by Faith Hunter
Easy. Way too easy. “Who has my blood?” I asked. “Is it Forcas?”
“Yes. My Master took your blood as an offering from one of his servants. You had wounded it unto death. For the gift, the Master awarded it true life and a place at his side.”
True life? I wanted to ask, but didn’t know how much time I had. I focused on the information I had to have. “What is Forcas’ true name?”
“I do not know, but my Mistress does. Call on the seraphs and save her. She can free you from Forcas’ summoning.”
Everyone wanted me to call the seraphs. Why hadn’t someone taught me how? And then surprise flooded through me. It wanted me to call in seraphs?
“If you don’t free her and destroy him,” Malashe-el said, “Forcas will claim you as his own, you and the blood he seeks.” His mouth turned up at the corners and I saw a hint of fang. “The blood is strong. When combined with the blood of Mole Man and the blood of the Fallen, it creates much living power for his use. Enough to change the world as he desires.”
I studied the walker, not letting it see my confusion. Forcas wanted my blood to combine with Mole Man’s? But it had mages in its power already; I had seen them. I deviated from my plan and said, “Tell me about the blood Forcas wants.”
Swiftly, it lifted the blade and exposed its forearm, the flesh pale, human-looking, the blade glinting in the rising sun. With no sign of pain, it drew the point of the blade along its skin. Blood welled in the cut. Red blood, when some walkers had blood blacker than the night sky. Its scent reached me through the shield, human, and familiar. Because the beast had drunk from him, I expected to scent Lucas, and indeed there was the scent of Stanhope. But above the Stanhope blood rode something more. Something fresh and unexpected. Something I hadn’t noted in the heat of battle.
I sniffed again as I walked, my feet dragging slowly through the heavy weight of the conjure’s power, drawing it deep, breathing it in, and as I did, Malashe-el grinned. Its fangs unhinged fully, hanging on its lower lip. “Vampire,” Audric murmured. But it wasn’t. Vampires of legend walked only at night. Malashe-el lifted its arm in the light of the partially risen sun and licked at its blood, its eyes on me.
Suddenly I placed the scent, recognized the owner of the blood. The same scent was in my closet, on my dolls, dolls given me by my foster father. Wild energies prickled my skin. Above me, the hole was gone, sealing me in the walking circle with the beast. The beast who smelled like family. I had stopped walking the path, and took a step, my foot encumbered in the thickness of the energies.
The walker mocked, “You don’t know. The priestess didn’t tell you.” It licked its wound, eyes filled with red flecks of gleeful scorn. “You are ignorant and untutored. But Forcas knows. And I know.” It cocked its head. “I’ll tell you if you beg.”
The walker’s possession ran deep. Even surrounded by daylight and Mutuol’s power, it was malevolent. When I said nothing, the red in its eyes faded, leaving it with a frustrated pout, bad-tempered, like a teenager denied a parent’s reaction. My feet pushed through a dozen steps and the energies softened, making progress easier. My brain cleared.
“It’s a puzzle, a riddle devised by my master. The mother of Mole Man’s progeny was daughter to Adain Hastings.” It smiled again, fangs hinting, as if the information was important. When I didn’t react, the smile faded. Irritated, it turned its back to me, spotting Audric. In a flash, it crossed the spring and slammed against the shield wall. Audric didn’t flinch. Enraged, the walker howled and threw itself against the wall, bouncing away only to rush in again. Its eyes flashed red fire.
While it beat against the cage, I parsed its words. The mother of Mole Man’s progeny was the Stanhope matriarch, Gramma Stanhope. Hastings was the last name of my foster father, Lemuel, who died just after my eighteenth birthday. I still missed him. And often, like now, I wondered what he would have done and felt had he ever learned I was a neomage.
Adain Hastings was Uncle Lem’s father’s name. Which made Lem Gramma’s brother.
A cold shiver quaked through me. I was glad Audric held the walker’s attention. The beast would have gotten a kick from my reaction, and maybe a foothold in our conversational disputation. Again, my feet had slowed, and energies had built up as I pondered. I increased my pace, pulling the excess power into me, into my amulets, filling them to the brim and taking the excess energy into myself, beginning to feel drunk on the rising power. While I thought, I recited the incantation freeing Malashe-el, calling on Mutuol.
