by Karen Chance
He stopped directly in Tomas’s line of vision, his booted feet just touching the bloody pool. He unsheathed a rapier, good quality Cordoba steel instead of wood, making it obvious that this wasn’t going to end quickly. “How the mighty have fallen. That is the phrase, isn’t it? From my lieutenant to this, all because of ambition.”
Tomas tried to tell him that ambition wasn’t the point, that it never had been, but his throat didn’t seem to work either. Although that might have been because of the sight that suddenly loomed up behind his former master. At first, Tomas was sure he was imagining things. But not even in a pain-induced near faint could his brain have come up with something like that.
Behind Alejandro, a withered arm encased in a few rotting rags appeared, a tracery of thin blue veins pulsing under the long dead skin. A head followed, cadaverous and brown, but with two enormous, glittering eyes rolling in the too large sockets. They stared at Tomas for an instant, full of terrible, ancient fury, before the arm caught Alejandro around the waist and a mouth full of cracked and yellowed teeth clamped onto his neck.
Alejandro gave one sharp gasp before the others were on him, a crowd of dry, old bones and tanned leather skins that glowed slightly from the inside, like someone shining a flashlight through parchment. And although Alejandro’s power still surged around Tomas like a hurricane, his attackers didn’t seem to feel it. There was a crack, a thick, watery sound, and then silence—except for the ripping, chewing noises coming from the middle of the once human mass.
The kings had returned.
Another pair of feet came to rest beside him, just brushing his hair. Tomas looked up to see Jason, slack-jawed no longer, but with a quiet intensity his eyes. It seemed Alejandro had kidnapped one necromancer worth his salt, after all.
“You brought them back,” he managed to croak after a moment.
Jason didn’t look away from the creatures and their meal. “They brought themselves.”
Tomas didn’t have a chance to ask him what he meant, because the earth began to move in a very familiar manner. Jason grabbed him under the arms and pulled him backwards down the stairs. No one tried to stop him. It was as if the court was frozen in place, staring in disbelieving horror at the sight of their master being attacked by supposedly harmless sacks of bones.
They made it to the edge of what had been the holding pen before Alejandro’s power suddenly cut off, like someone throwing a switch. A ripple went through his vampires as they felt it too and realized what it meant. They came back to life with a vengeance, but too late; half the roof collapsed in a cascade of limestone.
Sarah and one of her men ran up, dirty-faced and panting. Forkface grabbed Tomas, yanked the ax out of his back and threw him over a shoulder. Then they ran.
The doorway collapsed behind them, dust billowing into the air while rocks and gravel nipped at their heels. The entire tunnel system was buckling, the floor heaving, the ceiling threatening to crush them at any moment. His helper lost his footing and they both went down, Tomas managing to catch himself on arms that, while unsteady, actually seemed to work again.
He grabbed Sarah, attempting to shield her, at the same time that she grabbed for him. And amid stones falling and dust clouds choking them, they braced together, Sara saying things that Tomas couldn’t hear over the roaring in his ears. But their small patch of ceiling held, and after they limped across the boundary from the caves to the old temple, the rumbling gradually petered off.
They emerged at last into the jungle, where a mass of dazed people huddled together in small groups under the dark, star-dusted sky. Forkface dumped Tomas unceremoniously beside a small pool just inside the temple, where people were scooping up water in hats, hands or flasks. It was a green and it stunk, with slimy ropes of algae clinging to sides, and nobody seemed to mind. Some were hugging, more were crying and one, amazingly, was laughing. Tomas blinked at them, disbelieving, seeing for the first time in four hundred years the Day of the Dead celebrated in this place by the living.
Jason brought him some water in an old canteen, and while Tomas didn’t particularly need it, he drank it anyway. The fanatic came over to join them after a moment. It seemed he’d been delegated to lead the way out while Sarah and her remaining associate remained behind to rescue Tomas. He seemed perturbed that they hadn’t brought him any bones, and eyed Tomas speculatively for a moment before moving off, muttering.
