometimes it was murky, like looking at the transmission on an old, black and white T.V. Other times, I got the full, Technicolor, and Dolby surround sound experience. What I did not get was pain, especially excruciating waves of it, hot and burning and immediate.
And tearing through my body like it was happening right now.
I hugged my pillow and stared into the darkness, shivering and waiting for the pain to back off. It didn’t seem interested, but I was suddenly remembering more—a lot more. Like thrashing around after my body fell off the embankment and into one of the divots left by Aeslinn’s oversized foot.
Now I recalled screaming, in rage and fury because he’d escaped me, and then in agony, because something was wrong. My memory was fractured, with only bits and pieces coming back to me, and I wasn’t sure I wanted them. I felt the shock of cold water as I went under; heard people yelling as I surfaced again; saw billowing steam that was suddenly rising up everywhere; and smelled blood and sizzling meat.
What was happening to me? What was—
Stop it!
Just stop it!
I held onto the pillow like an anchor, but it didn’t help much. Maybe because the room in front of me seemed fractured, too, to the point that it was hard to tell past from present. Semi-transparent figures of acolytes, horror writ large on their usually impassive faces, flitted around like ghosts, then abruptly disappeared.
Furniture moved as things were shoved aside, with the door opening and closing repeatedly, and the chair by the dressing table flickering abruptly out of view. Another ethereal acolyte ran in, carrying a basket of jars, bottles and flasks—Gertie’s feared ointments—but I didn’t think they would help me now. Especially after the girl tripped and went down.
I saw her fall, saw half of the bottles go rolling across the floor, saw several others shatter into a million pieces on the hard old boards. And then nothing—she vanished, winking out of sight along with her spilled basket. Leaving only a faint stain behind, where someone had cleaned up the mess what looked like hours ago.
I closed my eyes in self-defense, and it seemed to help. Most of the memories slacked off and dulled somewhat. But one was still shining, bright and clear and vivid against the darkness of my mind, one so unbelievable that I caught my breath in wonder.
Aeslinn ran.
Not like a king of the fey making an orderly retreat, but like a beaten dog, fearing for his life. Because I’d done it. I’d won.
I knew that, even if I didn’t know anything else. It might be a fleeting victory, since I hadn’t managed to kill him. But I’d hurt him. I’d drained him. I’d driven him off.
And right now, I’d take it.
Assuming that I survived long enough, that was, which . . . yeah. I writhed some more, strangling the pillow and wadding up the already mangled sheets, but it didn’t help. Maybe because I couldn’t tell which pain was real and which was tortured memory, and I wasn’t sure that it mattered.
Either way, it hurt like hell.
Another spasm left me panting and wondering if there were any drugs around here. The Edwardians had the good stuff; they even dosed their babies up on morphine and alcohol when the poor things were teething. The Edwardians were hardcore.
So, there should be something—assuming I could find it.
Annnnnnd that would be a no, I decided, as I rolled off the bed and the room slung wildly around me. I hit the floor, crying out when my elbow smacked down, and took the brunt of the fall. Shit, shit, shit!
I cradled the throbbing joint, rocking back and forth for a moment, and feeling like an idiot. I was already hurt enough; I didn’t need to add to it! And then I felt something else.
Something . . . weird.
It was on my elbow, or rather, on the skin just above it, but it wasn’t the blood or bruised flesh I’d have expected. I pushed up the sleeve of my robe and took a look. And then just sat there, staring at what appeared to be a piece of lace imbedded into my skin.
I finally realized that it wasn’t lace itself I was looking at, but the impression of it, carved into my flesh. It was dark p
ink and looked like I’d been branded. It wasn’t large, and in the low light, it was hard to see in detail, something the location didn’t help with. But that was definitely lace under my fingertips.
What the hell?
The voices kept talking, but I couldn’t concentrate enough to make anything out. I didn’t understand what was wrong with me. I’d been in a fight; I knew that, but I hadn’t been badly hurt, had I? I thought I’d won. I thought—
A wave of agony hit, whiting out my mind, and ripping scream after scream from my lips. I had the vague impression of people running, of them crowding into the bedroom and being pushed back out again, of someone cutting the ruined gown off me, the cold metal of the scissors a small relief against my overheated body.
Only they weren’t making much progress.
“I can’t get it off,” someone said, in what might be Agnes’ voice. “What’s left is melted to her skin.”
“Move aside,” the older woman said, her voice clipped. And then the feeling of the Pythian power swirled around me, dissolving the rest of the material all at once. The blast of cold air hitting all that raw flesh made me mewl like a hurt animal, and my whole body shake.
“What . . . is that?” Agnes whispered, her voice gone flat and shocked.
“I don’t know.” It was grim. “We need a healer.”
“A healer?” I could almost see the incredulity on Agnes’ face. “For what? Can’t you see—she’s already dead.”
Chapter Nine
I was shaking as I tore free from the memory again, with a helpless sound building in my throat. I cut it off, swallowed it back down. I was better than this, better than trembling by my bedside like a frightened child!
But getting up wasn’t an option right now. I sat there, gripping the end of the coverlet with one fist and my stomach with the other, sure I was about to throw up. Only I couldn’t because there was nothing left to work with, my breakfast having already floated down the Thames. I wept silently for a while instead, half in anger at my own weakness, half in confusion and pain. And, slowly, over a period of minutes, the complaints from my body became softer, from screaming at me to muttering darkly.