His eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you mean, a reaper attacked your mother?”
“It came to her in a dream. She realized what was happening and was able to wake herself up, but barely in time.” Isaac was looking at me so strangely I said, “What? What’s wrong?”
“Your mother and brother aren’t Dreamwalkers, are they?”
“Not that I know of. Tommy hears voices, but you’re the one who told me that’s not necessarily a sign of my Gift. And I’m not really related to either of them anyway, so there’s no reason they’d share my talent.” I paused. “Why do you ask?”
“Because the reapers were created to hunt Dreamwalkers. Why would they go after your family like that? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe to manipulate me?”
He shook his head sharply. “Wraiths are simpleminded creatures. If they were commanded to perform a task—like killing you—they would do it as quickly and as directly as possible. The dead don’t conspire and manipulate like the living do; they just act.”
I spread my hands wide. “Now, there, you see? This is why I need you. To tell me things like that.” When he didn’t respond I pressed. “Necromancy is in your blood like dreamwalking is in mine, Isaac. We both hunger for the same answers. Come with me. Help me find them.”
He looked away from me. For a moment I thought he was considering my request, but then I realized he was listening to something. Was his ghost talking to him? Giving him counsel? All I could hear was dripping water. I remembered the bloody figure that had stood behind Isaac in his dream, and shuddered at the thought that Jacob had been watching our whole conversation.
Finally Isaac said, “What would you need, to work this magic of yours? So that I could travel with you?”
I felt like I’d just crossed the finish line of a marathon. “Good lighting. Enough to see what I’m doing. Take me to where I can have that, and I’ll show you the rest.”
“You understand, all the rest of this discussion is pointless, unless you can actually change my situation. Which—for the record—I don’t necessarily believe you can do.”
“Of course,” I said.
He sighed heavily. “The Badlands, eh? Can’t be too much worse than this place, I suppose.” He gestured toward one of the tunnels. “Come on. I’ll take you to where there’s sunlight.” A weak smile appeared. “I think I still remember what that looks like.”
He led me to the tunnel where we’d first met Sebastian, where the water from the storm drains gushed into the North River. The rusty iron grate that had once blocked our way was still there, but the lock had been pried off; apparently Isaac had invested time in making sure all possible exits from the Warrens were open. We squeezed past the grate and used some tree roots to swing ourselves around the opening of the tunnel, onto solid ground. Soon we were sitting on the embankment, our backs to Luray, invisible to anyone coming toward us from the city. People passing by in boats might spot us, but a thin screen of brush between us and the water meant they wouldn’t be able to make out any details. It was as private as any sunlit place was likely to get.
I opened my backpack and unloaded the cosmetic products Mom and I had bought for this trip. We’d packed a bit of everything, from regular makeup to hardcore theatrical supplies; hopefully something in that collection would work. Isaac watched with interest as I rummaged through the supplies, but he didn’t seem very hopeful. I remembered what he’d told me about how makeup wouldn’t stay on his transformed skin, so I tried not to get my own hopes up. But so much was riding on this, I had to make it work.
The first thing I tried was some tattoo cover cream. It went on smoothly enough, and hid nearly all of the mark’s deep bloody color—for about thirty seconds. Then it began to slough off. “See?” Isaac said. The defeat in his voice was painful to hear. “I told you.” The flexing of his forehead as he spoke dislodged the rest of the cream; it fell from his face in a lump, like a dead slug.
“That was just the first experiment.” I tried to sound more confident than I felt. “Lots to try here.”
But none of the other cosmetic products performed any better than the first. The worst was heavy greasepaint designed to cover bald caps; that one didn’t even last long enough for me to sit back and take a look at it. With a sigh I took up the rag I was using to wipe my hands clean—now streaked with ten different tones of flesh color—and reached out to wipe his forehead clean. His skin was turning red from all the chemicals, and I could see in his eyes that the tiny bit of hope he’d entertained was rapidly fading.
“I guess I’m not coming with you after all,” he said dejectedly.
“Not done yet,” I told him. I had one product left to try, a bit of a long shot, but everything else had failed, so what the hell. I took out the bottle of white fluid and shook it for a few second, then removed the cap. The liquid inside smelled sharply of ammonia. Isaac winced. “That’s going on my face?”
“Unless you think drinking it would help.” I gestured toward the ground. “Lie down, please.”
He raised an eyebrow, but did as he was told. I made him lie on his back, face up, then knelt by his head and dipped my finger into the thick white fluid. It smelled even worse as it left the bottle. “You should probably close your eyes,” I told him. He looked like he was about to ask a question, then bit his lip and just obeyed. I began to smooth the liquid latex across his forehead, working in long strokes, covering not only the scar itself but a good bit of surrounding skin. I tried to work quickly, as the stuff was likely to start coming off pretty quickly. If it didn’t form a skin before that happened, this experiment too would fail.
Finally his forehead was coated in white. I leaned down to blow on the stuff, to speed its drying. It was an oddly intimate moment, and Isaac opened his eyes and looked at me, startled by the touch of my breath across his forehead. Come on, I thought to the liquid latex, trying to stay focused on that and not on him. Dry fast!
