by kimberly
The parallels were not lost on him. He knew that many mortals believed there was an invisible conflict going on around them, a clash that would see a devil slain and a messiah risen to usher them into paradise. There was a war for lives, for souls, going on around them, a war that had devastated an entire dimension and threatened the survival of an immortal race. The hard reality, though, was that humankind were merely the pawns in the bloody rivalry among the occult entities. Some, such as he, once fought to preserve their freedoms as a people. Others used them to feed the hungers of the gods they served, sacrificing the weaker peoples in return for the power they craved.
But the battle was not one that would see evil vanquished, for evil was not an actual pitchfork-carrying devil or a fire-breathing dragon. Evil was a hunger, a hole in the self of every living being. The deeper the hole, the more it must devour. The more it took in, the stronger its energies grew. He no longer believed in the light, in the power of good. Such was a misnomer, for the balance of power had long ago tipped to the dark side's favor. In the end, there would be no glorious heaven, nor a Savior risen. There would be only a cold, bleak darkness on a barren, desolate planet.
Not that he gave a damn. He had ceased to care a long time ago. He was, himself, a prisoner of fate, and like most in bondage, he was simply existing.
Anlese broke into his contemplative silence.
"I'm ready." From her pharmacopoeia, she had added several ingredients to the base of Morgan's blood. Working carefully to mix the exact amount of the properties, she created a thing almost capable of breathing, of assuming life, itself.
Morgan pushed off the hardwood floor and came to the altar.
The light emanating from the hearth revealed a viscous substance in the bowl, more paste than liquid now. It bubbled as if breathing, alive with the healing properties contained within it.
Taking Julienne's arm, Anlese bent over and unfolded it. She then moved it away from the young woman's body to hang over the edge of the altar. She dipped a forefinger into the mixture and daubed it on the inside of Julienne's arm, an inch above the bend of her elbow. This would prevent blood from rising to the surface of the skin and obstructing the potion to be transfused into Julienne. She took the small knife she had used to draw blood from Morgan's and thrust its tip into a main artery of Julienne's arm. This was not hard to find. The marks of the needles that had fed sustaining nutrients into Julienne's weakened system still marred her alabaster skin. As Anlese expected, no blood issued from the wound. Instead, the healing substance she had created insinuated itself at the edges of the opening.
"Her system is accepting the cure," Anlese said, with no small delight. Taking up the bowl, she held its smooth lip to Julienne's gashed flesh and tipped it enough to bring the potion to its edge. The concoction slithered like a viscous serpent under Julienne's skin. It was a slow process. When the last of the potion disappeared into her arm, the opening sealed itself and the potion seeped into her veins. A corpse being infused with healing nutrients, Julienne was being "born" again. Her life had been taken in pain, but soon it would be returned.
As the element insinuated itself throughout her body, her back arched, her head tossing spasmodically as the elements of healing crawled through her veins. Her chalky, dead skin began to assume a warm pink hue. Within a few minutes, marked by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway, there was no trace of the cut, not even a scar.
"Bring her back," she murmured. "Give her back her soul."
Morgan moved to the head of the altar. Bending over Julienne, he traced her lips with his fingers, bending to her ear, saying words only she could hear.
"Great Mother of the comforting breast," he began, "of the protecting arm, this is your child. As you have held her, return her from harm. Those who are against her in thought, word or deed, let their efforts fail. Let their evil return to the lower darkness as you bear her forth in safe hands from the valley of the netherworld."
Drawing in a breath, for the second time he pressed his mouth to hers, exhaling back into her body the life he had snatched. Julienne's body convulsed, then stiffened. Her chest heaved as she fought to take in air. She coughed, then gagged, as if the very air were choking her, trying to escape her lungs. Unintelligible muttering rolled off her tongue as she began to thrash wildly.
Morgan grabbed her hands, holding her down so that she would not injure herself and break the magic circle Anlese had created. Her eyes opened, wild and filled with fear.
