Xavier kept his face impassive. With a conviction that left no room for argument, he said, "What is past should be left to the past. I seek a fresh start with your people."
Ha'rak speared the sorcerer with an ugly, glare. "It is not easy for the vanquished to be generous when a conquering enemy stands before them."
The storm of voices grew again, forestalling any further speech with clamor and chaos. The troll left his chair and advanced on the sorcerer. Ugly and malformed, with a head too large for his body, bulging eyes, sunken nose and teeth protruding beyond his lower lip, the troll stood perhaps four feet tall. He was dressed in moccasins, leather leggings and a short vest that did not cover his massive torso and belly. His skin was reddish, his hairy arms and chest marked with many thick burn scars acquired over the blacksmithing fires that produced his race's fine metalwork.
Xavier gritted his teeth, reminding himself appeasement was his best tactic. What he needed lay in Ula'dh. He must get there. He could cross by force, but wisdom dictated it would be wiser not to violate the new peace between the upper-world Sclydians and the underworld beings.
"Yet you cannot ignore the recent treaties between our people."
The troll's eyes narrowed. "I know many who ignore." He clicked his tongue in a mocking sound. "One you could not keep under your control."
"Morgan is no longer a power in Sclyd," Xavier hastened to say. "No one within the council recognizes his former position. He will be executed if he should be captured and taken for trial."
Ha'rak grunted. "If he is caught. You owned his soul, and he still slipped through your fingers."
His words were a whiplash, and the sorcerer flinched.
Xavier advanced a step and offered a ceremonial bow. "We must take our losses as we take our victories. Is that not the way of warriors?" His tone was even and low. He refused to let the troll goad him.
When he last came to Gidrah, he had desired the casting of a gold ring and needed the finesse of a troll metalworker to bring about the fusion of the ingredients he wished to use. To get his way, he had used his favorite methods of persuasion--fear and torture.
"I cannot forget your raid on my people. In the name of Asl, be you cursed in the circles of destiny. By ritual and power, I pray your losses be everlasting."
The troll stopped at the chest and plunged his thick, four-fingered hand into the sea of gold. Picking up a handful, he let the coins slide through his fingers like sand.
Trolls were known for their love of mammon. Ha'rak's beady eyes shone with greed. It was clear he was struggling with his decision. His rough-cut jaw, covered with a light reddish-brown fuzz, hardened; and his lips twisted into something that was neither a smile nor a grimace.
He slammed the lid of the chest down with a savage sweep.
"This is hardly enough to buy your way through Gidrah!" he charged. "I do not accept your tainted gold! It is stained with the blood of my people, and I will not be ally to your quest."
Xavier bristled. "Then you do not grant my passage?"
A devious grin split Ha'rak's thick lips. He made a quick ritual gesture. "I give you a challenge. Cross Gidrah in a fortnight, and you have your passage. If you have not crossed into Ula'dh by noon of the fourteenth day, I will send my warriors to take your hide."
Ha'rak drew his hand into a tight fist; the muscles of his short arm corded like bands of steel.
"Treaty or not," the troll king warned, "if you make a mistake, I will have your head on a stick and your bones for my supper."
Xavier inclined his head.
"Your challenge is accepted."
Chapter Thirty-One
The day had been warm; but the November night was cool, giving a hint of the winter ahead. Cloaked in a thin haze, the stars were sprinkled like rare diamonds on the indigo velvet of the sky. Unseen in the darkness, night birds chirped mysterious songs, understood only by the shadows.
In her room, Julienne sat on her bed, legs crossed. Spread all around her were the spell books that had belonged to her grandmother, now hers. Through the last three days, she'd spent many hours studying the obscure writing inscribed on the pages. She'd examined the books for so long her vision was blurry with fatigue. The drawings and letters ran together and did strange little dances.
Picking up the first small volume again, she cracked open its hard cover. Her grandmother's neat, feminine handwriting covered the pages, left to right, top to bottom. Looking at them, flipping each slowly in turn, she felt a strange stirring deep inside, an almost physical connection not only with her grandmother but with all Blackthorne women.
