“I heard that Basilisk is staying at the castle for the next couple days; he arrived yesterday. Something about ‘forming new diplomatic relations.’” She frowned. “I suppose he’ll pay me soon for spying on the royal family… informing on my friends?”
She choked back some tears. “But he said that he’s only ever had one of these mystic runes that hold the power to restore someone. I’ll have to pick one person.” Her restraint failed, and the tears flowed.
“But… but there’s got to be another way. Maybe I can bring it to Respan, or maybe Shandra knows someone in the Veritas… I trust her after fighting alongside her at the Hoia Baciu.” Her mouth twisted sour, “Or maybe I can somehow find another of these Runes of Return. If there’s one, there’s got to be more.”
She stood and hugged each of them in turn. Her lungs choked up. “I… I just don’t know where to turn. They say the high priest can help… he somehow brought back General Zahaben… but if I go to him, he might discover I was the mole. It’s not hard to backtrack the time-line and discover my lies… that you weren’t killed in Nitthogr’s invasion.” Gita stared somberly at the ground and spoke hopefully, “You don’t suppose I’d go to the same prison as Jenner, do you? I mean… if he isn’t executed.”
Only a breeze responded by rustling through the overgrown glen that had once been her family’s yard. She rested a hand on her mother’s shoulder for a long moment, and then departed, deep in thought with the thorny bracken tugging at her hair and clothes along the trail crowded by invasive species. It would eventually lead her back towards Capital City and the more populous areas.
More branches rustled after her departure. They shook more violently than the wind was capable of and the fronds parted where Shjikara emerged from his hiding spot. He wore a devious grin set above both of his chins.
Shjikara gleefully sauntered over to the family of four. “So, I finally found my brother’s mole.” He cocked his head towards the father figure. “You should have raised her better,” he wheezed.
The High Priest grunted and withdrew the scepter he carried. All Veritas were required to carry a hammer beyond the monastery grounds as a matter of tradition—but the High Priest’s tool was different, unique, and nearly unbreakable. Though its jeweled head rested above and atop something more reminiscent of a mace than anything else, it was both weapon and scepter.
He slammed his weapon through the man’s form. Shjikara hit him again, reducing the figure to rubble.
“And you… mother dearest…” he gleefully busted her to bits, reducing her to whitish gray hunks of broken stone.
Shjikara loosed the evil within. Nitthogr’s vile spirit oozed through his body in thought and deed. He crashed the weapon through the defenseless brother who had been holding the toddler by the wrist, trying to speed her to safety when they were still flesh and blood. The brother disintegrated beneath the hammer blows and the false priest turned his gaze to the youngest child.
“But you, my dear, sweet child. You will come with me… I have a dreadfully wonderful purpose for you.” Shjikara Stonefist wrapped his arms around the smallest member of the family and carried her off, leaving only a trail of rubble and scattered scree in his wake.
Chapter 7
Earth
Wiltshire leapt out of bed. His skin had slicked with a cold sweat and the window drummed with a late autumn rain; the overcast sky kept it dark late into the morning.
The presence within his room was palpable, and inhuman. Wiltshire felt suddenly glad to have left his shoes on and he snatched his handgun and leveled it at the intruder.
Wearing only scraps of black cloth that were tied with cords, he looked much like a homeless man and his disguise might have fooled most. Wiltshire saw through the front and recognized him by an overbite that concealed his fangs and the falling locks of thin, red hair; pale, pointed ears poked through the light, strawberry tresses.
The detective kept his gun trained on the nightmare creature, even though he knew the ammunition in his nine millimeter wasn’t up to the task of killing something of this breed. Wiltshire hoped the strigoi wasn’t aware of that. He glanced down at his nightstand; the magazine containing his silver-laced rounds was easily within reach, but swapping mags would take him at least a full second, and he knew these creatures were capable of moving at incredible speeds when properly motivated.
“Mister Wiltshire,” he said, eerily turning his head and stretching the S sounds between his fangs. “I do believe that you have been looking for us.”