Anlese pressed her palm to Julienne's forehead, her cool touch easing her granddaughter's momentary discomfort at having an alien substance introduced into her body. Julienne settled back, frightened but willing to trust. There was no way she could comprehend what had been done to her, and when it was over, she would recall nothing of it.
"Finish the rites!" he urged.
"Depart in peace, oh, powers of the earth. My thanks and blessings to all beings of the visible and invisible. Depart in peace, and may there always be harmony between us."
Taking up her dagger, she cut the magical circle she had created, severing the invisible barrier to release all remaining powers of manifestation. The candles she did not extinguish, for they would light the way for the elements to return to their places.
"Now you'll rest," she murmured in a gentle voice.
"It is done," Morgan said, relieved it was over.
"Yes," Anlese smiled. "Julienne will live."
Chapter Ten
Concealed by a cloak of shadows, Morgan sat on the floor, back against the wall, vest unbuttoned, shirt untucked. Only the red glow at the tip of his cigarette betrayed his presence. Across the room, Anlese sat placidly in her rocker before the fireplace.
She has taken this hard, he thought, watching Anlese bend forward and reach down into one of the clay jars at her feet. She is not recovering from the rituals. Each one eats her up inside, her price for having the knowledge of the damned.
Her lips moved in a silent litany of ancient words as she dropped the potent mixture of herbs into the cauldron hanging over the flames. The contents of the kettle boiled, and the cloying scent of her healing potion flurried forth in a billowing steam, soothing her painful joints and muscles. The flames sampling the blackened metal lit her gaunt features; and, for a moment, the illusion of extreme age could be glimpsed in her face when the waltzing steam rose from the cauldron's innards, making her appear much older than her sixty-one years.
"The pain must go," she groaned, settling back in her chair. Tonight's casting to save Julienne had been a success, but summoning the energies of the gods had cost Anlese her strength. Because her body was old and ill, it would take several hours to recover.
Morgan offered a grim, unsympathetic laugh. "The pain never goes."
Anlese stared at the flames without actually seeing them. "The cancer's got me." She shivered and drew her shawl closer around her thin shoulders. Her movements were stiff and clumsy as she tried to settle more comfortably on the rocking chair.
"Yet you've sought no healing for yourself." He lifted his cigarette and took a deep drag. Its strong, cloying scent mingled with the thick steam permeating through the rock-walled chamber. She'll not live to see mid-October.
Anlese closed her eyes. "I'm so tired, so ready to leave this life."
"Ready to free your soul?" He bit off sourly. "You know the occult demands all and gives nothing." He laughed, suddenly, unexpectedly, but there was no mirth in the sound.
"It gave me what I asked." Anlese glanced at the altar where Julienne lay, deep in her healing sleep. Many hours had passed, and the candles poised at the corners of the altar had burned away. "The life of my granddaughter. I'll gladly trade my life for hers."
"If you believe it to be a fair trade." Morgan got up and dusted his pants off. Coming closer to the fire, he settled down beside Anlese's rocker. He toyed with a few of her clay jars, tipping each forward with a finger. Finding one empty, he neatly flicked his ashes into it.
; "I believe so." A smile teased the corners of her wrinkled mouth. Her love for her granddaughter was immense. Though her blue eyes were dull, her voice was resolute. She drew in a slow breath, fighting back the angry disease gnawing at her core. A long shiver ripped through her small, shriveled body.
"If she could be made stronger, she'd be a good ally when you return to Sclyd. You need a mate."
"You know I give no thought to such." He took a slow, thoughtful drag off his cigarette, capturing the smoke in his lungs. Around him, the air was warm, comfortable. The fire warmed his frigid skin. Since performing the resurrection rite on Julienne, he had gone stone-cold inside, as if his very blood had turned into sharp chips of steel, cutting, shredding, as the pieces made their way deep inside him.
"Unlike you," Anlese went on, "there is great compassion in her soul. She'd be a good healer."
