“Oh dear.” Chrysanthe looked to her silent companion for guidance before looking back to Tristan again. “I suppose you really don’t know…”
“Know what?” he snapped, teeth gritted against the new rush of pain.
“Lilith’s been talking about you for years.”
“What—years? That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because I—”
“You have always been what you are, Tristan.” Her tone was sharp, she was annoyed. “You were born an Uruwashi, you grew up an Uruwashi… what makes you think all of this was sudden? What makes you think your fate hadn’t always been what it is now? There are things at work, things bigger than any one person, all around us. Just because you didn’t know of your own self didn’t mean others didn’t. You have always been. Do you understand?”
He blinked at her a moment, feeling a little blindsided, before answering, “I wish I didn’t.”
“The raven flies. The flower blossoms. The star falls. The earth shudders…” She turned to look at him. “Darkness awakens.”
Tristan let out his held breath by way of a shaky sigh. “You know the words,” he whispered. He had hoped no one would ever utter them again. They were just words, simple, nonsense words. But they frightened him in a deep, profound way that even he couldn’t explain.
“You are the raven, you know.”
“I… I am?”
Chrysanthe gave a decisive nod. “Don’t you know what your kind was called before they garnered the name of Uruwashi?”
Holy shit. She was right. He’d heard Yuki mutter it so many times now that he thought about it. Karasu, karasu, always with the karasu, like she was cursing someone. Cursing Tristan?
“Uruwashi were the ravens…,” he said softly.
“Yes. And there is a mention of earth.”
“So?”
She blinked up at him. “Asta no Tsuchi…? Does that mean anything to you?”
“Oh my god!” Tristan gasped and sprung to his feet, only to immediately wince and groan. The sudden movement sent a new surge of broken pain throughout his upper body. Holy Christ, it was getting worse. He carefully sat down and said in a low voice, “Ash is of earth.”
“Aye,” the pythia said, eyes fixed past Tristan on her companion. Silas was imploring her with his eyes over the rim of his glasses to please stop this. She spoke of interference and now that’s exactly what she was doing.
“But what does it all mean?”
The pythia grimaced. “You know, you really should ask the child, Lilith, herself. Well, that is if she weren’t with Yukihime…”
“You,” Tristan stopped and looked at her. “You don’t know about Lilith, do you?”
“Oh dear, what exactly do you mean?”
“She… I’ve met her, face-to-face. I tried to ask, but…”
“Yes?”
He frowned, looking away. Just remembering the child made him shiver uneasily. “She’s gone mute. And she uh… she tore out her own eyes.” Immediately after seeing Tristan for the first time. He still wondered if it was because of him.
“Oh dear. So it’s come to that then.”
“That, what?”
She wouldn’t look at the others. “The most powerful of us—it takes great strength to carry such a burden as a strong foresight. Madness is… late stage for a pythia near death.”
“But she’s just a child.”
“Only in appearance. Lilith was born three hundred years ago. Granted, I’ve known older pythia in my time, but the capacity to handle one’s visions varies for us all. For someone as clairvoyant as Lilith to have lived this long…” She paused a moment, sighing in dismay. “Once, long, long ago the ancients of our kind believed that in removing their eyes, the visions would stop. Of course, the whole idea is utterly absurd as our visions have nothing to do with our ocular abilities, but when desperate…. If Lilith removed her own eyes, I’m sorry to say that she may not be alive much longer—maybe not even long enough to see the end of the prophecy perhaps. It’s a pity really, we all strive to see our visions from start to finish, the masterpieces of our life, that one great vision that presides over all others.”
Tristan frowned. “She’s dying?”
“She’s mad.”
“Shit,” he sighed. Did the others know? Did Yukihime even care? Somehow, he felt responsible for the girl’s demise. It was his fault, somehow, that she was dying.
“The trip to Crete will still be a bit longer,” Chrysanthe said softly, breaking the silence. “You should rest.”
