by Jack Conner
“Magic isn’t always beautiful,” Ladrido said. “They can steal the skin from a human and walk around undetected for awhile. Up on the surface, they were a pretty decent lot, as far as shades go. But down here, not needing to hide in a human’s skin, the ghouls have abandoned those old practices for the most part, and over the centuries they’ve gone quite insane ... as you can see. They’re codependent on the spring now; it’s sentient.”
“It lives?”
“If that’s the word. They need the skin to live, even if they don’t need it for disguise, but the spring also needs flesh. So they kill humans, steal their flesh and then dive into the spring. Its magics keep their insides from falling out completely, and the flesh they bring it keeps it alive. Let’s go, Jean-Pierre. If they catch us ... well, I can always flutter away like the bats I am, but they’ll kill you for sure.”
One dog-faced creature, skinless, emerged from the boiling river and howled a soul-wrenching cry of pain and rage and isolation. It leapt upon one of its mates and began tearing into it. Jean-Pierre needed little urging to move on.
Ladrido ushered him down more tunnels and past more strange sights. At one point, they passed through a large corridor lit so brightly with some unseen source that it almost seemed like daylight. Ladrido swore.
“The sorcerers created some suns down here,” he said. “Little ones, but suns nonetheless. I believe those were the most taxing for the sorcerers, but it’s the taxing of a sorcerer’s strength that can either kill one or make him even stronger. This tunnel doesn’t have a sun, but they did light it too much for my taste. I’m still a vampire, you know. Even a magical sun could kill me. Maybe. To tell you the truth, I’ve never chanced it before.”
“I can’t blame you.”
“If I vanish into a cloud suddenly, then consider this farewell.”
The corridor enlarged, and a little river bubbled up from underground and ran down the center of the passage. The water was clear and inviting, but devoid of any marine life. Ladrido and Jean-Pierre walked to either side of the river.
Soon rainbows could be seen, shining colorfully and brilliantly against the green shrubs and flowers that grew on the small valley’s sides. There was no mist, no rain: the rainbows stood on their own. Strange. Beautiful. Their colors sparkled like crisp fresh emotions and reflected off the water so sharply it almost seemed that the rainbows lived both below and above the river. The arcs called to Jean-Pierre; their vibrant colors beckoned him to enter their domain. In his head, he heard them promise to grace his skin with the pigmentation his genes had denied him.
“Don’t listen to them,” Ladrido said.
“Were they talking?”
“Don’t play dumb, Jean-Pierre. Those rainbows are dangerous. They’ll call you to them and absorb you. They’re kind of like serpents, but ghostly. Anyway, that’s what keeps their colors so bright.”
Jean-Pierre nodded. “Blood.”
“And flesh and bones and everything else. I’ve heard the screams of those they absorb; it sounds like their victims get burned alive.”
“Vampiric rainbows,” mused the werewolf.
“More like sirens. They’re down here, too, by the way—but I’m not taking you anywhere near their den. Here’s our tunnel. We won’t go along this route any longer. My consciousness can deflect the rainbows’ powers, mainly because it’s so scattered, but you ...”
“Look at that one, off in the back. It’s so gray.”
“It’s dying. I guess it couldn’t call enough victims to it ... or perhaps it’s simply tired of life. Before we were all thrown down here, those rainbows were nomads. They’d hop around from stream to stream, all over the world. Could be, being stuck in one place for so long has made that one suicidal.”
“What’s their weakness, their bane?”
“Gold, of course.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Throw a pot of gold into one of them and watch it shrink up and wail in pain. They turn pale and writhe like serpents on fire.” The bat-man paused, somewhat sadly. “When you’ve seen a rainbow die, a piece of your soul goes with it.”
They moved on.
* * *
When Kharker had taken Ruegger away, Danielle hadn’t gone back to sleep. Instead, she sent for a servant and asked him to bring her a complete selection of Ruegger’s poems from the Library—the English translations, if possible. The servant returned ten minutes later and handed her a pile of carefully-bound manuscripts, then bowed and skittered out of the room before she could offer him so much as a cup of coffee for his troubles.
