by Livia Quinn
“Conor, have you seen River?” I asked.
Conor’s face sobered, “No, Tempe. He has nae returned.”
Jack cupped his hand around my neck and kissed the top of my head, “Don’t worry, Tempe. We’ll find him. I promise.”
I looked at the six symbols carved into the stone over the entrance of the tunnel. Onyx wings encircling a red poppy. “Why do they call this the Moat of Morpheus?”
Conor said, “Morpheus is the god who reigns over the Isle and metes out judgment on those who disobey the ancient rules. Those symbols are a reminder to all who enter.”
“Don’t worry,” Montana said, “I’ll fill you in on the rules as soon as we order.” But the second we entered, I felt the pall of violence hanging in the silence. All eyes were on a being standing in the middle of the great hall.
And he was looking straight at me.
Chapter 42
“Frejya’s sword, Conor, I told you to give the orientation outside.”
Tempe
The creature was a giant harpy and though they were not kin to me, they did have some wind power. I looked down expecting to see bird feet but his legs were covered in baggy gray leather, his entire frame draped in a tattered cloak that swirled about his knees. I couldn’t see his face as his hood covered it but a curved beak protruded above the wide mouth. Nah, it was more like a large rimless hole.
I felt his focus on me as he hollered, “You, Tempestaerie, child of AbaJehban.”
I glanced out the corner of my eye at Conor, “Who’s… AbaJehban?”
Conor’s eyes were fierce and Jack bristled. “It’s your father’s true name,” Conor said, his voice a deep growl.
Zeus, Hera and Hades! True names held power. Every Paramortal knew this. The sheer fact that an enemy knew my father’s name didn’t bode well.
“As usual I’m the last to know,” I muttered. I addressed the variant. His skin reminded me of a dead rat’s, and he smelled twice as bad. “Maybe we should go outside. You’re stinking up the place.” And we should create havoc elsewhere, I thought.
His voice came out of that hole in his face in a roar. “Your family stole my power and I will take it back. I challenge you—”
“Who are you?” I interrupted his diatribe as his voice escalated and his holey cape started to sway, though there was no breeze in the hall.
He had an impressive voice; I’d give him that, like a roar coming up from the bottom of a deep cave. “I am Lord of the Wind, and I will destroy you.”
He shoved his hood off, going for intimidation but any hope of a threatening facade was ruined by his baldpate and the bad comb-over of sparse frizzy hair. A vain harpy… had to be a first. I laughed, “You’re yanking my chain, right?”
His head tilted in confusion. Then he shouted, “No being will chain me.”
“You really believe you’re The King?”
“The Lord,” he corrected.
I waved my hand as if his words were silly, “… of THE wind, yeah. Well, I don’t get that because, see, ‘the wind’ belongs to us all.” I punctuated those words with a show of my own strength, forcing him back a step without lifting a finger. I let my eyes go wild, spark with lightning. “And as far as there being a king, or pardon me, a lord of it, well, if you’re the Lord of the Wind, then I’m the Queen of Storms.”
I laid down a rumble beneath the rock floor that should have made him think twice, but like so many “lords” he lacked common sense.
He took in a big—obvious—breath, cheeks puffing out like a round-faced cartoon cloud and exhaled a gust of wind that, granted, toppled a couple tables and rolled a few patrons across the floor. I wasn’t impressed and decided he needed a lesson in real storm power.
“Like a wise man once said, ‘one should have less thunder in the mouth, and more lightning in his fist’.” I redirected the air he’d expelled. It circled his feet and as his anger built, it fed off his own energy creating a dark thundercloud above his head.
His voice came from over the top of the vortex, “Fight me to the death or you will never know who holds your brother’s life in thrall.”
That did it. I was through playing around. He was going to tell me what he knew about River. Lightning shot out of my fist, and thunder cracked from the cloud above his head. But the air was suddenly too thick to command, my head felt as if it were wrapped in cotton. Then the world came to a halt.
The lightning bolt hadn’t left my hand, my opponent was suspended above the ground under my thundercloud and the silence in the room was palpable. I sensed Conor next to me as someone appeared behind the harpy. He materialized slowly, a giant in black leather battle gear, his aura letting me know immediately he was ancient and powerful—a demi god. With massive black wings he looked like a dark angel of destruction. I tried to speak but I was paralyzed.
His voice boomed, “I have intervened on behalf of the gods to protect this child. This one,” he nodded at the frozen harpy before him, “has violated the rules of Morpheus and will be punished.”
The tip of one giant black wing curled around the harpy’s calf. His eyes snapped shut and he dropped to the floor. Dead? The golden eyes of the dark angel bored into mine as if to say, this is what happens to those who act out in my bar. Then the two faded from view leaving no trace. But one final word rang in the room like a gong, “Remember…”
As soon as he was gone, my fist relaxed and the activity around me resumed. “Zeus holey boxers! Who was that?”
Conor’s eyebrow arched with a hint of wonder and he blew out a relieved breath. Looking at me he said, “Ye didn’t recognize him, then? Yer mighty lucky the harpy challenged you ‘to the death’ or you might hae been lying there yerself, lassie.”
“Why, what did I do?”
