by Faith Hunter
His clothing sat, clean and folded, on top of the dresser. His chain amulet belt lay on top. He examined them, touching each. They remained charged, except for the Healing amulet. He’d exhausted it before ever reaching Tarrytown.
Mistral dressed, clipping on the belt and tying down his knife sheaths. His hat, coat, and boots were nowhere to be seen. Scowling, he headed for the door.
He found himself in a narrow hallway with several doors opening off to the sides. He looked in them. Three bedrooms and a bathroom. He eyed the shower, but stopped only long enough to empty his bladder and scrub his face and hands. The soap smelled of lavender and lemon.
Stairs at the end of the hallway led down into a broad room. On one side was the kitchen and dining area, on the other was a sitting space surrounding a massive fireplace. Mistral paused halfway down. A young boy with red hair sat at the table. Nara chopped vegetables on the slate-covered island. She had a hatchet face with thick iron-gray hair she wore in a braid to her waist. Muscles wrapped her arms in cords. She moved with quick, electric energy. She glanced up.
"“Hungry?"”
Mistral’s stomach growled loudly. "“Appears so,"” he said.
"“Stop hovering and grab a seat, then,"” Nara said, pointing to the table.
While he did as told, she scooped a bowl of soup from a pot on the stove and set it before him, bringing a half a loaf of bread and a crock of butter.
"“There’s plenty,"” she said and went back to chopping vegetables.
Silence descended. The boy watched him eat until Nara reminded him of his chores, and then he got up, washed his dishes, and disappeared through the mudroom.
"“How long have I been here?"”
"“Two days, give or take,"” Nara replied. "“Something attacked you."”
He nodded, aware of the question pretending to be a statement. What was out there? Was it dangerous to the town?
He surprised himself when he answered with the truth. "“A daywalker."”
The woman froze, knife raised. "“Come again?"”
"“A daywalker attacked me."” Mistral set his spoon down. He watched Nara digest his revelation.
"“Seraph’s blood. Why was it here?"”
He should have said he didn’t know. But then he shouldn’t have told her about Ebet it all. "“He came to see me."”
Nara’s narrowed. "“Why?"”
She should have been panicking or dialing up the elders.
The corners of Mistral’s mouth quirked in a humorless smile. "“Jealousy, I’m afraid. An ugly sin."”
"“Maybe you should just explain,"” Nara said, facing him.
Mistral could smell the fear she didn’t let him see. Her heart raced. If he dropped into mage sight, he would see the colors of her aura whirling with agitation.
"“Ebet’s leash was shorter than mine and he had fewer freedoms, so he was jealous. Less was expected of him."”
Nara glowered. "“If you think you’ve explained anything, let me be clear. You haven’t. You have managed to tell me you were associated with a daywalker, enough to know his name and have him be jealous of you. In most books that puts you on the wrong side of the Light."”
The fact that she hadn’t tried throwing her knife at him or sprung for the phone was a minor miracle. Mistral didn’t know Nara well. He didn’t know anybody well, despite the fact that he’d been coming through Tarrytown for years, since he was given permission to travel and learn human ways so he could blend into their society. The dragon wanted to recruit humans to his side in his war against the High Host.
His lips parted and then he hesitated. He’d started down the road to defiance, but he could still turn back. Once he told her, changing his mind would mean killing her and her family, and maybe the rest of the town. If he did that . . . the seraphs would come. They’d want to know what was responsible for that kind of death. That would make the dragon happy. Mistral would be forced to surrender or kill the seraphs. Killing them didn’t bother him—he had no love for his winged brethren—but doing so would make the dragon happy, and that was the last thing Mistral wanted to do. Neither did he want to kill the people of Tarrytown. Perhaps he had gone too far to stop.
He rubbed a hand over his face. "“I am not human,"” he said at last, his decision made.
Nara flinched back a step. "“What are you?"”
"“I’m—"” He hesitated. Technically he was kylen, but he’d never accept that name. A snarl twisted his lips. He would not let the Dark or the Light claim him. With an effort, he focused on Nara again. "“Would you like to see?"” He’d never willingly showed himself to another person.