Tristan had a surge of something new, annoyance. “How much longer?”
“Hmm…” She muttered in Greek under her breath.
“Excuse me?”
Chrysanthe sighed and answered, “Six hours.”
That would put them in Crete at nearly dusk. “You lying little shit!”
Silas was suddenly on his feet. Tristan had to hand it to him, for such a lanky, frail looking dude, he could move fast. The small knife jabbing the small of his back was proof enough of that. Apparently Tristan had reached for his gun, though he didn’t make it a very conscious move.
“I never made any promises about daylight. I just said that we would help you find Ash alive.”
“Meanwhile that freak with the dual personality will have a whole fucking night to mess Ash up.”
Chrysanthe looked at him, expression full of disbelief. “You think she can’t take care of herself?”
“No, I—”
“She’s a sodding vampire, dear. Stronger than you or me or Silas. Yes, Genovasco has a small advantage over Ash, being of her bloodline and older, but perhaps this is exactly what Ash needs.”
“How could she need to be tortured again by someone more powerful?”
“I never said Genovasco was more powerful.”
“But—”
“Yes, Genovasco is older, and utterly mad. But I believe Ash is stronger than she realizes. She just needs someone to show her just how strong she is.”
Tristan sat back with a grunt, clutching his arm to him. His body was starting to tremble from the constant strain of dealing with the pain. The stress of it was going to make him either go insane or pass out. “And you don’t think that’s interfering?”
The pythia smiled big up at him. “Just helping a comrade.”
4: The Gardener
THE pain was worse when he moved. Or when he blinked, or when the wind blew. The trembles started while he was still on the boat. Now he was shivering and sweating. And panting and drooling. He was at his limit. When all of this was said and done, he’d find out what spell the pythia used on him and then find a counter spell, have a bunch of it made and carry it on him always. There was no way he could go through this kind of pain again. His very bones felt as if they were trying to rip apart, muscles strained to the max and nerves alight with cold fire that made his face and neck tingle with numbness. God, he was dying, he just knew.
Chrysanthe shot him a worried look. “Nearly there.”
Good, you stupid cow. I’m about to die.
He’d have to remember to repeat the words aloud when he could speak again. That was if he didn’t die in the next five minutes because he was pretty sure he was about it kick it.
The group stopped and Tristan looked up, surprised. He had no concept of time anymore, only that the sun was nearly set. Ash would be awake already. At home, she’d be standing in front of a mirror right about now, brushing out her new haircut. She didn’t seem to like it much at first, but then it grew on her and she loved it, the subtle change that it was.
Tristan remembered the first time he realized that Ash had a reflection in the mirror. How she laughed and laughed. She’d said that while she admired Mr. Stoker and his brilliant work, he’d gotten much about the race wrong. In older times, yes, some of the things he wrote on were indeed true, but that wasn’t the whole truth of it. It was more of the perceived truth her kind held onto. The older of her kind were a fierc
ely superstitious bunch and often were afraid to deviate from this perceived truth—such as having to travel with the earth of their birthplace. It took vampires into nearly the seventeenth century to realize the folly of that “truth”.
He swayed, looking up at the house in front of him. His mind had wandered and he wasn’t sure how long. It felt like years he’d been standing there, waiting for the door to open. Someone did remember to knock, right?
The other two exchanged a look when their knocks went unanswered. With a nod to his partner, Silas opened the front door and let them in. Tristan, unable to walk on his own anymore, was dragged in by the elf.
Chrysanthe scoffed, cowering as she covered her mouth and nose with a hand. “Old tosser.”
God, the smell. “What…what’s…,” were all the words Tristan could mutter. If this spell Chrysanthe’d slapped on him didn’t kill him that smell alone just might do it. The air was heavy with it, they could taste the sour earth mixed with the bite of metallic electricity and rotting greens.
“Oh dear, don’t worry. I promise he’s one of the best. An antediluvian.”
