The Stories: Five Years of Original Fiction on Tor.com

by Various

  I face him soon. I will avenge you. I thought the words, tried to form images, to communicate. I wasn’t sure if I succeeded, but the pain eased. I could breathe, could move, and felt my body begin healing itself. By the time the ritual was finished I was whole again.

  I stepped out of the circle and reclaimed my clothes from Alex. I didn’t speak as I pulled on lacy undergarments, then comfortable black jeans and simple red T-shirt.

  “Are you all right?” He was looking at me strangely as he passed me the rest of my clothes.

  “I think so. Why?”

  He swallowed hard. “You’ve changed.”

  I looked up at him. “Changed how?”

  “Your hair.”

  I’d pulled my long auburn hair back in a tight ponytail before starting the ritual. Reaching up, I pulled the end of the tail in front of my face.

  My hair was white. Pure white. Oh, my.

  Was I all right? I thought about that as I pulled up the zipper on my black leather biker jacket. I felt good but…strange: empty, light-headed. Power thrummed through my body. I could feel it pounding through me in time with the beat of my heart. It was intense, amazing, and just short of painful. “I don’t know.”

  “Great. Terrific.”

  His sarcasm grounded me, made me smile. “Hey, I’m alive.”

  His expression darkened, and he looked down at me in what probably should’ve been an intimidating manner. But all I could see was that he was tired, so tired. The shield had drained a lot out of him. “You weren’t expecting to be?”

  I smiled up at him. Taking his arm, I pushed a gentle wash of healing energy into him. “I was very drained. It was possible I wouldn’t be able to control the power. It could easily have overwhelmed me.”

  “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “Would it have made any difference? I needed to do this.”

  “Someone else could challenge him.”

  I looked into his blazing eyes. He’d have done it. Maybe he could have beaten Piotr. But this duel had to be mine. Alex couldn’t possibly understand that. He didn’t know me, didn’t know my history.

  Ultimately, the entire mess was my fault. It had started with me, hundreds of years ago. It was a different time, and I was a teenage girl who refused to be sold into marriage. I humiliated a powerful nobleman and mage, and to defend me, my father was forced to fight and die. My father had chosen me as his heir. The grimoires came to me. They were mine to protect. And I’d failed.

  I couldn’t fail again.

  “Stick around. If I lose you’ll get your chance.”

  He didn’t argue. Didn’t say a word. He just stared at me for an endless moment.

  Then he did something I didn’t expect. He kissed me.

  It was a good kiss, delivered with enough skill and body English to make my knees weak and my heart pound. When our lips parted I managed to speak, but my voice was breathy. “Not that I mind, but isn’t that against the rules?”

  “Only if I represent you. Since they’ve dropped the charges, you’re no longer my client.” He smiled down at me and gently reached over to brush a stray white curl back from my face. “I figured I’d better do it now, while I’ve got the chance.”

  “You think I’ll lose?”

  He paused, choosing his words carefully. “You reek of power. I can feel it coming off of you in waves. But I know you well enough already to know that you’ll fight fairly. He won’t.”

  “Which reminds me. There’s something we need to discuss.”

  5

  Joshua Tree National Park has a sere beauty that draws rock climbers from around the world. Pale tan fingers of craggy stone stretch beseechingly toward a sky so intensely blue it almost hurts to look at. Native scrub bushes and Joshua trees dot the ground, and what wildlife was there went to ground at the sound of our footfalls.

  I didn’t want witnesses stumbling onto what was about to happen. After placing my father’s grimoire on a flat rock within a protective circle I began a few simple preparations. An aversion spell is neither hard nor particularly tricky. I sent my will out as far as I could see, north, east, south, and west. Anyone tempted to come within three miles of this spot would get nervous first. If they persisted, they would be struck ill. Nothing serious or lasting. But for the three or four hours of my slugfest with Piotr, any innocent would-be bystanders would be perched on the porcelain throne.

  I had intended to pace off the dueling area and check for hidden traps, but Piotr arrived early, my niece in tow. She looked rough, her red hair a tangled mess, a dark bruise marring the right side of her face. He flung her to the sandy ground at Alex’s feet, where she lay sobbing piteously.

  “Shall we begin?” He sneered. He set the grimoire he carried next to mine. If passing through my circle stung him, he didn’t let it show.

  I kept my expression neutral. He looked like a fool, dressed all in black like the villain from an old movie. But he was a dangerous fool. He was so stuffed with power that he practically glowed with it, and it had gone to his head. At least I hoped it had. Because I wanted him overconfident. “Of course.”

  There are traditions for formal duels that need to be followed to the letter if the winner is to benefit and take the loser’s magic and artifacts. Alex spoke the ritual words, his voice ringing with power as it bounced off of the rocks, echoing through our makeshift arena. Back to back, Piotr and I each sent our power outward, creating a circle of magical fire that enclosed us. This would contain our magic and prevent any interference from those outside the ring. The circle would stand until either or both of us fell.

  The two halves of the circle met with an almost deafening roar, the sound signaling the beginning of the duel.