Tomas’s whole body hurt and he was ravenously hungry, but he was alive. It didn’t seem quite real. “How did you do it?” he finally asked Jason.
“I didn’t. I only woke them up.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The Incan kings were believed to watch over their people, even after death, and to demand good behavior of the living. Any who defied them soon learned that they also had within their power to reward or to punish.”
“That’s a myth.”
Jason smiled, an odd, lopsided effort. “Really. It seems strange, not to mention expensive, to tie up most of the revenues of the state in the care of creatures who have no ability to hurt you.” He shook his head. “The ancient priests prepared the royal dead well. I only had to give them a nudge.”
“You mean—"
His eyes went soft and dreamy. “They said they had been watching Alejandro for a long time. And they were hungry.”
“Well, they’ll have the whole court to snack on now, once they finish with him,” Sarah commented, stopping by after locating enough local people to serve as guides for everyone else. Tomas had a sudden image of vengeful Incan monarchs pursuing Alejandro’s vampires through the halls where they had once done the same to humans. He smiled.
“Attacking that thing on your own was insane,” Sarah said bluntly. “I like that in a person. Want a job?”
Tomas just looked at her for a moment. He was a first-level master, one of only a handful in the world. The rest at his rank were either sitting in governing positions over his kind, or were powerful masters with their own courts. They were emphatically not running around with a motley crew of mercenaries carrying out jobs so crazy that no one else would touch them.
He’d killed Alejandro, or close enough by vampire law. He could assume his position, round up whatever vampires had made it out before the cave-in, and claim to be the new head of the Latin American Senate. That would put him beyond the jurisdiction of the North American version—which wanted him dead—and his master—who wanted him back in slavery. He could rebuild Alejandro’s empire and walk these halls once more, this time as their master. He would be rich, powerful and feared . . .
And, in time, just like Alejandro.
“Well?”
Sarah didn’t seem to be the patient type. It was something else they were going to have to work on. They weren’t touching, but she was standing so close that he could smell the vestiges of her perfume mingled with gunpowder and sweat. It was strangely comforting, like the lingering warmth of a touch even after it’s gone. Tomas looked up at her face, surrounded by stars, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he saw a future.
“Where do I sign?”
Black Friday
Author’s Note: This is a Cassie Palmer holiday short. It is ahead of the current timeline for the series, which at publication had reached Shatter the Earth, so I put it here.
Y ou don’t see the irony, Cassie?"
I looked back at the walking bundle of presents that was following me. "What irony?"
"Shopping for Christmas gifts in hell."
I frowned. "Well, they have the best prices."
And I had a ton of people to buy for. Just so many. It almost made me wish for the days when—
I stopped myself. No, it didn’t. Other people had happy memories of lying under the Christmas tree as a child, staring up at all the pretty lights, while the smell of peppermint eggnog floated through the house and a playful kitten batted at a low hanging decoration. Or so I assumed. I wouldn’t know, since I’d been raised by a homicid
al vampire who had been approximately the circumference of Santa, but resembled him in exactly no other way.
Fat Tony had not been a jolly old elf or any other kind of elf, unlike the guy in the next store.
Who was not on script, I noticed.
The Shadowland, the closest hell region to Earth, was basically a huge marketplace, with a vested interest in keeping its visitors happy. To help with that, it projected an image that fit the buyer's expectations, taking clues from their minds to form a version of itself that would make them comfortable no matter what world they came from. Or possibly to keep them from running down the street screaming at what it actually looked like. In any case, right now, to me, it looked like a Victorian Christmas, complete with snowy stoops, cobblestones, and old fashioned multi-paned shop windows through which bright yellow lamplight was streaming into the street.