Drinking cup after cup herself, Danielle pored over the Darkling’s poems, essays and short stories. She’d read his work before, of course, but in English-speaking countries it was rare that she could find a copy she could read, and even when she could, the translations were so poor that she never came away feeling as though she’d gotten everything out of the work that Ruegger had intended.
So she read, for hours, learning much about the mind of the man that had existed before Amelia’s “death”. He’d been a very introspective and loving man, as he was now, but back then he’d been untainted by the evil that he eventually succumbed to. Often, she found his essays to be harsh indictments of immortal societies during that time. He berated shades for their wanton immorality, for abusing their powers to cause humans pain; frequently, he pointed out to his audience that they were no more than humans themselves, just stronger and longer-lived. These were essays printed in underground immortal presses.
Included in the manuscripts were the scandalized reactions of the readers, those who felt moved to write a piece for the editor’s page. Ruegger’s critics disclaimed him as a sentimental fool, a being that could not bear to face his true nature—a coward. However, none of his detractors openly challenged him, for even back then he was considered dangerous. When he responded to his critics, calmly explaining that he was no craven, that he and Amelia lived up to their principles and scoured the earth clean of mortal and immortal refuse, he seemed to both anger and quiet his enemies at the same time. They knew his words were true.
There was quite a bit about Amelia in the clippings, and Danielle read about her eagerly, caught in the grip of some obsession.
Amelia was an outspoken radical, as deeply philosophical and introspective as Ruegger, but a touch more driven, more ruthless. Still, alongside Ruegger, she battled evil and stood up for the helpless; all in all, a valiant figure. A revolutionary. If she still lived, Danielle found it hard to believe that the kavasari would interfere with Roche Sarnova’s plans. She would support his Jerusalem, not destroy it. Danielle worried at the problem, trying to link Amelia’s motives behind the Scouring to the Dark Lord’s plans for peace between humans and immortals.
For some reason, the kavasari’s timing seemed off. Why, when Roche was as beleaguered as he was, would a woman like Amelia go to such lengths to wreak chaos in the shadeworld? Now was when Roche needed all the backing he could get, whether it came from crime lords or not. Testament to this: his hope that Vistrot might come to his aid. So why the Scouring?
Danielle was still musing on it when Ruegger finally came in through the door, quietly, as if he expected her to be asleep. When he found she wasn’t, he laughed, then noticed the manuscripts scattered all about the bed.
“Just reading about you, baby,” she explained. “We have plenty of time to discuss that later.” Eagerly, almost fearfully, she sat up in bed, elbows on knees, and demanded, “What did that old badger want?”
Ruegger smiled. “Watch this.”
Like a showman, he danced all about the room, did a few hand-springs and made a great show out of bending his elbows. She didn’t see what all the fuss was about.
He stopped his prancing and became still, looking at her with a smile in his black eyes.
Suddenly, blades shot out from his sleeves and in the blink of the eye he held a gleaming silver scimitar in one hand and a dagger in the other. He slashed them bac
k and forth a few times, and she could hear the air split as they clove through it.
“Damn,” she said.
Ruegger threw the blades in a corner and suspended them there with his telekinesis.
“Kharker told me to keep them up there all day while I’m asleep,” he said. “It’s to build strength, he says. Like flexing a muscle.”
He strode to the bed, shedding his clothes as he came. He swept all the manuscripts onto the floor, grabbed her and kissed her passionately. Too caught up in the moment to resist or even question, she kissed back, and soon they fell in a riotous tangle to the bed.
Afterwards, they lay together, sweaty and exhausted. He held her tight against him, kissing the nape of her neck. She smiled, brought one of his arms tighter against her, and fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.
Chapter 3
“Damn it, Jean-Pierre, you’re wasting too much time,” Ladrido said. “Do you really have to poke your nose in every room we pass through?”
“I’m afraid I do.” The albino could hear the raggedness in his voice.