  I dived away from Piotr as I cast my first spell. I didn’t attack him directly. Instead, I spoke words that tuned the ground beneath us to my magic. He’d still be able to use earth magic, but it would be tremendously difficult for him, draining him of energy. And he wouldn’t be able to pull enough energy from the ground to cause an earthquake.

  I rolled and rose to my feet; his first blow missed me entirely. But he recovered quickly. Fast as a thought he launched an attack, opening a crack in the ground, intending to let the earth swallow me. Expressions of surprise and rage raced across his face as he felt his power hit my spell.

  I willed the ground beneath me solid before he’d finished speaking. When Piotr’s force hit my impenetrable wall of power, it shattered backward, so the crack he’d intended for me nearly caught him instead. He made a frantic jump for steady ground, only to have me pull that out from under him as well before dropping a boulder or two on top of him just for spite.

  Then he conjured a tornado.

  Not a big tornado as far as that goes. But still, a tornado. That rope of vicious wind sucked the air from my lungs, spinning sand and debris into deadly projectiles. I countered by pulling the heat from the ground, converting it into a lightning bolt that I sent crashing into his chest.

  He lost control of the twister, and it dissipated almost as fast as it had appeared. In a frozen instant I saw the first flicker of fear in his eyes.

  I might have felt smug about that—if I wasn’t so damned tired. Not because of the effort, although flinging around this level of magic was hugely draining. Still, I’d pulled enough energy from the volcano that I could slug it out a while more. But I was heartsick. Because now that the battle was raging, Kat had gotten careless. Though she still lay on the ground, apparently distraught, her eyes were avid. The shift in concentration left her body free to heal the superficial injuries that had been meant to fool me into believing she was another of Piotr’s victims.

  Piotr drew breath to scream a word that was meant to suck the air from my lungs. I raised a wall of stone between us, and his command bounced off it harmlessly.

  Roaring in rage and frustration, he used his stolen power to smash the wall and began raining blows upon me. Since the power he was using was not his, he had little control. I was
able to counter each effort with ease, which only served to fuel his fury.

  I didn’t see the signal pass between them, but there must have been one. Because at the same instant that he reached inside his jacket, Kat pulled a knife from her boot and surged up at Alex.

  I called my power.

  Earth magic is used to heal. But it can also be used to kill. My father had taught me that. Taught me harshly, so that I would be a worthy guardian of the knowledge he was willing to me. I spoke a single word in Russian, then watched as Piotr’s body cast out every drop of moisture it held; the water exploded outward like rain and soaked into the sandy ground beneath him. He fell to the ground, shrieking in hideous agony, but the sound quickly died to a rattle as his throat dried up. Liquid blood turned to sand in his veins: his body collapsed in on itself in death, mummified more thoroughly than any pharaoh.

  The circle fell.

  I turned away from Piotr’s corpse, swallowing bile. He’d earned his death, but I didn’t feel good about it, any more than I could be happy that my niece had failed to kill Alex and now lay bound and helpless at the feet of the authorities he’d summoned.

  “It should have been mine.” Kat’s voice was raw with pain and rage.

  I turned slowly, fighting back tears for my sister, her husband, and so many others. My voice was harsh as hers. “You were never my heir. Never would have been.” With a gesture I said a word that froze her vocal cords. No more talking. I couldn’t bear it.

  I stared down at the bound volumes, wondering what I should do with them. They needed to be stored somewhere safe. I just didn’t know where.

  “Olga.” Alex spoke softly. There was sympathy in his voice—or maybe pity. “Valentin and his wife have petitioned for Piotr’s body. They want to give him a decent burial.”

  I blinked up at him, surprising myself with the sting of tears. They’d have had to file their petition before the duel. Which meant Valentin had known, or at least believed, that I would kill their son.

  “They can have their burial.” It was hard to speak, but I managed to choke out the words. “But don’t let them see the body. It’s too…” I stopped, unsure how to finish.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he promised. “You take care of those.” He nodded in the direction of the grimoires. “And when you’re done, we’ll go somewhere and rest. Just the two of us.”

  I looked up into those serious storm-gray eyes. “I don’t think I’ll be very good company.”

  He gave a sad smile. “I wouldn’t expect you to be. Not at first. But it’ll get better in time.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Copyright 2010 by C. T. Adams

  Artwork copyright by David Palumbo

  Acquired and edited for Tor.com by Melissa Ann Singer.

  Books by C.T. Adams and Cathy Clamp

  TALES OF THE SAZI

  Hunter’s Moon

  Moon’s Web

  Captive Moon

  Howling Moon

  Moon’s Fury

  Timeless Moon

  Cold Moon Rising

  Serpent Moon

  THE THRALL SERIES

  Touch of Evil

  Touch of Madness

  Touch of Darkness

  As Cat Adams

  Magic’s Design

  THE BLOOD SINGER SERIES

  Blood Song

  Siren Song

  Demon Song

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

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  Contents

  Begin Reading

  I don’t remember how the sun feels.