I’d even changed myself, when I shifted in here a couple of hours ago, because they seemed to be doing a special, suped-up illusion for the holidays, maybe to encourage people to stay longer. Anyway, I’d found my t-shirt and jeans transformed into a bottle green Victorian skirted suit, complete with cute little jacket, frothy lace blouse, and a bustle. My companion, likewise, appeared to be wearing a suit coat with long tails, a pair of riding boots, and a ridiculously tall top hat which he'd repeatedly tried to take off, but which wasn't budging, probably because it wasn't actually there.
I'd stuck a sprig of holly in it anyway.
It looked quite festive.
Unlike the fey.
He should have matched the scene, with whatever he actually looked like overwritten by some version of a Victorian merchant, maybe with mutton chop whiskers and a snowy white apron, like the guy in the last place. Instead, long, pointy ears were sticking up around a bright red Santa hat, and his shining, silver hair was almost touching the old floorboards. He noticed my interest and smiled, showing off a mouthful of long, cracked and stained teeth.
Well, at least he got the Victorian mouth right, I thought, and went back to my list.
"What's a fey doing in hell?" the gift pile asked.
"No idea. Okay, the new nunchucks are for Pritkin—"
"You coulda bought those on Earth, and then I wouldn’t have to lug them all over hell. My feet are killing me!"
"You’re a vampire. Stop whinging." I'd brought Fred, my tiniest bodyguard, along as present-toter, because he was the least likely to freak out and start wailing on somebody. And while the Shadowland was generally friendly toward outsiders, at least until it relieved them of all their money, freaking out was not advised. Whinging, on the other hand—
"I'm not whinging—"
"You've been whinging for blocks."
"—and you’re American. Stop using that weird British slang you picked up from lover boy.”
I ignored the last comment, since it was none of Fred's business, and checked the list again. "The nunchunks are spelled. They'll fight with you or for you. Good for training as well as defense."
Pritkin would like them, I was pretty sure.
Anything lethal tended to go over well.
"And Jonas gets the doggy treats," I continued. He had a possessed bloodhound, so something from hell's bakery had seemed appropriate. "And Tami the new bakeware—"
"What does that do?" Fred asked suspiciously.
I looked up. "It's bakeware. It . . . bakes stuff."
"Hell pies?"
"Any kind of pies. The little cookie cutters take on any shape you want, and the Bundt pan—"
"Would madam like a free sample?" someone asked.
I glanced up. Oh, the fey. He had a glass of cider or mulled wine or something on his palm, which he was proffering to me with another hideous grin. Seriously, Faerie needed to invest in some dentists. Like now.
"Thanks."
I passed it over to Fred, who was a garbage disposal when it came to food. So far, our shopping trip had seen him consume five little peppermint sleighs, complete with Santa and reindeer, at the candy shop, despite the fact that they could fly and he'd had to chase one of them down the street. And a couple of hot dogs from a stand, loaded with sauerkraut and mustard and pickle relish and coleslaw and jalapenos and bacon, before he ran out of room—on the dogs; Fred didn’t run out of room, or at least, I'd yet to see it. And an even dozen cookies which had been so freaking cute with their little animal faces that I hadn’t been able to resist—until Fred snitched one and it started screaming.
Fred had ended up with the lot after that, because hell's return policy sucks.
"Bah!" he wiped his lips, and then beat the center of his chest with his one free fist. "That was spicy!"
"Well if you wouldn’t chug it—"
"You keep saying you're in a hurry!"
"I'm not in a hurry; we just have a lot to—"
I cut off, because Fred had just belched—a plume of fire that set the fey's hair alight. I stared, Fred looked around in confusion, and the poor fey screamed and went running off to stick his head in a snowbank. I hesitated, but he looked like he had it handled, and the fey were pretty hardy, and we were starting to draw a crowd—
Screw it.
I grabbed Fred's hand and pulled him down the street. "Sorry!" I yelled behind us, before ducking into a cross road and whirling on him. "I told you—no assaulting people!"
"Well, it was his brew!" Fred looked indignant. "And it gave me heartburn!"
"Yeah, that couldn’t possibly be the massive amount of crap you've eaten since we got here."