“It may prove to be a fatal habit.”
“Ladrido, you may be used to magic, but I’m not. When were you brought over, anyway?”
The large bat that served as Ladrido’s eyes and mouth frowned. “Guess I was turned about five hundred years after Jesus died. Never cared for the Church much, really. Killed a bunch of the hypocrites that were members of it, the very ones that let themselves be seduced by your angels back at the waterfall—then, after a righteous period of guilt, order their executions.”
“Why do you talk in such a modern way?”
“When I possess a human, I’ve access to all his thoughts and feelings and memories. Hell, I probably know as much about your world as you do—at least from the mortal perspective. Over time, I’ve come to speak and think in the ways those humans did, the ones I possessed.”
“Do you regret having to possess them?”
“I’d much prefer to go on killing those fucking Catholics—at least, the corrupt ones that existed in my day. From what I understand now, the Catholics and their splinter group, the Protestants, have become somewhat peaceable in modern times. No more Crusades or witch-hunts.” The bat-man laughed. “You say you’re taken by the magic down here; what I wouldn’t give to see the magic up there! I’d love to see a television.”
Jean-Pierre smiled. “Were sorcerers really that common—as common as TVs?”
“Of course not. But they weren’t all that rare, either. I guess there were about as many sorcerers and warlocks and witches as there were shades.”
“How come no shade was ever made a sorcerer? Surely I’d know if there was such a creature.”
“Apparently the magic that makes shades immortal doesn’t mesh very well with the magic that sorcerers and their lot use; at least that’s what I’ve gathered.”
They walked on in silence for some time. Eventually, Jean-Pierre noticed that the bats that composed Ladrido’s body were becoming restless. Every now and then, a small group would detach itself from his body, fly off for awhile and return only to have another group leave.
“I’m growing weak, Jean-Pierre,” Ladrido confessed as another group of bats drifted away. “I can’t sustain this shape much longer.” He stopped in his tracks, lifted one arm and dispersed the entire limb into the air. Eagerly, the bats swarmed about in a restless frenzy that seemed to relax Ladrido. “Here, we’re in a pretty calm area right now. I need to scatter for awhile, regain my strength. I’ll try to make it quick, because I don’t want you wandering off on your own.”
“How long will you be ... dispersed?”
“Time’s so strange here. Make it a half-hour or so. That’s a pretty quick rest for me. I won’t be much stronger after it, but maybe it’ll be enough to carry me till we find a human.” Even as he spoke, he lifted his arm and another limb dispersed into a cloud of busy wings and sharp little teeth. “Just take care. And don’t wander far. Okay?”
Jean-Pierre nodded.
The entire body that was Ladrido unraveled, freeing a great cloud of bats. They circled Jean-Pierre, maybe in thanks or in parting, then flew off to parts unknown, at least to the outsider werewolf.
As Jean-Pierre watched the cloud disappear from sight, he felt a pang of loneliness. He’d actually come to like Ladrido, even if he was a damned and miserable thing. On the other hand, he was glad to have some time to do a little exploring without the bat-man constantly chastising him.
Jean-Pierre gazed about him. “Oh, where to begin?”
He began by poking in and out of some of the cross-tunnels Ladrido hadn’t let him see on the way here. As it happened, the bat-man had been right. This seemed to be a pretty dull district. At the end of the first twenty minutes, the most exciting thing he’d seen had been some enormous ten-foot long earthworms (or what looked like earthworms) hanging from a cave ceiling like bats would do, only the dangling worms were colored a bright hot-pink. Maybe they were cocoons or something. Jean-Pierre didn’t know and he wasn’t going to chance it by approaching them. He left the tunnel and continued wandering.
Down one corridor he saw what looked like a tropical paradise. Magical light bathed the area in a sunny glow that reflected off of a moist wall, dotted all over with tiny holes from which water flowed, trickling down into a little pond surrounded by wild, lush vegetation. Palm trees, tall grasses, shrubs and flowers.