Mistral didn’t wait for the answer. Something inside him wanted to be seen by more than just the dragon and his demon kin, wanted to be seen as himself, not Dark, not Light. He rose and stepped back from the table, dragging his shirt over his head and dropping it on the floor. He pressed his palms together fingertips to wrist so that he could touch the two silver bracelets and deactivate them.
The glamour hiding his wings fell away and he released the spell suppressing the glow of his skin. Nara gasped as he stretched his wings wide. He glanced at them. Cobalt along the lesser coverts, they darkened to iridescent black along the primaries and secondaries. The nervure was dark red, the color of old blood. His skin glowed like moonlight on troubled water, flickering and moving.
"“You’re –—” " Nara broke off, frowning. She took a few steps forward and stopped, her brows knitting together. "“You’re not a seraph,"” she said. "“Are you kylen?"”
"“I am the child of a seraph,"” he said unwillingly. And then, after a moment— "“And Dark mage."”
Her eyes widened and her jaw knotted. Fear thickened around her. "“And you’re friends with a daywalker."”
Mistral shook his head. "“Not friends. Ebet did poison me . . . before I killed him. But I have a Dark master who claims possession of me."” His lips twisted. "“No more. He is coming. I plan to kill him, but you need to leave. All of you. The entire town. Take everything with you. Our battle will destroy everything. You won’t be able to return."”
Nara goggled at him a moment, then fury swept her features. "“The devil we will! This is our home."”
"“Stay and you’ll die."” An observation, not a threat.
She strode over to him, her finger poking hard into his chest as she met his gray gaze. "“Take your fight somewhere else and leave us out of it."”
He looked down at her hand and then gently wrapped it in his own. "“My master is coming here. Did you not feel the earthquake a short time ago? Whether I remain here or not, he will destroy this place. He will enjoy it."”
Nara blanched. "“Earthquake? Oh mother of demons,"” she whispered. "“Spawn?"”
He nodded. "“Those too. But my master is a dragon—one of the Fallen."”
Her face went white as milk. "“The seraphs . . ."” she said in a choking whisper.
Mistral’s lip curled. "“And if you do summon them? Will they protect you? Or will Azrael visit more death and destruction on you?"” He shook his head. "“The wings of the seraphs are drenched in the blood of humanity."”
Nara stared at him. "“Blasphemy,"” she whispered.
"“Truth,"” he countered, his voice gravel.
Taut silence filled the air between them. Mistral waited. Nara’s forehead furrowed, her eyes narrowing. He reached out with a mind-skim. Her thoughts ricocheted and crashed into one another, shattering and reforming into other shapes. What surprised him was how she discarded everything beyond survival. She didn’t care what Mistral was, only that he was here and he was a weapon against the Dark. Nor did she want to call the seraphs. Like any sane being, she feared them. They were capricious and held little love for humans. Tarrytown would become a battlefield and the residents nothing more than cannon fodder.
He closed his mind off. Nara gathered herself. Strength and determination wrapped around her like steel. Her chin lifted.
"�
�You brought the dragon to us. How will you stop it?"”
"“I will kill him."”
"“A dragon. Just like that."” She snapped her fingers. "“By yourself. Can you really do it or is that just an empty boast?"”
"“I can. I will."” He need only make the beast drop his protective conjures. Mistral would then suck dry his creation energy. Simple as breathing, though the dragon would not make it easy. Mistral wasn’t worried. In the end, one of them would be dead and he would be free. He hoped he’d be the one left standing, but at the moment, he didn’t really care how he escaped the dragon’s clutches, so long as he was free.
"“Killing him will kill everything else in the valley at the very least. I am—” " He paused, letting go of her hand, his arms dropping to his sides. "“I am a living nuclear bomb."”
Her lips pinched together and she shook her head. "“There has to be another way. When this dragon of yours arrive?"”
"“A day, maybe two. There is no other way."”
She crossed her arms again, her chin jutting. "“You’d damned well better find one. I know I speak for the whole town. We’re not losing everything we have, everything we’ve built. This mess is your fault. You figure it out."”