Morgan shrugged her comment off and released a stream of smoke through his nostrils. "Yet she may not be inclined to offer her soul to the gods."
He thought about the small infusion of his blood she'd given Julienne. It was not only providing Julienne the strength to survive by repairing all the internal damage she'd wrought upon herself but had also formed an unbreakable bond between them. His blood was now hers, and only death could break the ceremony of the gies, the infusion of an immortal element into a human body. What he had decided earlier and what he had not told Anlese was that it was not a joining he would let survive. He had no intention of leaving Julienne alive when he left Blackthorne. It was as he had told Anlese--all ties must be severed.
"We have yet to know, but she must come to understand what her birthright is."
He glanced up at her. "Her birthright is being cast into hell!" A new anger thickened his brogue. Why had he agreed to save Julienne's life when he would be forced to take it in less than seven weeks? He had grown soft during his time among these humans, letting their pleas sway common sense. He could not, must not, forget his own origins. Though his shoulders were encased in the elegant double-breasted suits of this present time, he had never completely lost the understanding that he did not belong among mortals. By nature, he forswore social amenities. Excepting Anlese, he did not pursue deep relationships with those around him, nor did he encourage any attempts they might make to get to know him. The idea of fun, of a good time, was unknown to his nature, a thing he could not grasp. He was absolute and unbending in his outlook on this present life he led. He was not living. He existed.
"Why should she embrace it?"
"You may hate what you are, but do not choose for others!" Anlese admonished, flicking the tips of her fingers toward his face. He failed to flinch, instead brushing her hand aside. He did not like to be touched, even by people familiar to him.
"You were the one who opened our eyes, showed us the invisible world around us. You can't take that knowledge away."
"I often wonder if it was right to bestow it upon others."
Anlese cocked her head. "Don't you fear going back to Sclyd?"
Morgan dipped his head back and gave his attention to the shadows haunting the high corners of the room, as if he suspected some malevolent entity might be lurking.
"No. I knew I could not stay away forever. There are many watching, anticipating the breaking of the seals. Xavier D'Shagre is only one who lives to resurrect yesterday's Dark Age. I know he is aware of the coming Samhain. I suspect he watches even now, counting the days."
Finishing his cigarette, he flicked it into the fire in a single, graceful move. He thought about lighting another, decided not to, and instead turned his gaze to the flames dancing in the hearth.
Xavier D'Shagre.
Morgan's brow wrinkled in thought. Of all the enemies he had faced, Xavier was the most deadly. His much-cursed name was well known to those who had knowledge of occult happenings and the people who lived the forbidden lives belonging only to the gods. Born to parents who were both powerful entities, Xavier was, like himself, one of the few true immortals. His father, Sylvaan, was the high priest of the Cult of Oroborous, his mother the priestess Talya of Amarak. The worshippers of the Dragon were many, and the power of its leaders undisputed in the realm of the occult. Xavier was raised to succeed his father, and this he did upon Sylvaan's ascension into the afterworld of death after a two-thousand-year reign.
Xavier was a brilliant leader in his early immortality. Under his vision, the cult outgrew the boundaries of its dimensional world. More sacrifices were needed to satiate the hunger of the Dragon god, and more and more victims from the mortal world were taken and killed. With so many humans for the slaughter, the cult sought to overcome mortal reality entirely. In time, the Dragon's legions assimilated the mortal region as their own, enslaving its people for breeding and sacrifice. This became the time known as the Dark Ages, a war spanning over seven hundred years.
But there were entities of Sclyd who saw the injustice of enslaving an entire species. Twelve of the most powerful banded together to form the Council of Witches. Their intention was to dispense the justice of occult law. A thirteenth was needed, one who did not question the judgment of the council but who would carry out their executions.
That thirteenth had been Morgan Saint-Evanston. A mercenary in his mortality, he was a sly and consummate assassin. Xavier had been the one who had taught him the ways of conjuration after he had acquired his occult identity. No one knew why he had chosen to betray his mentor's trust and join the council.