What Anlese had passed to her was waiting to emerge, to blossom like a desert flower after a long, dry summer. It only needed the waters of knowledge to grow and flourish.
Trouble was, at this point she comprehended little. The letters and drawings made no sense whatsoever.
"I can't understand a single thing here," she sighed in defeat, and laid the book aside. She couldn't look at it anymore. Turning her head, she scanned the closed doors, almost hoping they would open. Of course, they didn't. No one was looking for her.
Irritably sweeping her hair out of her face, she squinted to read the luminous numbers on the bedside digital clock--4:30 a.m.
Grumbling to herself, Julienne stacked her pillows and settled back onto their softness. Aside from her not being able to comprehend a whit of Anlese's writings, there was something more pressing on her mind, perhaps the true reason she was unable to concentrate.
She'd murdered a human being. It was a specter hanging over her head, one that refused to be easily sent away.
A stab of guilt lanced through her heart. Once again, she couldn't help thinking about the woman she had killed. Through the days, she'd tried to tell herself again and again that the girl was a street person of little consequence, that one more homeless whore would not be missed, that her death would be duly noted by the press, her body disposed of in a pauper's grave, another unsolved murder for police who wouldn't care because their files already overflowed with too many of the same. The girl had been murdered by someone who walked away, free and untouched by the crime.
Just like her mother. Cassandra had been beaten and left to die in a back alley.
Somewhere, in an unknown city, were parents mourning the loss of a wayward daughter, mourning the way she'd mourned her own mother; not with tears but with a sigh of relief that the unstable soul in life might finally have found peace in death?
On an unconscious level she kept trying to blame the thing inside her for the death. That was not wholly true and she knew it. She'd made the decision to go out and hunt among an unsuspecting population. If she didn't accept the blame, she'd take another step toward losing her humanity. She couldn't let that happen.
But just as the guilt gnawed away at her conscience, so did a second voice arise, a stronger, more damning one--that of the creature she fed. The will to survive had been the stronger. She must feed the beast to live. More than the need for food, for justification of her existence, though, was the fact that, at the moment, she'd relished her victim's fear, enjoyed the taste of warm blood on her lips, the fullness in her belly. She'd felt her true power as an immortal then, knowing that she would walk away and another would not. Such superiority was a heady aphrodisiac. It was easy to see how an entity could be seduced by the darker side of the occult.
Morgan had fallen once. Hard. Now, she had fallen, too, straight into the same damnation. If she were not careful--wise--she would stumble and that would destroy her.
I have the potential to be powerful, she thought. But I must have care. In my survival, I have to show mercy to the weaker species. She resolved that she next time she fed, she would be gentler.
Because she could not ignore the hunger.
She counted the rhythm of her breathing for some time, an attempt to hypnotize herself into relaxing; but as soon as she closed her eyes and began to doze her lids flew open and she was again staring at the canopy over her
bed.
"This isn't working."
Her mouth drew down into a severe frown. There was a reason she was alone tonight. Morgan had withdrawn since she'd accidentally killed the prostitute, retaliating with silence against her harsh, ugly words by removing himself from her presence both physically and emotionally.
What a stupid fool I've been. He warned me. He warned me, damn it, and I didn't listen. He'd also called her weak. Like her mother. That one hurt.
A harsh laugh escaped her lips.
Now she was miserable, punished because of what she'd unthinkingly said to her lover.
I guess I'm just not the killer you are.
The words had burned themselves into her brain.
Remorse welled up inside her. Her eyes grew watery; her vision blurred. As she looked at the journals, tears ran down her cheeks. She wiped them away, a sob of frustration breaking from her throat. She drew her knees to her chest.