Jean-Pierre started toward it, then realized there was only one torch between him and the oasis—and he had just passed the torch. Between him and the bright pond leered a multitude of great dark stalactites and stalagmites.
He broke off a short stalagmite and tossed it into the center of where he judged the Grife to be. The Grife contracted, spearing the stalagmite with its stone tongues, and when it contracted, its top separated from the cavern ceiling, creating a gap. Laughing, Jean-Pierre hopped onto its back and ran the length of it, then leapt down into the magically sunny area on the other side. The Grife made a groaning noise but didn’t pursue. Likely it didn’t appreciate the strong light.
Jean-Pierre knelt down by the pond and studied his haggard reflection in the water for a moment. He was filthy, his clothes in tatters and his whole body splashed in blood. His pale blond hair looked as if it had been smeared in soot, and his luminous green eyes seemed more tired than he’d ever seen them before. He splashed water on his face, and ran his hands through his hair. The cool water felt good on his skin.
Resting along its banks, he kept guard by the pool and allowed himself a light doze. In minutes, he was awake again, and beginning to grow restless. Where was that damned Ladrido?
Half an hour, eh?
He wandered again, and came across some amazing sights, some wondrous, some horrifying, many both, before finally a human-shaped figure appeared before him.
It was a strange man, thought Jean-Pierre. Naked and bald, in good shape, maybe thirty years old, but covered from head to foot in tattoos of swastikas.
“Ladrido?” Jean-Pierre hazarded.
The skinhead smiled. “In the flesh, my friend, if I may call you that.”
“Only if I may call you the same.”
“You can, of course.”
“I see you fed without me. Or, rather, possessed without me. Thought we were partners in this.”
“We were. We are,” Ladrido assured him. Beneath his skin, Jean-Pierre could see subtle writhing movements, constantly. Bats. Ugh. “I went off to hibernate for awhile, collect my powers. Took a nap, I guess you’d call it. Further up the corridor than we were in, hoping a mortal might pass by out of the Meadow. Sure enough, one did. This one. Skinhead freak; I can’t stand his mind. Now there’s a curse for you. Trapped in the body of a man whose mind you can use, if you choose, but to do so means feeling his thoughts and feelings. I hate this guy, Jean-Pierre. Racist prick. Did you know that before that damned sorcerer turned me into a bunch of bats that I was black?”
“Good thing you weren’t Jewish
.”
The skinhead laughed. “Good thing. Anyway, you need to feed, and soon, or I fear you’ll go comatose or die or something. Point is, you need to feed. And the reason I brought this racist bastard to you was so that you could, well ... eat me.”
“Eat you!”
“Trust me, my friend, you’ll be doing me a favor. I can’t stand this guy. Every other word out of his mind is nigger, nigger. Just can’t take it, even if I could get laid by him with one of those winged nymphs you’re so taken with. Me, too, for that matter. They lick you up and down afterwards, Jean-Pierre. Then they feed you and snuggle. Damn hard to beat.”
“I can see that. But you never did explain to me how this guy got here, how humans come from the Castle down into the Refuge.”
“Don’t worry about it. Hopefully, if you live to get there, you’ll find out soon enough.”
“No, come on. Tell me. At least get into this guy’s head for me. Tell me his last thoughts.”
Ladrido rolled his borrowed eyes. “Alright. Here goes … Okay, guy’s all doped up, can hardly think. On a dinner plate? Yeah, think so. Served on a table outdoors. Cold. He hates the place. Can’t really think, though. Totally out of it. Then this little dark-haired girl, a vampire, starts drinking from him.”
“Dark-haired girl?” That piqued the albino’s interest.
“Black hair, black eyes, black clothes. Silver earrings. Pretty. Must be some sort of goth chick, I guess. Anyway, his last thoughts are: one, that he hates her and the whole fucking world; and two, that the drugs the chefs gave him are pretty damned good. Then nothing.”
It was the albino’s turn to laugh. “Danielle,” he said.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just that I won’t feel too bad eating this guy. If she would eat him, so can I.”
