by Sara King
Kaashifah waved a dismissive hand. “You’ll get used to it.”
‘Aqrab’s eyes widened and he took an immediate step backwards.
“Someday,” Kaashifah laughed. “Someday you will get used to it. I plan to take you up again tomorrow. No spinning this time, just flying.”
“Flying where?” he asked, suspicious.
“South,” she said. “It’s time my sister and I showed these Inquisitors their mistake.”
‘Aqrab cocked his head at her slightly, and he tentatively cleared his throat. “And, uh, what are you going to do if your sister is…not of the same mind?”
Kaashifah stared at him. “You mean if she’s actually an Inquisitor?” She snorted. “Impossible.” She went over to a knee-high bush that had been exposed by the djinni’s heat and bent down to snap off a short branch. Holding it up, she ran her energy up it and the twig began to glow with the same searing light as her wings.
“I need a sword,” she commented, watching the branch glow. She experimentally swiped at the snow with it, and the snow peeled away from the branch, eaten by her energy. Grinning, she slapped the radiant twig at the bush, showering branches in all directions as it sliced through its brethren. Still, the result was like nothing she could have gotten with a blade. She lifted it to peer at the beam of light. Small and slender, but with too much give… Gods, but she needed a sword. Lowering it so that the light was no longer blinding her to her darker surroundings, she said, “You want to bargain with me for a sword, ‘Aqrab?”
‘Aqrab was eying the tiny, scraggly stick at her side with all the wary respect he would give a basilisk’s spine. “Perhaps another time,” the djinni responded, not taking his eyes from the stick. “I’m afraid I’m still recovering from the last one.”
Kaashifah grunted and tossed the twig into the snow. After burrowing through the icy drift, the brilliant energy of a Fury faded, then went out.
A sound from ‘Aqrab as the snowdrift went dark made Kaashifah turn. The djinni had, she realized, been holding his breath. Slowly, he met her eyes, and the nervousness was still there, his fear bared and raw. His gaze flickered to her feathers and he bit his lip.
Fear. It had been something Kaashifah had grown accustomed to, as a Fury, but it was startling to see it now, after so many years with the djinni.
I’m terrifying him.
The thought made her heart sink. As a Fury, her job had ensured that everything had always been terrified of her, and she had long ago learned to block out the hurt in order to survive. But now, watching the djinni poised before her like a frightened rabbit, Kaashifah felt her wingtips droop to the snow. She didn’t, she realized, want the djinni to be afraid of her.
Give him time, sister, the mountainside seemed to whisper, the gusts creeping over the snowdrifts caressing her feathers, renewing the passion within her. For a long, rebellious moment, Kaashifah wanted to launch herself back into the sky to surf the winds and revel in her Fury, regardless of the djinni’s fears. But, very reluctantly, she pulled her wings back within her body, the change shifting her back to her smaller human form. Almost immediately, the djinni seemed to relax.
“Better?” she asked, peering up at him.
‘Aqrab gave an uneasy laugh and rubbed the back of his neck as he looked down at her. “Forgive me, mon Dhi’b, but that brings back…bad…memories.”
And then Kaashifah realized that perhaps ‘Aqrab, in play, had stated something with a deeper truth. After three millennia with a Fury, even after successfully courting her, he was still a prisoner of war. All this time, bound by a mere five hundred cubits. She bit her lip at the sudden wash of guilt. Softly, she said, “If I made my wish, what would you…”
But then she hesitated at the sudden intensity—the alertness—in ‘Aqrab’s eyes.
Kaashifah remembered the lonely, joyless existence she had experienced for the vast majority of her life, then thought about the exhilarating thrills of the last three months. She thought back to all of the complaints he had made of the First Realm, all the griping he had done in their journey, all the off-hand remarks about how much he missed his home. If you make that final wish, she realized, he’s going to leave.
…And she would be alone again.
For the first time, Kaashifah felt a pang of loss. In all her years of wishing him dead, she’d never actually stopped and thought about what it would be like without him. And, now that she did, it was tightening into an agony in her chest. She couldn’t wish him free. She needed him.