Montana said, “That was Morpheus! Frejya’s sword, Conor, I told you to give the orientation outside.”
“Ach, it all worked out.” He threw his arm around Jack, “Now, how about that ale, Lang?” and he stalked toward the bar dragging Jack with him.
A slender man in a leather hat approached from the other end, his hand extended toward Conor, then Jack. It was Alej, or Alejandro. I looked at Montana. She shrugged and introduced Alejandro to Jack. Now I knew why Montana had reacted in class. She’d known who he was.
Conor turned to me and said, “Your father sensed there were still enemies among us and with most of our elders gone, he asked Alejandro to lend us a hand, aye? Alej has obliged.”
As we walked out of the Moat and back through the tunnel to the beach, I looked over my shoulder. Where once there’d been six symbols, now there were seven.
The sky was clear, the water an impossible teal. As I stood on the bank with Jack and our friends I realized how much things had changed. For a while it had seemed Destiny might be lost to the dangers of the Para-moon and the ensuing Chaos, but with one test after another we’d come through.
Jack’s arm circled my waist and he pulled me in front of him, resting his chin on top of my head as we gazed out across the lake. I no longer felt trepidation at what might lie ahead but anticipation of our future.
My brother’s trials however, were not over, but I trusted these friends and… my mate. I tilted my head and met his smiling silver eyes, tenderness and love washing over me. Whatever our enemies had in store for us, or Destiny, we could handle it.
There have always been Paramortals defending Destiny but that had seemed like another time, for past generations like my father and mother. Now the torch, the mission to protect mankind from those who would do harm had been passed to us. And we would be ready.
I finally understood why the ancients had chosen the name “Destiny” for our little burb. I guess hindsight really is 20-20.
Epilogue
Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die,
life is a broken-winged bird
that cannot fly.
Langston Hughes
Destiny – the Medical examiner’s office, midnight
“
Yes, yes, Deputy Kirkwood,” Dan spoke into the phone’s speaker on the wall of his favorite workspace. The exam room was exceptional for such a small town. Of course, he’d spent some of his own investment funds on instruments and hi-tech gadgets. “I understand the sheriff’s concerns but technology doesn’t exist that could make use of that DNA. The point will be moot soon though, as I’m about to incinerate all of the samples collected in the last months. I have a regular schedule I follow, a strict procedure. Please, put his mind at ease.”
After disconnecting, Thorpe sipped his coffee, and leaned back admiring his lab, eyes going unerringly to the glass front freezer where he kept his most prized collection. He glanced over his shoulder as he opened the door and pulled a tray of frozen samples from the top shelf gazing at them wistfully. He’d lied to the deputy. Destroying the DNA had been on his list last week… then again yesterday. But it was hard to let go of a dream.
A smile spread across his features as he noted each one’s condition, making sure the labels were intact and clearly coded. He’d hoped these samples would define his future: a chance to publish in the nation’s top scientific journals, a position on the lecture tour, and finally he’d receive the recognition he deserved, and more. His ultimate dream had been to figure out how he could distill the DNA, inject himself and become one of them. But if not, perhaps he could reproduce those cells, create his own beings, ones who would call him “father”—Master. Not an unpalatable alternative.
Dan had grown up in an era when superheroes had been born, then super-villains whom he’d found infinitely more intriguing. As a kid he’d read comics, in his teens he gravitated to media’s mad scientists—Pretorius, Krank, Jekyll but when he was accepted into an exclusive university in eastern Europe, he’d found greater inspiration.
Dan spotted the discarded Tribune, open to the editorial page. He picked it up and sat down with his coffee. He was aware of the beckoning incinerator door but ignored it and returned to the article. Thirty more minutes wouldn’t make any difference.
Thorpe couldn’t explain the disgust he felt whenever he read this inane column by the Fortune woman. One couldn’t call her a columnist, much less a writer. But he’d discovered that her eye for odd behaviors made her observations worth studying. He picked up his pencil and began reading.
Wednesday was quite the day! There were sightings at Grand Colline of a giant sparkling giraffe, reports of a burglary of the UPak-It trash dumpster—the trash not the dumpster itself—and another sighting of that big condor over the lake. This columnist is sure it’s a Bald Eagle as that is the largest bird habitant to the Storm Lake region.
Like a morning crossword puzzle, Dan checked off the word habitant and Fortune’s other malapropisms while he paid particular attention to the details in her account.
Another piece of the puzzle fell into place regarding the murder of that victim in the clubhouse last Spring. Sources say Sheriff Lang shot Anita Karrakas after she illedgibly donned a zombie costume and threatened the sheriff with a garden spike. She is also thought to be guilty of poisoning Destiny’s beloved Lancelot, as well as Councilman Karrakas, her husband. Adios, Mrs. K.
On a side note… a naked man was spotted near the Karrakas home and this reporter’s informer said he couldn’t absolve it for sure but the naked man’s face at least resembled Laccassine parish’s own Sheriff Lang. Surely, not. This reporter would have liked to have been an eyewitness to that!
In-city events: The wicker event at the trade school turned out to be a class on tarot reading and yours truly was able to attend and give valuable spiritual advice to several students on their love life. Watch for my new column coming next month, Advice for the Forlorn.