Mistral blinked at her. She’d accepted everything he’d said, hardly batting an eye. She should hate him. Knowing he was tainted with Darkness—ruled by a dragon—she ought to be running for the hills.
"“You don’t understand —” "
"“And I don’t care!"” she snapped. "“You fix this, whatever it takes."”
"“But —” "
"“Whatever it takes!"” She prodded him in the chest again. "“No excuses."” She turned and reached for the phone. "“I’m calling a town meeting in two hours at the kirk."” She eyed him. "“I expect you to be there."”
Mistral watched her dial. He’d expected vitriol and repulsion. No one liked neomages, and most blindly hated them. But this—
He hardly knew what to make of her. In his whole life, the thing he was was all that mattered. It made him a pawn and a weapon and a target. But Nara expected more. She expected him to have . . . compassion. Honor. Morals. To help those in trouble as she’d helped him. To take responsibility for the people he’d endangered.
Lost in thought, he didn’t notice her put the phone down.
"“What can I do?"” She asked him.
And just like that, she put her trust in him. Not in the seraphs or prayers, but him. It was a gift greater than she could ever imagine. Emotion rose in him, thick, hot, and unforgiving. He would not, could not, fail that trust.
4.
By dusk two and a half days later, Tarrytown was as prepared as Mistral knew how to make it. The townspeople had not accepted him as Nara had, but once they’d decided he was their best hope, they bent themselves to his orders.
All of them crowded inside the granary with all the arms they possessed, some toting rifles and shotguns. Mistral closed the protective circle he’d established around them. He’d already drawn a similar one around the valley to protect the animals.
"“Why don’t you just suck up demon lives and use that against them?"” Nara had asked over breakfast after he’d explained his power to her.
"“Doesn’t work that way. I can’t pick and choose what I draw from. Even the dirt will die."”
Jason, her eldest son, picked apart a slice of bread. "“What if you fly up in the air? Wouldn’t that cut down the amount of damage on the ground?"”
Mistral shook his head. "“The dragon will wait for me underground where he is strongest."”
"“What I’m wondering is why you didn’t kill that bastard before you lured it here?"” Robert asked, not bothering to hide his hate. He was Nara’s younger son. His wife had died and he’d returned home with his son.
Mistral looked around the table. "“I wasn’t ready then."”
"“And now you are?"” Doubt dripped from the words.
He looked at each of them. "“Now I am."”
The earthquakes jolted through almost non-stop now as the dragon and his horde tunneled toward Tarrytown. Mistral stood on an outcropping on the south side of the valley, outside the protective circle. He had little faith that it would hold long against the tide of devil-spawn, but he hoped it would give him time enough to find the dragon. He eyed the darkening sky, then reached his senses out. Evil pulsed close.
He touched the pommels of his two swords, one on each hip. He had a variety of knives stashed around his body and a bandolier of six across his chest. A couple dozen throwing stars filled three pouches on his belt and another on his bandolier. He’d activated his Shield amulet. They’d keep the beast of Darkness at bay.
The ground lurched and shuddered violently. Grinding filled the night, an avalanche of sound. From a distance, he heard a cracking like the mountains sundering. It echoed through the valley and vibrated through his chest. His heart skipped and jumped, then settled back into its rhythm. Mistral took a breath, anticipation spinning through him.
His lips pulled back in a fierce grin as a river of demonkind gushed from a massive hole in the escarpment just below the shoulder of a nearby peak. He launched himself into the air, drawing both his swords, though in truth they were hardly necessary. He didn’t need weapons to kill. Thousands of demons of every shape and size crawled and leaped down the slope to the edge of his protective circle.
Time to go to war.
Mistral folded his wings and plummeted, landing in the middle of a ravenous horde of spawn. His swords whirled as he chopped and slashed, while at the same time drawing in life energy to feed his conjures and amulets. He entered the unrelenting blackness of the hellhole. He needed no light to see—a perk of being born of the Dark.