Silas held back the curtain that blocked the doorway out of the foyer. The cloth was stained with smoke from the old pythia’s pipe, potions for relaxation and other… alterations of the mind. Chrysanthe nodded and walked into the next room, immediately regretting not buying the facemask Silas had once, in all seriousness, suggested they use when they visited the old antediluvian.
“You’re behind, bygone—belated!” an old voice called out from deep in the room. “L—late!”
The few bare bulbs strung across the room like ugly Halloween decorations were clustered with flies and moths, trying to suicide themselves from the looks of it just to be free of the suffocating, dense air.
Silas floated into the room, despite supporting most of Tristan’s heavier weight. The elf knew the pile of books on the left hand wall hid a sofa and went over, avoiding tripping on books and alchemy supplies. Chrysanthe helped sweep the books aside, clearing off the sofa, inciting a string of Greek curses flung at them.
“Oh dear, no need to be rude,” she answered to the swearing and waded through the room to the source of the voice.
Silas, left alone with their “captive”, lowered Tristan to the sofa. The elf’s hand actually felt cold to Tristan when it was placed on his forehead. Silas frowned down at him, thinking he looked like death, all pale and covered in sweat from a fever that was quickly overtaking him.
“Chrysanthe,” the elf said softly but firmly, by way of warning.
“I know, love.”
Tristan’s eyes widened. “You… talk?”
The elf cracked a small smile and slipped off his glasses. Tristan gasped when he finally saw the man’s eyes for the first time, the startling unnatural, bright fuchsia that they were. “She usually talks enough for us both.”
Tristan snorted a laugh and his eyes rolled back at the over exertion. He was about to lose consciousness. It was a miracle he lasted this long. “I don’t feel so good,” he whispered through the panting. His chest was tight; it was so hard to breathe.
“Chrysanthe,” Silas warned again, louder.
“I know!” She cleared her throat as if to clear away her outburst and smoothed her hands over her skirt. She hated that she needed to rely on this man for anything, but it couldn’t be helped, his magic was stronger and that was that. She only wished he had better housekeeping and hygiene habits. “Aggi, dear?”
“Stay, stall—stop calling me that!”
She smiled, turning a stack of books taller than her. “Oh dear, are you not ready?”
The old man looked up from where he was bent over a table. His salt and pepper hair was a wild beehive of a mess, twisted and filled with twigs. He was short for a man, close to five feet, but not quite. Some of his stature was due to the kyphosis bowing him over. His hands were gnarled with rheumatoid arthritis and shaky but he moved with a surprising deftness that proved his strong will.
The table he worked at was covered with shit, not an inch of it showed between plants—potted and uprooted, glass cylinders, books, papers, matches, foils of gold and other metals, wooden rods and metal… all the tools of a pythia. Or rather, all the tools of the most disorganized pythia to ever exist. The disorganization almost disgusted Chrysanthe more than the smell.
“Lurch, lag—late!” the old man screamed again, wrinkled hands shaking as he reached for an ingredient and ended up knocking over a vile of something clear that fizzed when it soaked a strand of yew.
Chrysanthe crossed her arms over her chest and pouted at him. “You look a fright, Aggi, dear.”
The old man harrumphed. “Not all women share your position, point—perspective.”
Now it was Chrysanthe’s turn to harrumph. “You’ve been transmuting gold again, haven’t you?”
The old pythia only scowled at her, telling her she was right.
“He’s not well.”
“Should have theorized, think—thought of that before you spelled him. You knew you were misfiring.”
Chrysanthe tensed and forced herself not to look back at the scowl she knew Silas inevitably wore.
The old pythia looked past her to the American on the sofa, hands constantly moving as he finished off the spell he’d been working on. Despite the shakes in jitters his old body gave him, he was very deft with his work. He was told to have it ready before the others arrived and that he wasn’t could mean his life if he didn’t save Tristan’s. His employer was a very precise man.
“You, elf, take that off his arm.”