"Hey, I offered you a cookie!"
"A screaming Bambi pleading for his life!"
"It was a gingersnap." Fred grinned, showing a little fang. "Tasty."
"Oh, stop it!" I said, and pulled him into a toy shop.
I'd mainly been trying to get out of the street, before a seriously pissed off shopkeeper came after us. But then I looked up. And stopped, my mouth hanging open in wonder, because—
"Oh, hey," Fred said. "This is more like it!"
And it was, it really, really was. I caught sight of my own reflection in a bright silver Christmas ball, one of thousands festooned everywhere, and realized that I looked like that wide-eyed kid I’d never been: blue eyes bright, short blonde hair dusted with snow, cheeks pink from the cold, and face suffused with wonder. Because this shop was magical.
It was magical.
There were old wooden floors and flickering lantern light and berry covered garlands that smelled deliciously of pine. There were huge wreaths with big red Christmas bows, and a tree that stretched up to the exposed rafters, and a whole wall of exquisitely embroidered stockings that quickly rewrote themselves with my name. There were wooden bird ornaments on festoons of ribbon stretching from the tree to the shelves on either side that really sang, tiny drummers peeking out from the branches who really drummed, icicles that looked like the real thing and were cold when you touched them, and a miniature train, running on a track near the ceiling, complete with passengers drinking coffee, reading newspapers and walking clumsily along the jolting carriages.
And that was just the decor.
I moved on to the aisles of toys, passing down one entirely filled with marionettes in exquisitely made suits of armor, or military uniforms festooned with braid, or delicate ball gowns softly shimmering, or an amazing Balinese dancer's costume glittering with gold. There were snow globes showing all kinds of different scenes, including one as big as my head in which a perfect, miniature town was blanketed in white, complete with minute skaters on a frozen pond that actually skated—and leapt and twirled and danced—while the people in the stands above huddled together, drinking hot chocolate under snuggly blankets and watching their breath frost the air. I marveled at broomsticks that actually flew, at kites big enough and magical enough to carry you, at a costume box that could immediately put a child into any of a thousand different outfits, and on and on and on.
Here's the rest of my Christmas list sorted, I thought, thinking of how excited a bunch of littl
e girls I knew were going to be on Christmas morning.
"You’re gonna need to grow a couple extra arms," I told Fred, who laughed.
"Not in the skill set. I'll get a basket."
I nodded absently, already intrigued by a curious line of carved wooden boxes on a shelf, all beautifully decorated. Except that they didn’t seem to do anything. Maybe they were just for looks?
"Can I be of service?"
I glanced up to see a roly-poly demon headed my way, with the cutest little baby horns sticking out of his head. He looked more the part, I thought approvingly, in Victorian appropriate gear over which a bright green apron had been stretched. It had "Merry, Merry!" written on it in flowing, cursive letters, and the expression matched the get-up.
Guy knew a sucker when he saw one, but right then, I didn’t mind.
"What are these?"
"Oh, good choice," he approved. "They’re some of the finest memory spheres we've had in many a year."
He took a box down and opened it to reveal a softly glowing globe the size of a large Christmas ball. But inside was a scene more reminiscent of the snow globe, showing the interior of a cozy little house. A small family was gathered around a fireplace: mom, dad, a couple of kids and a pet dog, with the kids trying to open gifts while the dog wagged its tail and got in the way, and the parents laughed and sipped wine.
"It's nice," I said. And shook it. But nothing happened except that the mother spilled some wine and the dog stared around and started barking. I frowned. "Where's the snow?”
"There's no snow," the jolly little proprietor told me. "Haven’t you ever used one of these before?"
I looked up. "One of what?"
"A memory ball. People come in and sell us their recollections of the most wonderful and enchanted times in their lives, when they were at their happiest. We preserve them so that others can experience them, too. Either to cheer up after a hardship, or," his head tilted, and he regarded me shrewdly. "To experience something they never had?"