Xavier.
Of them all, Morgan was the only man who had bested him, but not for much longer. He was determined to free himself from the bond Xavier held over him through her.
Nisidia. Her name echoed in the back of his mind.
A torturous stab of pain zigzagged through his skull. His demon was giving him an explicit warning, prodding with its evil pitchfork. Biding its time, planning its attack, it would soon burst forth in all its torturous strength.
Goddamn migraine. Not now. Not yet.
An out-rush of breath, almost a sigh, escaped him. Self-loathing all of a sudden backed up in his throat in a bitter wave, stronger than the taste of his cigarette. The immediate solution to escaping his pain was a simple one. He needed a drink, to imbibe the flaming waters of absolute oblivion. His desire for a bottle of Scotch whisky was threatening to become a low-grade fever. The wanting, the needing to get sot-drunk had never been so bad. Like a dog returning to its vomit, he often practiced this familiar self-punishment. Liquor nullified what was left of his sense of right and wrong. Life went on. It had a way of doing that, despite everything. In drinking, he could temporarily forget the pain, forget what he had done to her.
Xavier's woman. His lover.
Though time had given her memory a cataract haze that seemed to enfold grief and such subsequent irrational emotions as regret, he knew he could never entirely escape her reach. Guilt. An ever-consuming burden, it was a deep, hungry maw.
Anlese's hand on his shoulder broke into his contemplative silence. She ignored the reactive tensing of his muscles and kept her contact firm.
"You will surely face execution for betraying and turning on your own people."
"If I am to be no more," he said, "it will not be as Xavier's slave. To this day, he still holds the bond on my soul."
Nisidia pleading. For her life--and that of her unborn son…
My child. A thousand unwelcome and uninvited visions pranced through in his mind. She pleaded, and I did not listen. How would our lives have turned out if only I had?
More than an albatross around his neck, Nisidia was his punishment…and penance. As long as he could torture himself with her memory he was free to indulge his self-destructive habits. Returning to Sclyd without assuming his old practices would be beyond recklessness.
It would be suicide.
"I intend to die free."
Anlese shook her head in regret, her old face pinched with concern. "You're one of the strongest who dared to stand against Oroborous's legions. Even away from
the cults, you're still a force to be reckoned with. Why throw it away now?"
"Nonsense," he snorted. "There is the council of justices. They may not have stood with me, but none of them wish to see another war. There may yet be peace among the three worlds when the portals open."
"They keep the peace because of your threat."
"I will not be drawn back." Standing up, he shoved his hands into his pockets, assuming a familiar stance. When in doubt, do nothing.
Anlese's gaze investigated his, but she found nil in the dark depth of his eyes. They were as fathomless as a black looking glass, revealing none of his inner thoughts or feelings. "And you don't care what happens to our kind once the three worlds rejoin?"
Morgan fixed his unblinking stare on her face. "No," he said evenly. "I do not. For me, the war is over. I did not want to be a savior of your people."
"You are a warrior," she argued. "You could keep the peace throughout the three worlds if you so chose."
He frowned. "That battle is not one I chose, but I can choose to leave it."
"You left over two hundred years ago," she pointed out. "The battle's never really been over. Just delayed."
"And you think I should again pick up my sword and go back to combat?" he demanded, his voice becoming unsteady with anger.
"If you won't, then we must be prepared to face what will come," Anlese said. "Julienne could found your coven anew, spread the teachings of the occult worlds. The three realms could yet come together as one again, as it was when time was young. Someone must lead us."
"I will not fight again, Anlese." His chilled tone invited no argument.
Anlese lowered her eyes and bowed her head. A choked sound escaped her lips. "Then I hope the gods have mercy on us."
"The three worlds are altering, each in their own way," he chided. "Accept what you cannot change."
"You can't leave this world to be ravaged."
He released a raspy laugh. "Watch me."
"Of course, you don't care," Anlese spat. "Cassandra saw that in you."