Morgan did not easily forgive and forget. He absolutely refused to have anything to do with her. Instead, he cocooned himself in his den during the days. When she tried to speak to him, he would fix her with a cold, unblinking stare and refer his answers through anyone who happened to be present. It was as if she was an annoying insect in his world. But since he could not squash her, he'd chosen to freeze her out.
How could I have said that? she railed at herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She gave a third look at the journals. "Grandmother," she whispered, "please help me understand this. I need to learn."
Listlessly, she picked one up.
As though her grandmother were reaching out from the netherworld, a warm glow began to spread through her body. Anlese's voice echoed in her mind. It's in you. Just let it come naturally.
Julienne reached for one of the journals. When she opened it and looked at the first page, she was astonished to see the letters inscribed on the paper begin to morph, assuming new shapes. In a moment, they had rearranged into plain English.
She began to tremble in excitement. She was afraid to tear her eyes off the page.
"I can read this!"
Fearing the words would vanish if she blinked, she closed one eye, then opened it. The words were still there. She closed both eyes, waited a moment. Opened them. The words were still there! She closed the book, waited ten minutes and picked up another. Ditto.
I know how to make it come! I just need to ask grandmother. She'll help me, guide me. That's her gift to me.
"I've got to tell him," she said to the empty room.
Except that Morgan wasn't around to tell.
That did not deter her excitement. So elated she couldn't stay still, she slid her legs over the edge of the bed, retrieving her cigarettes and lighter from her bedside table. The pack was empty. Disgusted, she crushed it and tossed it aside.
Remembering she'd left an open pack in the library, she decided she might as well have a smoke. Morgan wasn't the only one indulging in a nicotine habit lately--she was nearing two packs a day.
She climbed off the mattress, retrieving her lighter as she stood. Dressed in a sweat suit, she slipped on a pair of moccasins and exited her suite. In addition to his indulgence in cigarettes, Morgan was drinking again, returning with a vengeance to his crutch. What was he trying to blot out of his mind now? Was she one of them?
The huge manor was eerily still. Soundlessly, she made her way down the stairs and across the foyer. The silence put her nerves on edge. She rubbed away the goose bumps on her arms, quickening her pace.
She wasted no time turning on the lights and locating her cigarettes. Her hands shook as she lit one. Inhaling deeply, she placed the lighter and pack on the mantel. It was then she noticed a chilly draft winnowing through the room.
The French doors were cracked open.
But no one was around.
Warily, Julienne walked past the piano, her gaze flitting from it to the doors. The breeze sneaking through the opened doors was brisk. She couldn't come up with a viable explanation as to why they would be ajar at such a late hour.
A burglar? Or something more sinister?
She shuddered at the thought and forced herself to approach. Although not quite full, the moon provided sufficient light, bathing the back lawns in an unearthly silver-blue glow. Enchanted by the sight, she stepped onto the patio.
The night air smelled clean, invigorating to take into hungry lungs. The wind stirred leaves and tugged at her hair, tousling the strands about her back and shoulders. The moonlight whetted her imagination with its myth and magic, compelling her to venture further onto the wide patio.
Amidst the mystical beauty of the nightscape, she noticed a figure in the distance, head tilted back as if the person were staring up at the moon.
Morgan?
Sharp as her eyes were, she couldn't tell.
She was about to call out, but the shadowy figure unexpectedly stepped out of sight, obscured by the heavy hedges lining the back lawns. Beyond the hedge was a tangle of overgrown paths. A series of back trails led throughout the wild greenery that had overtaken the estate during the last seventy years. The paths led, respectively, to the family graveyard and Morgan's Stonehenge-like circle of stones, a place he called the Temple of Light. Is that where he was going?
Let him go, she told herself, shivering with the lowering temperature and the dread inching through her system. We can talk when he comes back.
Around her, the wind picked up, whistling across the back gardens. The mournful sound warned her to go back inside.
Julienne looked again to where she'd seen the figure disappear. She decided to find him. She took off across the lawn in a fast clip, cutting through the hedges. There, she was confronted with a series of confusing outlets.
"Damn."