Silas didn’t argue despite knowing he was just called elf in the derogatory way and not as a simple statement of identification. He went to a nearby table to root around the antediluvian’s things until he found an old hand-powered cutting tool to remove the cast on Tristan’s left wrist.
“I’m ready,” the old antediluvian muttered. “You’re late and I’m ready. Been ready before today, recently, yesterday and more. Motion, maneuver—move.”
Chrysanthe sighed as she side stepped out of the old man’s way. He moved with an unsteady gate, but seemed confident where he placed his feet despite the fact that he was nearly blind and his robes looked very heavy—the weight of his spells, no doubt. “Shouldn’t you spell yourself young already, Aggi? I mean, how much longer can you function like this? You’re at a great risk like this…”
His bushy brow rose, showing a clear glimpse of his grey eyes. “You younglings and your fears, don’t trust your own selves enough. Spiteful, shameful—stupid.”
She just huffed, following the old man as he nimbly made his way to Tristan through the piles of junk. Old and shaky, but he was quick and sharp. Perhaps Chrysanthe had misjudged him.
“Are you done yet, elf? Don’t have all dawn, diurnal—day.”
Silas rolled his eyes but stepped away, taking the last of the cast material with him. He returned the hand cutter where he’d found it and then looked for a trashcan. Realizing such a thing didn’t exist in this place Silas just threw the trash onto the table. Chrysanthe, having been watching him, smirked when he turned and they met eyes. He just smiled and shrugged.
“All right here, let’s see what’s left of the buck, baby—boy.” The old man leaned over, inspecting Tristan up close as if he were some sort of book to be read. Tristan wasn’t even conscious anymore, his breathing dangerous shallow. “Could have brought him sooner.”
“Boat only moves so fast, Aggi.”
“Mainland? I see. Elf. Come here. Control, clasp—clutch him down. He’s not going to like this.”
“He has a name, Aggi,” Chrysanthe snapped bitterly. “And it’s not bloody elf.”
Without complaint, Silas did as he was told and went over to sit on top of Tristan, straddling his waist, fingers wedged between teeth to hold Tristan’s mouth open. The antediluvian opened the flask he’d been clutching and with no real ceremony or care, upended it into Tristan’s mouth. There wasn’t much, but m
uch wasn’t needed with good, solid magic. Tristan immediately choked and spit it out. Having expected as much, the antediluvian grabbed for the nearby nasogastric feeding tube.
“Wait, what about a laryngoscope, you could hurt—”
Tristan’s body convulsed and Silas bore down on the larger man, fighting to keep him pinned while the old pythia had his way with him. Instead of his nose, the pythia shoved the tube straight down Tristan’s throat. The tube went in, but at what cost, the group wouldn’t know until it was all said and done. The last of the potion in the flask went easily down the tube and into Tristan’s belly, his unconscious body still fighting the tube.
“You’re too rough, Aggi,” Chrysanthe hissed.
“Done what needs to be done. Die, depart—demise, this is the way to live.”
The tube came free as the old pythia whispered a few words of incantation. Tristan’s eyes popped open and he swung out. The old man moved much faster than he should have and it was Silas who took the hit. The elf grunted as he tumbled back and off Tristan. Both men were on their feet at the same time, gun and sword pointed at each other.
“The fuck is wrong with you people!” Tristan screamed and then touched his throat where it ached. He could taste blood and wondered if it was his own or not. “About killed me!”
“Place, plop—put those away.”
Tristan snapped around to look at the old man, pointing the gun at him. “Who the fuck are you?”
The hunched old man furrowed his brow. “Agamemnon,” he answered frankly as if everyone knew that.
Duh.
“Oh, well that answers everything. And you,” he turned to Chrysanthe. He grabbed her arm and shoved the gun under her chin. Silas immediately reacted but she waved him off despite the fear in her eyes. “You nearly killed me. What happened to your strong magic, huh?”
“It was a mere miscalculation, Tristan. I never meant to harm you.”
Moon Child Page 5