Lolo had sent me to Mineral City after my mind unexpectedly opened to the inhabitants of Enclave. The move was supposed to save my life and sanity. But what if the move had been planned long before? The question rippled through me. What if Lolo had wanted me here for some devious, nefarious reasoning of her own? What if the old bat had planned my move, planned the secret breeding of Thadd’s mother—Rupert’s aunt—to a kylen, planned the marriage between the matriarch and patriarch Stanhope? There were love conjures in the Book of Workings. What if she had masterminded it all? What if she had a plan that had been in the works for . . . what? Decades?
Blood of the saints! What was the priestess of Enclave up to? I pulled a blade, the silver ceremonial blade I used when I needed my own blood in a conjure. With the point, I reached down and traced a loop in the soil, inside the walking circle, making a protected place. The Book of Workings said this would work for a short time. If not, it would kill me. Decisively, I stepped from the trough to the loop. There were no explosions, no wildfires, no bloody bits scattered across the hillside. The voices of the chanters sounded tense, as if they knew what I had just done was dangerous. The next move was even more so. It would give the walker access to me.
I flipped the knife. Stabbed into the shield.
Heat erupted out at me, a blast furnace. My body rocked back, nearly making me lose my footing in the loop.
Eyes flaming fully red, the walker launched itself at me.
Chapter 13
It was holding the tanto, and I the silver knife. The walker slashed, faster than I could follow, demon-fast, moves I had never seen. The first drew blood as I blocked with the ceremonial knife and pulled a throwing blade. The silver knife was too soft for fighting, and I slipped into the egret, blocking the successive cuts with swooping, winglike moves. Suddenly Malashe-el was six feet away, laughing, eyes sly. It was a victorious sound, arrogant. As calmly as if it hadn’t moved at all, the beast licked my blood from the tanto’s blade. Its other hand twirled the spur with nimble fingers and closed its eyes in pleasure.
With a quick flick of my wrist, I loosed the ceremonial blade, saying, “Mutuol.”
The knife thunked deep into the walker’s chest. It staggered, eyes wide, and dropped its head to see. Blood welled around the silver blade. The daywalker screamed and dropped both the tanto and the spur conjure.
“Now, Zeddy!” I shouted.
The chanted words changed, almost as if they had rehearsed it. The incantation from Psalms was softly chanted from three sides of the walking circle. “I will call upon the LORD, who is worthy to be praised: so shall I be saved from mine enemies.” Humans could call on the Most High. I was hoping it would be enough.
Backed by the scripture, I stepped over the loop cut into the ground and carefully placed a foot inside the walking circle. I didn’t have long, as the energies would continue to build, but now I could fight. “Mutuol, the bright star. By his power I bind you.”
Fangs wide, the walker pulled the silver knife from its flesh, the motion quick. It dropped the knife and sucked its blistered fingers where the silver had burned it. Bright blood spurted in steady arcs from the hole in its chest. I kicked the tanto and the spur away, and they clattered against rock that ringed the spring. I thought it might attack again, but the daywalker fell back and sat on a stone, its breathing ragged. “So, worthless mage. You have me trapped. What now?”
Ignoring the insult, I judged by the color of its eyes that it was free of its ma
ster. “Answer my questions. Provide me with information.”
“Yes. And then?” it asked, voice rough with pain.
“Information first. Tell me all you know about the”—I paused, remembering the phrase it had used—“the mother of Mole Man’s progeny, who was daughter to Adain Hastings.”
“The riddle. My Master will be disappointed.” It pressed its hand over its wound. The bleeding slowed and darkened, but didn’t stop, and its lips were blue from blood loss. “Forcas thought you would ask something important, but so be it. She is a murderer, who killed her own grandson, siphoning him dry. She is full of greed, keeping much of the blood she stole. She is wise, bargaining with the rest for great gain. But my Master has murdered millions, killed his own children, is greedier by far than she, and wiser than his Dark Lord.”
“That’s it? Tell me everything.”
Malashe-el laughed, a breathless sound. “She is a queen, soon to be the mother of thousands. That which was lost shall be restored.”