“I only see one of you,” Wiltshire growled. “And besides, the guy I’m looking for right now is not strigoi… not unless strigoi can make magic triangle shaped doors out of thin air. You guys get a reprieve for a few weeks, but I’ll be back to you soon enough.”
The intruder opened his mouth to speak, but paused momentarily. “You do not see my brothers because you only see what I want you to see,” he said, “but I come with only the truth at present, and I come alone. I do not wish to play games with you, Mister Wilshire. I represent the Scholomance.”
“Yeah. You’re right. You broke into my apartment, so I’m looking for you now too… you guys killed my partner. I guess whatever order I chase you down in doesn’t matter so much to me. Good thing that I’m uniquely equipped for killing creatures like strigoi. I’m sure my reputation precedes me.”
The strigoi smirked with amusement. His curled lip revealed a fang that glistened in the low, morning light. “You won’t kill me. Not yet. You need me.”
“The hell I do…”
“If you kill us all, you will never know for sure what we did with Atticus Sexton. Your police may have found the bodies of his wife and children… and a significant amount of the man’s blood… but you will never know his true fate without some assistance.”
Wiltshire tightened his grip on the handgun. “Alright. I’ll play along, but just for funsies. Talk. Why are you here?”
“I come to you because of your particular skills. You are uniquely equipped to killing creatures like me. The Scholomance are quite confident in our ability to handle you… any individual Solomnar I should think is capable… but there is another enemy we face, a creature that has killed one of our number. Now, we must replace him to replenish our ranks.”
“Is that what you did with my partner, you bastard? Did you take Atticus and turn him into one of you?”
The strigoi grinned and continued, undeterred. “You will want to divert your attention from us and kill this madman before he burns all your answers away. If he destroys the Scholomance, and if your Atticus is in our number, which I’ll neither confirm nor deny, then all hope for him will be lost.”
Wiltshire bared his own teeth and set his jaw. Rock and a hard place, Wiltshire, he thought, And what the heck? Why are all my enemies trying to hire me? “What is this sorcerer looking for? Also, you’re wrong; I don’t really care if he kills the whole lot of you. If he softens you up, it’ll be all that much easier for me to swoop in and finish the job. Heh. Maybe I’ll join him.”
The Solomonar cocked his head, sure the detective was bluffing. “He seeks an item that we once possessed. We guarded it until it became a burden to do so, especially since we could not properly use the thing. Any artifact that requires a reflection is useless to us, and its power was too seductive to risk any of our mortal kindred using it on our behalf.”
Wiltshire nodded, understanding that it was a magic mirror of some sort. He knew as well as anyone that vampires actually had reflections… except for when the mirror’s reflective material contained silver, and all the magic ones he’d ever learned about did.
“We rid ourselves of the Venus Oculus long ago for a specific reason which I will not disclose,” the enemy said, “and we no longer know where it is—but surely, if this warlock gets his hands on it, he could become unstoppable…”
“I thought the Scholomance were supposed to be the keepers of all human knowledge… and you guys can’t find one lost grooming tool?”
The strigoi did not rise to Wiltshire’s bait. He stared at the occult detective with baleful eyes.
Wiltshire set his face like flint and thought about the bullets on the nightstand… formed a plan in his mind. He knew the first slug would have no effect if he managed to swap magazines, but it would take more time to eject the one in the pipe than it would to simply pull the trigger.
“So this Magic Mike guy thinks one of the Solomonari have it and now he’s gonna knock you off one by one to get at it?”
The strigoi nodded.
“Good!” He yanked his magazine free and snatched the other one from next to his bed. Wiltshire slammed it home, firing a trio of rounds at his enemy; the whole action took barely a second.
The creature had already anticipated his move, and although Wiltshire had only looked away for a split second, the strigoi evaporated into a black mist before the silver capped hollow-point could blast through where he’d stood a split second ago.
Stark silence reigned in the aftermath of the gunshots.