She chose the clearest path, trying to recall if it would lead to the druid's temple. The trail proved difficult. The ground was uneven beneath overgrown vines. As she tripped along, she wondered repeatedly how had she talked herself into this insane venture. It would be wiser to turn back, to return to the house before she got lost in this jungle.
Breaking from the trees, she discovered she stood at the outskirts of the growth. Before her loomed a wrought iron gate and fence. She'd chosen the wrong path. She groaned.
The cemetery appeared peaceful, a benevolent resting place snuggled within verdant overgrowth. At the entrance, Julienne paused beside a looming statue of an angel holding aloft a sword, his stone eyes looking balefully at the sky. The cold, chiseled features unnerved her. In the moonlight, she could almost swear she could see a pulse throbbing at the temples. She expected the great marble head to turn and look down on her, and a glowing, yellow, wrathful gaze challenge her right to trespass beyond the gate. She could almost hear the sword whiffing through the air, and the thud of her severed head hitting the ground.
Anlese's body was within the crypt, within the icy, dark haven of its walls. She couldn't help but wonder if her grandmother had, at long last, come to know peace.
Before all courage could abandon her, she opened the gate, wincing as the rusty hinges screeched loudly with grating protest. Chills scraped up her spine, and her heart pounded erratically. Why did she have the feeling she was being watched? She felt eyes boring into her back, yet every time she turned where she believed the stares were coming from, there was no one.
Stopping, she glanced over her shoulder. She did not think to look up. If she had, she would have seen the black outline of a bat pass above her, its wings as silent as a shadow.
Shaking her head, filled with a nagging uneasiness, she progressed cautiously beyond the gate. If she could make her way through the cemetery, she could find the path leading to the temple.
She felt the small wooden charm around her neck growing warm. Where was the danger? She saw nothing. Every direction she looked, stone eyes watched her, their cold stares envying her warm, living body.
"Knock it off," she muttered, chastising her imagination.
All at once,
the cemetery was not so peaceful or calm. The temperature dropped significantly as a wind snaked through the yard, whistling among the headstones and rustling the leaves of the trees. She knew her fears prompted her hearing the sounds of harsh whisperings, but the knowledge didn't help to quiet her rapidly increasing hysteria. An inner voice warned her to run.
Julienne…
The voice, a grating whisper, rose from the ground. The wind vanished. The stillness surrounding her became a heavy, suffocating cloak, so weighty it took all her willpower not to sink to her knees.
"Who's there?" she called, trembling violently. "This isn't funny. Please, you're scaring me."
Come…closer…
Was that her grandmother's voice?
A whimper escaped her lips, and she glanced around. A flicker of movement caught her attention out of the corner of her eye.
Julienne froze. Her heart lodged in her throat. A strangled cry escaped her when she saw the man.
He was black, tall, thin, dressed in the clothing of a medieval age. His nappy hair was cropped square and short to his scalp. He was rank with the stench of soil clinging to his skin. His eyes had no pupils. They were dead. Soulless. He smiled. Just a bit, just enough to reveal the deadly canines his thick lips hid.
He stood within six feet of her, overwhelming her with his presence. His big body filled her vision. The power he radiated enveloped her, kept her silent as she watched, scared stiff. Blood pumped through her veins, filling her with adrenaline.
Rooted in her spot, she reflexively glanced down at her hand. Her wrist was bare of the slave bracelet. Panic coursed through her. Why hadn't she put it on before leaving the house? It was stupid to go outside without any weapon.
"Wh–wh–who are you?" The peach wood charm was sizzling now, hot against her skin.
The creature smiled. I am the watcher.
She heard the words clearly, though none passed his lips. It was unnerving to think he had the ability to penetrate her mind.
"Why do you watch?" She quelled the instinct to run. Run, and he would overtake her. Run, and he would kill her. Every fiber in her body tightened like a wound spring. She could at least fight, try to defend herself. Nervous energy crackled in the air around her.
Descent of Demons Page 33