Then, finally, the white liquid began to turn clear. “Hold still!” I told him. I kept blowing. Patch by patch the whiteness was disappearing, and I had to fight back a surge of elation. We’re not out of the woods yet, I cautioned myself.
Finally I sat back on my heels to inspect my handiwork. His forehead looked like it had been smeared with Elmer’s glue. “Try moving,” I said. He furrowed his brow a bit, and though the latex layer wasn’t adhering to the mark, it looked firmly stuck on everywhere else. I’d successfully tented over the miserable thing.
“What?” he asked, trying to read my expression. “Did it work?”
Without answering, I took up the greasepaint again and began to smooth it over the dried latex. The result didn’t look anything like real skin, and the center of his forehead had a long, thin bubble that looked like a blister, but now I had a surface in place that would accept makeup. Soon the red mark was completely covered over. He looked like his face was covered in scar tissue, but it was flesh-colored scar tissue, and from a distance you might not even notice it.
I gestured for him to sit up, and I took out of my backpack a visored cap I’d bought for him. When I put it on his head and pulled the visor low, it shadowed the affected area enough to mask some of its textural oddity. He looked almost normal now.
I took out a mirror and gave it to him. The look on his face when he saw his reflection was something I would never forget. There was still pain in his eyes, but there was also awe, and maybe even a spark of hope. It was overwhelming to see.
Then he reached out and embraced me. The motion was so sudden, so unexpected, that for a moment I couldn’t even respond. His arms closed tightly around me, and as I put my arms around him in return I could feel his shoulders trembling. He might have been weeping—it certainly felt that way—but if so, he did it quietly, probably not wanting me to know. So I just held him as he trembled, and maybe tears trickled unseen down his face, carrying with them some of h
is despair. Washing it away. I hoped that was the case.
Somewhere on the river bank, a blood-streaked ghost watched us in silence.
9
SHADOWCREST
VIRGINIA PRIME
LEONID ANTONIN
THE DEAD WERE RESTLESS TONIGHT.
Isaac’s father could hear cries of anguish echoing in the hallway as he walked toward the Guildmaster’s study; not the usual moans and whispers that accompanied any Shadowlord but sharper, more strident cries, with more intense emotion behind them. Frustration. Fear. Fury. Mere soul shards didn’t experience emotion that intensely, which suggested that these ghosts were not the normal fragments, but creatures more complex. More sentient. Since the voices were getting louder as Antonin approached the study, it was reasonable to assume that they were associated with Virilian. Perhaps spirits that the Guildmaster had claimed since his last Communion? The memories Virilian had absorbed in that ritual were said to come from one of the greatest necromancers the Guild had ever known. If anyone could enslave spirits so thoroughly that centuries later another man might lay claim to them in his name, it would have been Shekarchiyandar. Such spirits would have been free agents for centuries, suddenly snatched from their freedom and reduced to slavery once more. That would certainly explain their foul mood.
Lord Antonin remembered the black spirits that Virilian had summoned at the end of his Communion ritual—horrific wraiths who trailed raw hatred in their wake. To gaze upon them was to taste the malevolence of Hell, and even the most seasoned Shadowlords in the room had struggled to maintain composure when the reapers were summoned. All had managed it, of course. The undead were proud creatures, and most would rather die the true death than display weakness in front of rivals.
The servant standing guard at the door of the study opened it as he approached, and a chill wind swept out from the room. Antonin’s own flesh was equally cold, so he took little notice of it as he entered.
“Your Grace.” Antonin bowed respectfully to the Guildmaster as a servant shut the door behind him. “You wished to see me?”
Virilian was seated in a high-backed leather chair whose size and shape gave it the aspect of a throne. He waved for Antonin to come closer. “Have a seat, Lord Antonin.” He indicated a chair directly opposite him. It was closer than Antonin would have preferred, but moving it further away might be read as an insult, so he sat. He did not relax, however. He never relaxed around Virilian.
Several of Antonin’s ghosts began to murmur in distress, which was very odd. They had been around Virilian before and had never done that. Could they sense some trouble that he could not?
“Your service to the Guild has been exemplary,” the Guildmaster said. “But I would expect no less from such a prestigious bloodline.”
“You do me great honor.” Was Virilian speaking with a slight accent? If so, that was odd as well. The parts of the brain that affected speech and movement shouldn’t be affected by Communion.
“Your support for our traditions sets an excellent example for our apprentices,” Virilian continued. “As does your willingness to make personal sacrifices for the Guild’s welfare.”
Antonin stiffened slightly. Was he referring to the recent incident with Isaac? If so, the statement might not be intended as praise, but as a reminder of Antonin’s failure to control his family properly. He kept his voice carefully neutral as he said, “I am my Guild’s servant.”
“Your wife’s Communion is scheduled soon, is it not?”
“We’re in the planning phase. There’s no date set yet.” Definitely there was a trace of an accent. And Virilian’s movements were subtly different than in previous meetings. Someone who didn’t know him well would probably not even notice the change, but Antonin did.
“A woman from such an illustrious family should have a Communion that honors her heritage,” Virilian continued. “Let me know when the time comes to choose her first soul, I will make sure it is worthy of her.”