Darkness was a hierarchical organization, so the Dark Lord concept was logical, and, if Gramma had allied with a Major Darkness to become a dark human, other parts of the riddle made some sense too. Jason, her grandson, had been dead some time, and though I hadn’t known she killed him, the revelation wasn’t surprising. Gramma hadn’t come to Jason’s funeral, odd behavior for a human. They often revered the dead more than the living.
I had met the old woman, a keeper of secrets, tight lipped and watchful. The daywalker’s blood smelled of her, which meant it had recently drunk her blood. One of Forcas’ powers was to restore lost property. Gramma was once rich, but her husband had left her fortune to his grandkids. Had she thought herself wise enough to bargain with the devil? Had she bartered all she had and was to get back what she lost? Had her blood sealed the bargain? Had greed and vengeance been keys to her soul? Whatever she had bargained for, Forcas had tricked her, taken her, changed her, and now she was something else.
I searched through the knowledge the walking circle and the strange rose glow of energy had bequeathed me. Yes. A possessed daywalker could make bargains for its master. It would drink blood to seal the deal. “What kind of queen?” I asked.
It took a moment for it to answer, its throat working as if dry. Its fangs unhinged and extended before it could speak. “The mother of thousands. The breeder.”
No help at all. This was getting me nowhere. I pulled the walking stick blade and bent for the ceremonial knife, covered in the walker’s blood. Backing away from the walker, I found the supply bag I had set within the circle. In it was a small stone jar and a swatch of cloth.
One eye on Malashe-el, I scoured the silver knife on the cloth, polishing the gleaming metal. The blade was nicked from Malashe-el’s sword, which annoyed me. When it was clean, I opened the stone jar, exposing the earth salt within. I thrust the silver blade inside, deactivating any microscopic traces of blood. The scent of brimstone billowed out.
A silent click, a sound I heard in my mind and not in my ears, alerted me that the visa had activated itself. I didn’t know why the official amulet was working, and I had no way to figure it out.
I inserted the cleansed blade into a sheath sewn in the dobok. The bloody cloth I tucked into the stone jar. The daywalker’s mouth tightened and I grinned at it, showing my teeth. I might not have fangs, but my meaning was clear. I had its blood. For the moment, I owned it. Face pale, it took a wheezing breath, as if air entered its lungs through the chest cavity. If it had been human, it would be dead.
“Tell me of the seraphs beneath the Trine,” I said
Its eyes, growing bluer as it weakened, darted between the silver hilt and the stone jar in my left hand before it answered, panting. “Privacy is a gift.”
Understanding, I found an amulet by feel. With a thought and a delicate squeeze, I activated the incantation stored in it, letting the building energies of the walking circle power a privacy circle. Strangely, a discomfort I hadn’t noticed eased with the privacy circle. The energies were still building. I didn’t have long. “You have your gift,” I said.
“Barak. Succubus. Queen. Larvae. Baraqyal.” It put out a hand, steadying itself on a nearby boulder. Its blood smeared the stone. “I am dying,” it said, sounding astonished.
“So?”
“Alive, I am of use to you,” it bargained. “Alive, my Mistress has a conduit. Ask me of her.”
“Who is your Mistress?”
“Holy Amethyst, mate to Zadkiel, the winged-warrior.”
“Where is Zadkiel?”
“Trapped above her prison. Hurry. I am dying.” Malashe-el slipped from the stone to the ground. Blood coated its ugly shirt. It was shivering.
It hadn’t been a dream. I had seen Zadkiel, the winged-warrior, in a vision, and had thought it a nightmare, some representational image I would someday understand. But it had been truth.
“Reset the trap,” he—it—said. “Set me free and I might yet live.”
“At the behest of Forcas or of the Mistress?”
“Your choice. You have the power. She knew you had the power. She watches you.”
Its face was whiter than the snow beneath it. Its blood, a scarlet stain on the white, had slowed to a trickle. The walker was no threat. I sheathed my sword and pulled the silver knife. With a single slash, I opened the privacy circle and buried the silver point against the earth at the broken loop that had modified the walking circle.