“What would I what, Kaashifah?” ‘Aqrab urged gently, though there was desperation in his voice. “Please finish your thought.” He gave her a shy smile. “It was a good thought.”
“I’m sorry,” Kaashifah whispered, devastated by the hope in his eyes. Then, before she could see the anguish twist over his face, she turned and hurried back to the dragon’s lair.
Chapter 18: The Blacksmith’s Heart
Once Imelda had recovered from the magus’s assault, she crawled back into the bedroom and used the foot of her bed to prop herself back onto her feet. Her vision was like looking through white, pulverized glass, the dust of which was working its way into the crevices of her mind with every jolt of her head. Groaning, she tried to pick up her duffels, found she couldn’t keep her balance, and then decided to just abandon them, stumbling towards the door to her room.
The half-step-behind-her-body feeling was now more like a full three or four, and she saw herself reach the door several heartbeats before she actually put her hand on the latch. That double-image of her opened it and walked through before Imelda had a chance to make her fingers twitch, then she had to force herself to follow…herself.
What is happening to me? she wondered, in blind agony.
The Imelda in front of her was gaining distance and spreading out, becoming several Imeldas. Some veered to the left, some veered to the right, some stumbled into the hallway wall, some tripped and fell.
The magus did something, Imelda thought, watching the increasing chaos as some of those Imeldas that fell started bleeding, dying, whereas some got up and followed the other Imeldas, some of whom returned to her room, whereas others flooded outwards, exhausting every possibility, seizing every potential.
Hundreds more Imeldas, Imelda realized, had stayed in the doorway with her, rather than step out, as her forebears had just done. Those Imeldas, as she stepped forward, stepped forward with her, and suddenly she became the center of a turbulent wash of human form, each one going in different directions, doing different things. Some of them were talking, some of them were yelling, some of them were whistling and humming, some of them were crying and sobbing.
Imelda fell to her knees in the center of it, fisting her hands to her head, and screamed.
Everything seemed to snap into focus all of a sudden, the different Imeldas gone, leaving her alone in the hall, the white fuzz back at the edges of her vision. Someone with sleep-mussed hair opened a door a few rooms down and peered out at her, asking questions, but Imelda crawled to her feet and started to run.
She stumbled when the odd sensation of being a half-step behind started nagging at her again, dragging her backwards, until she was watching herself run once more.
“God help me!” Groaning, Imelda put her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut. All around her, she heard herself yell in a jumble of different phrases, in a cacophony of different tongues.
Damn the magus. She hadn’t seen that she was trying to aid her.
Head low, Imelda stumbled through the foyer and didn’t bother to grab her coat. She could barely keep herself upright, feeling herself stumbling ahead of her, feeling herself slipping, falling, running, walking, yelling…
“Please make it stop,” she whimpered, unable to keep her bearings in the chaos. “Please, God.” Around her, a thousand Imeldas tittered their various prayers. Some fell to their knees, some merely opened the door and ran to the helicopter, some hurled the cross at her neck to the tiles, some step
ped outside and raised their hands to the sky, some bowed their heads and sobbed.
This, she knew, was not revisiting aspects of her dream. This was something much worse.
Her head in agony, Imelda lifted her gaze to the landing pad. Through the glass of the front door, Imelda saw Herr Drescher standing beside the helicopter, waiting.
Why has he not started it up? Imelda thought, in confusion. She reached for the door.
Ahead of her, several Imeldas yanked the door open and continued to run forward, and as they did so, versions of Herr Drescher began to collapse, limp like a doll, bleeding upon the tarmac, and a blonde woman in a tanktop stepped from behind the helicopter, a pistol in her hand.
In that instant, everything suddenly slammed into focus for Imelda. All the extra versions of herself vanished, leaving her mind crystal-clear. She backed away from the front door, still watching Drescher stand—stiffly, she now noticed—beside the helicopter. The lights in the foyer, thank God, had been out, as Imelda had not had the coordination to flip them on when looking for her coat.