  It’s an abstract concept for me, something I know exists, but doesn’t have the meaning it once did. When we first came down, my mom and dad said it was just for a few weeks, just a precaution. The outbreaks in the city came from some biological agent released in Times Square, I guess, and the news was full of conflicting reports on whether it came from North Korea or Iran. Other sites had other theories, but it was a coordinated strike, targeting cities all over the world.

  At the time, I didn’t know why—or even what—was happening. I was thirteen when my parents quietly bought a unit in the bunkers. By that point, the city was bad enough that my mother no longer went out to do the marketing. Instead, she called a service that brought our food, and she didn’t let the courier come into the apartment, either. He left our groceries in the foyer with the doorman, who then scanned to make sure there were no foreign objects in the boxes or suspicious contaminants present.

  By this point, I had stopped attending school. I was nine when they declared a state of national emergency and the country went to martial law, trying to contain the damage. Whole sectors of the city were designated hazardous and quarantined accordingly. My dad said the heavily armed soldiers in the streets patrolled to protect me, so I wasn’t to worry about them. They would soon restore order and things would get back to normal. Though I didn’t know it at the time, he was totally wrong.

  For us, normal ended on May 5 when the chemicals exploded in Times Square.

  The world never recovered.

  It’s funny, but when I look back over my childhood, I see a progression of my world getting smaller. At five, I went on a plane with my parents and the whole universe lay open before me. There was a white beach with sand soft as powder and an endless blue ocean; the air was balmy, and it was an island, covered in mountains. I remember asking if this was heaven, and my mother laughed. She said, “It’s not heaven, Robin, but it is paradise.”

  There were other wonders on that trip, but I was so young that they’ve begun to fade, colors running together like a painting left out in the rain. I mind this fiercely because it feels like time is stealing what little I have left. After we came home, I went to school, and my world was my teacher and twenty-four other students. Then it narrowed further to my parents and the walls of the apartment with the occasional supervised trip outdoors.

  And when I was thirteen, they took away the sun. I argued. I sulked. I tried to convince my parents they were overreacting—we didn’t need to go live underground like rabbits, but they were afraid. The streets teemed with people who had been infected with the Metanoia Virus, and public services couldn’t cope with them all. My parents told me these unfortunates were unable to hold a job; their health and mental abilities had been permanently compromised. In time, they promised, the government would help the sick. I wasn’t sure shooting them or rounding them up in trucks counted as help, but I got used to hearing automatic-weapons fire and the rumble of large engines as I fell asleep.

  That morning, the bunker company sent an armed escort to take us from our apartment. We put on special clothing and masks that would allegedly protect us. I rode in an armored vehicle for the first time—and the last—that day. We went into a tall building, down some stairs, and through a heavy, heavy door. My parents signed some documents, and then we took possession of our new home.

  “It’s so small,” my mother said.

  My father put an arm around her. “We’ll get used to it. We’ll make do. This is just a precaution, just for a little while, until they get things back in order.”

  Now, I wonder if he knew, if he suspected.

  For the first year, we maintained contact with the outside world. The air we breathed was regulated and filtered, our food was expensive and packaged “like the astronauts eat,” according to my mother. That was supposed to make it more exciting, but I had to force my mine down. Sometimes I wondered wha
t the point of survival was, if this was what we had to do; it seemed there was nothing in the world worth saving.

  Then silence fell. Reports stopped coming. I was fourteen years old. My mother spent all day weeping when the news sites went quiet. Another day, she pressed random keys on the terminal, trying to get anyone to respond. And that was when we found the local intercom.

  Oh, we had known there were others in units nearby. We had seen the doors when we took possession of our unit, but the manager said it was best we didn’t mingle because opening the hermetic seal on our doors increased the risk of contagion. The company did its best to guarantee a 100 percent contaminant-free atmosphere, but that warranty existed only in our bunker, not in the public areas like the hallway. Which should be safe, but there was no guarantee.

  The terminal beeped, and then a voice said, “Hello?”

  He sounded young.

  My mother lost interest when she realized she hadn’t contacted the authorities for a status update. Someone who sounded like that couldn’t know any more than we did. So she stepped away and I took her place. A few more keystrokes and I had an image on-screen. I had spent most of my time sleeping, drawing, or reading, as I hadn’t been a tech person even before we came down here. In the bunker, I sketched furiously, as if I could keep the world alive by capturing my memories of it.

  “Are you inside too?” the boy asked.

  I nodded and told him our unit number. “You?”

  “I’m in three F. Austin Shelley,” he added, as if I had asked.

  “Robin Schiller.” I couldn’t think of a good way to ask this, so I just came out with it. “Have you talked to anyone or heard anything—”

  “No. This is the first contact I’ve had with anyone outside our flat in almost a year.”

  He had dark brown hair, green eyes, and a thin face with the concentrated pallor of one who hasn’t been outdoors in a while. I’d probably be showing the same lack, if I didn’t have my father’s dark skin. From my mother, I’d gotten hazel eyes and my interest in drawing. I’d never been outdoorsy or sporty, and I was lucky my dad didn’t care about such things too much. Before, he had some idea I might be a doctor like him, but with the way things had changed, I didn’t think much about the future.