Wiltshire recognized the strigoi. He was the Weathermaker, the chief of the Solomonari students and he rode the mighty dragon Zmeu, the dragon who makes rain whenever it sees the sky. The dragon and rider controlled the weather, bringing storms and destruction with it wherever it went. A few moments later, the rain ceased abruptly and Wiltshire knew that any danger had passed.
The Scholomance must truly be in danger if they sent the Weathermaker to try turning my attention. He cursed again and crawled out of bed. Wiltshire didn’t like this turn of events… not one bit.
***
The Prime
“Give me what you owe me,” Gita hissed beneath her breath.
Basilisk stood straight but did not acknowledge her existence. He walked past with a regal air of authority.
She had isolated him in a hallway. The Desolation’s emperor did not have many moments where he was alone and so Gita snatched him by the arm, needing to seize this opportunity. There might not be another.
Basilisk stopped and looked down at her. He stiffened and cocked his head. “I could turn you to stone with a wink of my eye,” he threatened softly. “You forget your place.”
“I think not,” Gita insisted. “I’ve seen you make deal after deal these last few days. You’ve got too much on the line to petrify me and lose it all right now.”
Basilisk smiled when she called his bluff. “It is nice to play the game and discover your opponent offers more challenge than presumed.”
“You promised me the rune,” Gita whispered sharply. She knew she battled a ticking clock in addition to the master strategist. “I did what you asked; now I demand my recompense.” She jutted out her one free hand.
He merely stared at her open palm.
“I’m afraid I no longer have the rune. It is gone, though it’s quite unlike me to fail to deliver on a promise, but a situation grew beyond my control.”
Gita growled something unintelligible, and she began to squeeze her grip tighter. Her tiny hands proved surprisingly strong, and she trembled with rage.
“Blood from stone my dear,” Basilisk cautioned. “I cannot give what I do not have.”
A massive tarkhūn soldier who followed Caivev approached from around a corner. A companion vyrm frostmancer followed a half step behind them.
“Is there a problem, here, boss?” Skrom asked in his husky voice.
“No. No problem,” Basilisk said. He brushed Gita’s hand from his arm like it was nothing and linked arms with his wife.
“It’s time we get back,” Caivev said, escorting the emperor. “The recess is nearly over and I know you would hate to miss the trade negotiations.”
Skrom led the imperial couple back the way he’d come. The smaller ice lord lingered behind them for a moment longer and glowered threateningly at the frightened girl in her shiny armor. He leered as if plagued by a chip on his shoulder or had something to prove.
“Come along Idrakka,” Caivev called over her shoulder, and the vyrm minion whirled on his heels and chased after them.
Gita stood alone and watched Basilisk go, giving no thought to the person he’d left behind in the wreckage of such betrayal.
***
Surrounded by her royal entourage, and feeling lonelier than ever, Bithia stood next to the platform of the planes-walking gate nearest her palace. There, she watched the departure of Basilisk and his troupe. Her former enemies stood upon the gate’s mouth and one of the vyrm walked to the activation receiver. He cut his hand and pressed the wound to the arcane machinery.
Before Basilisk and his crew disappeared, Caivev met Bithia’s eyes. They were not friendly, but neither did they burn with the malice of old grudges. She nodded tightly, almost imperceptibly. Bithia returned the gesture and the reptilian persons returned to their home, all except for Basilisk.
He beckoned for her, as if he had a secret for her. Bithia approached, to the dismay of her guards. She waved them off.
“I have seen the truth of it,” Basilisk told her. “When I am done sending you the statues, I will return the one you desire most.”
“The Architect King?”
Basilisk nodded measuredly. “But I doubt that it will do you much good. My people have tired of the burden of guarding it. Perhaps you will fare better with him in your collection. Maybe it will ease the tensions between you and your Anti-Veritas Alliance members.”
“Thank you,” she said, quite surprised by the turnabout. She was not shocked that Basilisk knew of the AVA and her population’s disgruntlement regarding peace talks with the vyrm. He probably knew about them before I did.