Soon he felt drunk from the influx of power. His head spun and he staggered over the husks of spawn, his blood frothing. He kept the draw of energy steady, but tried not to push it out into the land. He only needed to kill enough to clear the passage through to where the dragon waited.
Something bounced off his Shield near his head and knocked him sideways. He tripped and crashed to his knees. More struck. Boulders the size of tires and larger. They landed in front of him and to the sides. They were thrown by rock trolls, who were able to sink into stone at will. Perfect soldiers for an underground battle.
Mistral blasted the boulders apart and broke into a run, ducking and spinning to avoid the missiles. The barrage continued. He stumbled and staggered over the bodies of the spawn littering the floor. He couldn’t seem to overtake the trolls before they disappeared into the walls of the cave.
They continued to torment him until he was driven into a wall of boulders, each the size of his wagon. A grinding sound behind him made him spin around. The cave behind him had collapsed. He was alone. The message was clear: no escape.
Mistral went to work tunneling through the mass of fallen rock in front of him. Not wanting to waste energy, he made holes just large enough to crawl through. He no longer had an easy supply of demons to draw on and he didn’t want to kill any more of the world than he had to.
The rockfall was broader and deeper than he expected—maybe fifty feet. The dragon wanted him to exhaust him before they met in battle.
At last he reached the end. Just beyond, a steep, smooth slope led deeper underground, but the passage was too small to spread his wings and float down. Mistral drew one of his swords again and began sidestepping down. He slipped and skidded, but managed to keep his feet.
A wave of fire hit him before he found the bottom of the shaft. It boiled and churned around him. His Shield kept out the heat and the smoke, but did nothing to give him oxygen. In moments he began to cough and soon his lungs were aching with need. He pulled at the flames, but fire offered little creation energy. Mistral’s feet slipped out from under him and he landed hard on his side. He tumbled down the rock face into the heart of the inferno.
He slammed into the bottom, rolling to break his fall. Lunging to his feet, he whirled in
a circle, trying to get his bearing. He couldn’t see beyond the flames and he was nearly out of air. A gesture sent a smothering wave outward and the flames fell. More burned beyond, eating what air the passage had to offer.
The dragon was taunting him. Mistral snarled and staggered forward. Before long he found himself panting. Spots danced across his vision. He clenched his teeth. He would not go down so easily. He pushed outward, gathering raw energy from the stone. He thrust it upward, blowing a shaft through a hundred feet of rock and soil. Dirt and pebbles rained down on him. He reversed the magic and created a whirling twist in the atmosphere above, pulling air into the tunnel and driving it forward into the fire. The flames vanished like blown birthday candles. Mistral let the magic unwind. The wind broke apart and gusts blew in every direction as they sought escape. After a few minutes, the air calmed.
Sweat matted Mistral’s hair to his forehead and tremors ran through his body. He’d never channeled such power before. He didn’t know his limit, but clearly his body had begun to reach it. Exactly what the dragon wanted.
He continued on. The tunnel floor was mostly flat, now. He walked another mile or two with no further attacks, going deeper into darkness with every step. He knew he was close when he began to smell the gut-twisting stench of carrion mixed with sulfur and rotted fish carcasses.
The passage twisted twice and then emptied into a massive cavern. A quarter the size of Tarrytown, it appeared to have been carved in preparation for this confrontation. Except for Mistral and the waiting dragon, it was empty.
Ouza.
The dragon’s true name rolled through Mistral’s mind like thunder, quaking through his flesh and making his bones ache marrow deep. He’d never dared think it before, unwilling to call attention to himself. Now he silently sounded the word in angry defiance. He struggled to keep erect, even as his mind twisted off its axis and vertigo overwhelmed him.
The dragon hulked halfway to the ceiling. Supposedly the Most High had turned the bodies of the Fallen into reflections of their inner ugliness. Ouza’s body was jointed like a scorpion’s and covered with bony yellow plates that clicked and snapped when he moved. From his sides sprang a multitude of spidery legs, each arcing high over his back and ending in three massive barbs. Wire hairs pricked from his legs, throat and belly. His thin, whiplike tail was as long as his body. His pale white belly and neck were pocked with great oozing sores.