Thorpe checked off the last error and stepped over to the counter. So they’d lied to him. There had been another being present at the scene. The wife. Dan reached for his forceps and plucked the frozen tofu-like lump of flesh from the tray, the piece he’d pocketed when the deputy wasn’t looking. A zombie, imagine that. He studied the rest of his collection.
There were six—the DNA from Jack’s daughter and his ex. Slides from Ray Meeker, whatever he was, and the gator, and one of those flying creatures that attacked them last Spring before it was burned by the blowtorch-wielding soldier. He lifted the sixth sample, frost making it difficult to distinguish the color, but the shriveled veins, its shape, and the holes left by the tines of a fork identified it as Fritz Fuchs’ eyeball. That brought the total to six in his stash.
No, wait, that was incorrect. He opened the freezer and pulled out a Ziploc bag with a discarded UPak-It coffee cup and enclosed slides. He’d forgotten about the sample he’d retrieved when Sheriff Lang had dropped by. He hadn’t known then why he’d kept it, still wasn’t sure. Call it a fancy, a whim, or a presentiment.
As a young hungry researcher Dan had studied all the greats in his field, but to his mind, the true geniuses worked outside the boundaries of polite society. Some called the researchers he revered crazy, inhuman, even “heinous”. But in Thorpe’s opinion more discoveries for good or for ill came when subjects were tested beyond polite limits. More had been accomplished in barns, basements, dungeons, and… Dan scanned his office… yes, even autopsy rooms, than the public wanted to know about.
But… he sighed. The fact remained that research and follow-up studies took massive amounts of money, laboratories with state of the art equipment. Without that and much more, he would be unable to create a viable technique for the regeneration of these cells.
Thorpe sighed and lifted the tray. He must accept that it wasn’t meant to be. With one final loving perusal of each of the potential wonders in his hand, he turned toward the furnace.
A low sinister voice came from the direction of the doorway, “Do you really want to do that?” Thorpe spun around to face the visitor, a figure in a long hooded cape filled the entrance to the office.
“What are you doing in this building?” he demanded in his best authoritative voice, which lost any real threat the second he fully absorbed the appearance of the creature in front of him. For he was certain his visitor was not human.
The M.E. stood his ground though he wanted to cower, believing he was only still alive by this being’s good will. A sliver of hope sparked. Or he had something the man wanted. He cleared his throat, decided diplomacy and the appearance of strength was the wisest course. “What can I do for you?”
The cloaked figure approached never raising his head enough for Dan to see too far inside the hood, just enough to make out a set of very sharp teeth and a misshapen jawline and neck, showing signs of a horrendous battle. Old, deep, near fatal scars in Dan’s professional judgment, made a patchwork of his reddish brown mottled skin. But Dan’s gaze was drawn to the very lifelike reptilian eye in the center of the man’s necklace. No, it was a dragon’s eye. Then while he stared, it blinked. Dan’s eyes shot to the hooded face, hoping he hadn’t been caught ogling the pendant. The scary grin on the bottom of that face said it had been expected and welcomed.
“Yes, we both like collecting… things. I like people of industry, who can envision a future others cannot. Now. Why don’t you show me your specimens? I believe we may be able to come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
Thorpe might believe the latter, but he knew he had no choice in the former. His next course of action would determine if he stayed alive.
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Excerpt from Blood Moon
�
�Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world,
she walks into mine.”
Sam, Casablanca
“It will be our last family reunion.”
Fierce Winds Isle jutted out from the north bank into Storm Lake, invisible to human eyes, except for a rough unnavigable water-front and thick trees that seemed to cover the island from shore to shore. River stepped onto the sand and approached the Moat of Morpheus as ominous thunderclouds skidded across the sky. The sudden change in weather and the crashing of waves should have been a warning.
A figure in a ragged gray cloak stood with his back to River studying the symbols above the entrance to the Moat, Destiny’s secret watering hole—-established centuries ago for supernaturals—-most of them adversaries. Each symbol, a ruby poppy surrounded by two black onyx wings, was a sign of eternal consequences for disobeying the rules of the tavern and incurring Morpheus’ wrath.
The last mark appeared the day River’s sister was confronted by a cantankerous wind fae calling himself the “Lord of the Wind”. Morpheus cut him down in front of everyone present.
River slowed as the being turned and pushed the cowl back to reveal a face and neck covered in thick scars. He was easily as big as River; his size and copper skin would have indicated he was Djinn, but there was something missing in this creature’s Qi. Dead eyes surveyed River as he stared at the man’s painful-looking purple scars.
“I’m impressed.” The man’s head tilted as he studied River in return. “I’d heard you were a scrawny thing, sickly even.”
River’s eyes narrowed. Heard from whom? He didn’t know the hooded man, but privately he acknowledged the feeling of dread he’d felt when he’d seen him. “If we’ve met—-”
“We haven’t, technically. The last time I was here for any length of time…” The man turned and scanned the lake looking off into the distance as if trying to remember the details of a past known only to him. Then his expression hardened and he aimed a glare at River. “Centuries ago, our father banished me from this place.”