Normally it was the Guild elders who decided which set of memories a new Shadowlord would receive, but Virilian was offering to oversee the choice himself. It was a tremendous honor, but one that Antonin was suspicious of. Why would Virilian single them out for special favor like that? When the fiasco with Isaac had taken place, Antonin had assumed that just the opposite would happen, and that his family would have to work twice as hard to earn back the trust and respect that Isaac had cost them. It was hard for him to accept this kind of gesture without wondering what game the Guildmaster was playing. “I am grateful for your favor, Your Grace, as I am sure she will be.”
“We are entering a period of unique challenges, Lord Antonin. The destruction of the Luray Gate weakened us, and our rivals in the city plot to take advantage of that. Meanwhile, enemies that we thought long defeated are stirring again. I will need a strong right hand in the coming nights, someone who is respected by our Guild, who will not be challenged when he wields my authority. Someone whose loyalty and sense of sacrifice are beyond question.” Eyes black as ink fixed on him. “I want you to serve as my Secundus, Lord Antonin.”
The offer was so unexpected that Antonin didn’t know how to respond. For as long as Virilian had been in charge of the Guild there had been no second-in-command; the man was too suspicious of his own Guild elders to place one of them so close to his throne. Why would he change course now, after so many years? Given the shame House Antonin had just suffered because of Isaac, it made no sense.
When Antonin did not respond immediately, the Guildmaster asked, “The offer doesn’t please you?”
“It pleases me,” he said quietly.
“Few umbrae majae would be granted such an honor.”
“I understand that, Your Grace.”
There was no denying that the offer was tempting. Not only would it raise Antonin up above all the other elders, but it would bolster the status of his entire family, granting them a unique position in Shadowlord society. And it would wipe out any shame that might still cling to their name after Isaac’s banishment. It would be the culmination of all that Lord Antonin had worked for, all that he had sacrificed for years to achieve. How much did Virilian’s motives really matter, in the face of that? Surely any storm that came of this, House Antonin could weather.
Still he hesitated.
“And your answer?”
If he didn’t accept, the Guildmaster would assign someone else to the position. Which meant that a rival family would be elevated above his own. That was unthinkable. “As you see fit to offer me such an honor,” he said carefully, “It is my duty to accept.” There. It is done.
“Good. I will see that your change in status is announced immediately. Later tonight, you and I can sit down and discuss your new duties. For now,” he paused, “there is a special project I want you to oversee.”
Of course there is. “I am your Lordship’s servant.”
The Guildmaster leaned back in his chair; his ink-black gaze was a bottomless abyss. “I will have need of new servants soon. You will help me obtain the raw material for them.”
“You mean bound spirits?”
“Exactly.”
Antonin’s eyes narrowed. Binding a spirit was bloody business; only by murdering a man could one gain perfect control over his ghost. “How many would you require?”
“Let us say, for now, a hundred. I don’t care what manner of life they lived, only that they are suitable for binding.”
“A hundred?”
“For now.”
He didn’t dare protest. He couldn’t ask Virilian to give the job to someone else. His acceptance of the Secundus position had removed those options from the table. Check and mate.
“The city will notice if a hundred people go missing,” he said quietly.
“The Lord Governor is a practical man. I am sure there are criminals in his custody that he would rather be rid of. Life senten
ces do nothing but drain a city of its resources. Tell him our Guild will take responsibility for the worst murderers he’s got, in return for their help in digging out the Gate. He’ll think that we’re doing him a favor. And look up the name of the flesh broker who collected those children from the Warrens; some of them might still be available. Just make sure they’re old enough to become suitable servants. I have serious work for them to perform, and the fragmented ghost of a six-year-old child won’t be able to contribute much.” A corner of his mouth twitched. “I am sure my new Secundus can find other creative sources of supply.”
A hundred murders. The Guildmaster might be the one to order those deaths, but he, Leonid Antonin, would be the one the Lord Governor questioned when prisoners did not return to jail, the one the child buyers whispered rumors about, the one that other Guilds watched, setting spies upon him, wondering what the hell he was up to. Whatever nastiness might result from this, it would land squarely on his shoulders.
He had walked into the trap of his own free will. That was the part that rankled most. “May I ask why you need so many bound servants?”
“They will search for Dreamwalkers, Lord Antonin. And hopefully find them before they come into their power, instead of afterward, as we’ve been doing.”
“Isn’t that the job of the Seers?”
Anger flashed in the depths of those black eyes. “The Seers have their own agenda, and only a fool would trust them. And they have failed. That’s simple fact. There’s at least one fully manifested Dreamwalker active right now, who they neither identified at birth nor detected later. How many others have they missed, that we don’t know about? An army of the dead, capable of crossing between the worlds without assistance, undetectable by any normal means, acting in vast numbers, can do a proper search.”
An army of the dead. Were Antonin fully alive, the image might have sent a chill down his spine. “Ghosts can’t detect the presence of Gifts, your Grace, much less identify them. So how do you imagine these spirits will find Dreamwalkers, when the Seers, who are able to detect Gifts, have failed to do so?”
Dreamweaver Page 9