He bowed and retreated closer to the portal. “Let it be a final demonstration of my sincerity.”
“The statue will be safe in my keeping,” Bithia promised. She wrote down a cryptic equation upon a scrap of paper and pressed it into Basilisk’s hand.
He looked at it quizzically. It looked like coordinates and instructions for an astral gate location, but it did not match any of the known records the vyrm had committed to memory. “What is this… a gate I do not know about?”
Bithia flashed him a knowing look. “You’re not the only one with secrets. He will be quite safe here. This is the safest passage for me to receive something so precious.”
“Secrecy is safety,” He agreed. The vyrm emperor bowed and then disappeared through the gate.
Bithia let out an exhausted sigh. Tensions had run high the entire time of Basilisk’s stay these past few days. Even the sudden gift that Basilisk had offered did not revitalize her enough to overcome such stress—and she had no idea when he would make the return of their petrified leader, if he would even make good on his promise… though Basilisk had never lied to her that she knew of, at least not directly.
Along with her advisers, she and the vyrm had finally completed a comprehensive treaty between their peoples, but the emotional toll it took made Bithia want to sleep for a week, and she’d had no sounding board to vent her frustrations to. Even Gita had become suddenly too withdrawn to pull into her confidence, despite their foolish spy mission into the AVA assembly. Bithia still felt certain something deeply bothered Gita, but she couldn’t nail down what it was. Gita was as good at hiding her secret struggles as Bithia was with her own inner turmoil. Of all the times to lose my psychic abilities, she lamented.
Since Basilisk’s arrival, she’d seen Gita skulking around the castle grounds. The presence of the vyrm seemed to have visibly upset her. Bithia sympathized. So many had been victimized by them in the past and she remembered that Gita’s family had been casualties of Nitthogr’s invasion, just as Jenner’s had been; Gita was not alone.
The existence of the AVA proved that many citizens of the Prime were less than enthusiastic about any sort of reconciliation. But the princess did what she knew was necessary for the future of her people. If they continued fighting, Sh’logath’s corruption would eventually blight her kingdom too.
She turned and began heading back t
o the caravan that would ferry her back to the castle. Tay-lore pulled her aside for a moment. “Excuse me, Princess Claire. I have something urgent which requires your attention.”
Bithia cocked her head. “Follow me. We can be alone in my hovercab, and it’s secure.” She led him into the private vehicle.
“Do not depart yet,” the android said. “I am actually requesting this on behalf of another who cannot speak openly.”
Bithia looked at him funny. This was not the first time he’d played go-between. Whether it was rogue vyrm or human detectives on earth, he’d made it a habit to work on behalf of friends.
“You will understand my meaning momentarily,” Tay-lore said. The opposite door opened and Pollando entered the cab. The rumpled old psychic took his seat and nodded to Tay-lore. “He and I have an alternate method of communicating since I have no presence on the psychic plane for him to speak with.”
Bithia nodded. “I understand.” She turned to look at Pollando, but she could not hear his familiar voice in her mind. The mute, old monk, who she’d been too busy to meet with since her incident with Claire, only ever spoke through psychic projection—and Claire had cut her off from that entire sense.
Tay-lore bowed and then exited, leaving them to have a private meeting… something that seemed unnecessary given the nature of psychic communication.
“You’re leaving?” Bithia asked him.
“Pollando will make the reasons clear,” he responded in his monotone voice. “As always, I will watch after your safety.” The door shut and Pollando locked it.
A few moments later, an uncomfortable silence broke when Pollando used his raspy voice. Claire stood stiff and straight at her surprise. The voice sounded like squeaky gravel on glass, if such a sound was possible.
“My apologies for coming to you like this, Princess,” Pollando said, still working the weak vocal chords into a consistent timbre.
His voice unnerved her. Pollando’s psychic voice was booming and strong, but here was a ragged and diffident tenor.
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