Off to the side, she saw Jacquot’s form emerge from the forest, rifle up, at a jog for the foyer door. Imelda backed further into the darkness, then turned and bolted.
The basement. Stumbling to a halt at the number-pad, she entered her personal code.
It was denied.
Keeping herself deadly-calm, she tried again. Same result. The little light flashed red and gave her a harsh warning beep. Only one more try before it would lock down. Furious, now, she kicked the door and turned toward the armory.
“Inquisitor!” It was the young American who had told her of flying caribou the night before. Very carefully, her back to him, Imelda pulled Drescher’s pistol—heavy and the grip made for a big man’s hand, but still functional—from her overshirt, and looked over her shoulder. “Yes?”
The kid was standing in the hall, wide-eyed, his hair ruffled. “I know I was supposed to go to Zenaida first, but the magic just went off the charts, Inquisitor. Something big just happened up north. Like an unholy comet of magic.”
He was supposed to go to Zenaida first. Slowly, Imelda replaced the gun under her overshirt and turned to face him. “I’ll be sure to tell Zenaida.”
The kid frowned at the door behind her. “So… Your code’s not working?”
Smoothly, Imelda glanced back at the keypad. “It was this morning. I’m pretty sure something short-circuited in the Chinook,” Imelda said, shrugging with all the nonchalance she could muster, knowing that Drescher was out on the tarmac, a gun to his head. “It’s been acting weird ever since.”
The kid groaned. “Probably a surge. Shit.” He grimaced. “Look, uh, I’m not supposed to have the code for that, so you can’t tell anyone, okay?”
“Oh?” Imelda asked, keeping her face utterly calm with the smallest hint of amusement, when her heart had already started to pound a million beats a minute. “Whose did you swipe?”
The kid winced. Reddening, he squeaked, “Zenaida’s.”
Thinking of the man on the tarmac, and how soon Jacquot would come barreling through the door and shoot her, Imelda managed an amused chuckle. “Do you think you can open it for me, then? Would save me a ton of trouble.”
The kid grinned shyly. “Okay, sure.” He reached out, expertly tapped in Zenaida’s numbers—so quickly that Imelda wondered how many times he’d been into the basement—and then timidly pushed the door open. He was grinning, turning to face her, when Imelda rammed her palm into his nose and shoved him through the door. She followed, then tugged it shut behind her.
Inside, the technician had stumbled down the steel steps and was crying and whimpering on the floor, holding his face, blood pooling under his hands. Imelda checked him for weapons and, finding none, paused just long enough to say, “You know better than to steal an Inquisidora’s keycode. Wait there and serve your penance or I’ll just get it over with and add you to the rack.”
Just like, she knew, every fool expected when they thought of an Inquisidora.
As the kid’s eyes were widening, she stepped over him and went deeper into the room. She pulled out the set of keys that she had flashed to Jacquot earlier. “All right, listen up,” she said, stepping up to the wereverine’s rack. He looked paler and weaker than before, his head drooping to his chest as he hung from the wall. When he looked up at her, she saw exhaustion, there. Probably, she realized, due to the fact that he now had four needles in his feet. Zenaida was no longer going to bother toying with him, it seemed.
Imelda reached down, yanked the needles from his skin. As the wereverine flinched, she started unlocking his wrists from the silver cuffs holding him to the wall. “I’ve probably got about five minutes before Zenaida figures out where I am. I’m offering you a trade.” Legs first, then wrists. As soon as the wereverine’s first arm slumped free, his big, callused hand lashed out and he caught her by the throat. Imelda felt the pressure against her jugular increase in his grip, but she didn’t try to escape the hold, just stood there, keys in her hands, waiting.
The wereverine’s green eyes were deadly, and for a long moment, Imelda thought he would kill her.
When he didn’t, Imelda reached up and released his other arm. “Drink this,” she said, pulling the narrow bottle from the paper bag she’d stuffed into her pocket. “It had been for my Padre, but it will work on you.”