Thunder sounded in the distance. “Get down,” I shouted. Rupert fell, followed by Jacey and Zeddy. I had a single instant to shield my eyes. A flash hit the ground. The earth erupted. Rocks and soil flew. When I opened my eyes, Malashe-el was gone. I was lying faceup on the ground, my legs spread in snowmelt and mud. Tree branches above me smoked. The air smelled of sulfur.
Zeddy held a shovel at the ready. Rupert and Jacey bent over me, staring, faces concerned. Audric was standing over me, both swords drawn. “The swan,” I said, identifying the position of his swords. “Very flashy.” I started coughing.
Audric grinned and sheathed both swords. “Yes, I am.” He held an arm to pull me to my feet, steadying me as the coughing fit passed. “Almost as flashy as you releasing both a privacy circle and a walking circle with a sword and sending the daywalker back where it came from.”
I caught my breath, looking around. The spur that had conjured the injured place in my side was gone. “I didn’t. Exactly.” At his look, which was mostly unreadable, but certainly not happy, I said, “ Well, I did open the privacy circle with it. But not the walking circle. I was just going to cut into the earth underneath the trough and release the energies back into the ground. The explosion wasn’t me.”
His face shut down. “Your eyebrows are burned off,” he said before he turned and walked away.
Following another shower and two cups of strong black tea to fortify myself, I sat down at the computer and signed on to the Internet. I wasn’t sure what I had accomplished in the walking circle, with the talk of riddles. All I really had were the five words Malashe-el said when in the privacy circle. “Barak. Succubus. Queen. Larvae. Baraqyal.” Barak and Baraqyal I thought I recognized from old neomage legends, but nothing came readily to mind.
It was not yet nine in the morning and I had another hour before the shop opened when I secreted myself beneath the stairs to my loft, my amulet necklace on the doorknob. For the second time in a row, the Internet was agreeable, which was sort of scary in a Murphy’s Law kinda way, and I quickly found a ring of sites run by a mage-chaser, one of the humans who follow and document every bit of neomage news, history, gossip, and lies, detailing every fact and fancy about each documented mage, and lots of foolishness about undocumented ones too. Until I acquired my visa, I hadn’t appeared on the site, so either the mage-watcher had limited resources or I was very well hidden. But I was there now.
Unable to resist, I pulled up my own page. “Saint’s blood,” I whispered. There was a full page of text next to a photo of me in mage-
garb at the trial. One arm was extended at the elder’s face, the point of the sword touching his throat. I faced the crowd, glowing like a light bulb. I looked . . . well, Lolo wouldn’t be happy. I didn’t have the heart to read the text. I hit the BACK button and found Barak under the pages classified as “Verified Anecdotes.” I expected to find that one part in four had a basis in fact, but was surprised when most of the story was true to my memory, though told from a human perspective.
The fallen seraph called Barak, an Allied One, formerly named Baraqyal, was badly burned in a battle over the Gulf of Mexico twelve to fourteen years Post-Ap. The soldier-seraph landed and was found on a white sand beach by a nomadic human clan. He was burned almost to nothingness, nearly dead. Nursed back to health by the small clan, he stayed with them for some time as his skin and wings regenerated and new feathers grew.
Though damaged, he offered them protection at a time when little was available. In return they gave him sanctuary and a family such as he never knew. Barak was nearly healed when Daria, the adolescent pictured here, entered pubescence and was revealed as a neomage. The seraph recognized the presence of a new creature when her gifts blossomed and went wild. Unable to resist her, he mated with the first-generation witchy-woman, stealing her virginity and altering the fledging world of the neomages forever.
The union produced a first litter of three boy children, half seraph, half mage, all with full-sized wings but incapable of flight or transmogrification—the kylen. The second litter produced four viable, winged offspring as scientists called them. Daria and Barak had six litters before the seraph disappeared in the major battle that destroyed Mexico City. **See section: Mage War.
The twenty kylen were incorporated into the New Orleans Enclave and grew to be powerful and prolific neomages. When they reached adolescence, they created an unexpected heat in the neomages. A mating frenzy resulted. Rumors of that event are responsible for what the orthodox consider the licentious sexual practices of mages. **See section: Mage Breeding Habits.