For an eternity, the wereverine continued to hold her by the throat, his green eyes locked on hers. Then, after a tense minute, his gaze flickered towards her offering. Reluctantly, he unclenched his fist from her neck and took it. Still watching her with suspicion, he uncapped the bottle and sniffed. Immediately, his head snapped back with a low, chest-deep rattle. “This is blood.”
“That is a unicorn’s blood,” Imelda said. “Drink as much as you need, pass it around, do whatever you need to do with it. I need your help. Badly.”
Then, taking a deep breath, she turned back to the basement at large. The double-vision was plaguing her again, and everyone on the rack seemed to have duplicates of themselves moving with them. Saying a prayer to God, Imelda lifted her voice. “Is anyone here a magus?” When there was only sullen silence—and a few nasty curses—from those on the walls, Imelda said, “Please. I know I am what you have come to loathe, but if any of you are magi, I will free you. You have my word as a Christian.” There were hearty guffaws from those hanging upon the racks, along with a new rash of insults. Imelda took it all in stride, waiting. She had few hopes…all the surviving magi of the First Lands were either standing out at the helicopter or congregating up North.
Thus, she froze in place when she felt the low, animal rattle of, “You were looking for a magus?” against the back of her neck.
Turning, she looked up into the insane green eyes of the Third Lander. The human, she realized, was gone. What was left was a full demon, something from another realm that had made the man’s body its own. Fully slitted eyes, his body transformed into grotesque, predatory mass of fur and talons—yet not in a full animal form, she noted, with a flash of bewilderment—he said, “Do you have a plan?” The words were delicate, every syllable enunciated through a jagged mass of fangs in such a way that he sounded a member of a Duke’s court.
Imelda glanced at the bottle of blood that the wereverine had emptied, then at the fully-emerged Third Lander. Fear, something that she knew she should have been feeling at the time, had completely abandoned her in the last thirty minutes, leaving Imelda with an odd sense of curiosity. “You’re a magus.”
“A blood magus,” the creature said. “And I can smell it on you. Give it to me.”
Imelda reached into her pocket and handed him the folded napkin, allowing herself a vicious smile. “Make it hurt.”
“Oh,” the Third Lander chuckled, “I will.”
“She’s a Fury,” Imelda warned. “What can kill a Fury?”
The Third Lander licked the napkin and smiled, his demonic eyes afire. “Why, another Fury.” Smiling in
that odd insanity that seemed to ooze from him, he said, “I don’t suppose you happen to have one on hand?” He glanced around the room, scanning the desperate faces with too much interest.
“Not here,” Imelda said quickly, wondering just how much of a mistake she had made as she watched the beast’s saliva dribble from the napkin. “But I scried on one. She knows where to find us.”
The beast swiveled back to face her, the predatory insanity glimmering in his eyes. Imelda got that strange half-sense that he was deciding whether or not to simply bite her head off. “I want a taste of your blood,” he said.
Imelda froze. She knew the horrible things that practitioners of seiðr did with one’s blood. “Why?”
The Third Lander’s lips spread apart in a nightmarish smile. “Because I asked you, and because I’m going to get the two of us out of here.”
“The two of us.” She glanced at the dozens of other souls still on the rack. “What about the rest?”
The beast shrugged. “I could leave you behind. Makes little difference to me.”
For a half-second Imelda considered. Give her blood to a seiðmaðr. A Third Lander magus. There could only be one use…
“I have a friend,” she said. “The Fury has him held hostage beside his helicopter, waiting for me. I want him to survive.”
The Third Lander licked saliva from its teeth and continued to smile at her with his insane green eyes glowing like embers in his skull. “I don’t have to ask.”
Imelda considered him a long moment. “For what you want it for, you do.”
The magus licked its lips again, continuing to grin at her. “Like I said, I can get myself out just fine.”
And it was true. Imelda had given over her fate to a demon. A demon who was fully possessing the body of a man, who had somehow transcended the animal infection. A demon magus. A seiðmaðr. Some jötunn or vampire in the Third Realm who had become a master in the arts of blood-bindings. The very thought made Imelda’s skin crawl, for she knew all-too-well what would happen to her if she willingly gave up her blood and the creature decided to use it.
