Bring the Fire (The Wisdom's Grave Trilogy Book 3)

by Craig Schaefer

  “You can’t come,” Nessa said.

  Marie shook her head a little, like she wasn’t sure she’d heard her.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Marie, there aren’t many ways this ends in a victory. The Demiurge might kill me the second I walk through that gateway, or worse.”

  “So we die. At least we die together.”

  “No,” Nessa said. “Damn it, Marie, for once you have a chance to survive. I’m already dead, don’t you get that? Even if I survive whatever happens tonight, I’ll be dead in days. Nadia wove her trap for me, and she wove it well. All I can do is make the most of it.”

  “I won’t go to her.”

  “Yes, you will,” Nessa said, “because you gave your word and we both know you won’t break it.”

  “If you die. I said I’d go to her if you die—”

  Hedy interrupted, stepping over with a pair of mugs. Light steam wafted from the rims, carrying the scent of chamomile.

  “I think we could all use a little tea,” she said. “Good for the nerves.”

  “I’m not nervous,” Marie groused, but she took the mug.

  “Well, I’m nervous enough for both of us,” Nessa said. She blew across her mug and took a sip.

  “Easy solution for that.” Marie cradled the warm mug in both hands and raised it to her lips. “Take me with you.”

  “And then I’ll be worried about your safety.”

  “I’m supposed to be worried about your—”

  “Marie. I know. I know.”

  Nessa reached over. She stretched out her fingers and rested them on Marie’s thigh.

  “That ship has already sailed,” she said. “Let’s look at it mathematically, hmm? Think of it as a logic problem. If we go together, and the Demiurge destroys us both, you’ve died for nothing. If he refuses to help and we can’t force him to, I’m still going to die and there’s no guarantee you’ll be able to return to this world. Again, you die for nothing. If he can’t help, same scenario. If a miracle occurs, and he’s able and willing to heal my sickness and return me here, I’m fine, we’re reunited, and we both live.”

  They argued, and drank their tea, and argued. Marie thrust her fists against Nessa’s iron walls of logic until her arms grew tired. Trapped downrange of a lovers’ quarrel, Janine found some questions for Hedy and asked them in the kitchenette, both of them trying to stay out of the way.

  Marie kept fighting, long after she’d run out of punches to throw. She circled back, repeating herself, and Nessa gently but firmly reminded her that she’d already given her answer. Steering Marie back onto a one-way path that led to acquiescence. With nothing left, Marie spoke the truth into Nessa’s eyes.

  “I’d rather die,” she said. “I’d rather die than live without you.”

  “I knew you would say that,” Nessa said. “And I hope you can forgive me.”

  Marie squinted. She set the empty cup down and rubbed at her eyes.

  “Nessa, what—what is—”

  Nessa reached out, taking gentle hold of Marie’s cheek. She was out of words too, so she just touched her, until Marie’s eyes rolled back and her eyelids fluttered shut. She slumped against the futon, sliding halfway onto the floor. Nessa caught her and waved Hedy over.

  “Help me get her into bed.”

  She took Marie by the shoulders and Hedy grabbed her legs. Janine ran over, following as they hoisted her up and carried Marie into her cramped and cluttered bedroom.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Janine said, her voice on the edge of panic. “Is she okay?”

  “She’s sleeping,” Nessa said.

  They laid her down on the lumpy mattress, propping a pillow beneath her head. Nessa took one last look, her fingertips trailing along Marie’s brow, and turned away.

  “Sleeping charm on her tea,” she said to Janine. “By the time she wakes up, I’ll be gone.”

  Janine stared at her sleeping friend, then at Nessa, then back again, the depth of her treason sinking in. She searched for something to say, some way to release the sick horror that felt like a lead weight in her heart.

  Janine’s hand whistled through the air and cracked against Nessa’s cheek.

  Behind her, Hedy went tense. Nessa raised one slow hand and rubbed her reddened cheek.

  “You can’t possibly hate me any more than I hate myself right now,” Nessa said in a soft voice. “But if you have any honesty in you, you’ll admit this had to be done. For her. I’m doing this for her.”

  She pointed to the open doorway.

  “Now fetch me a pen and some paper, so I can write her a letter.”

  * * *

  The C-130 Hercules descended fast from a stormy, darkening sky, banking hard and aiming for LaGuardia Airport. It touched down on the tarmac with a rough, rattling thump and screaming breaks, throwing its passengers sideways in their jump seats. Then it taxied for a private hangar with a government registry.

  The cargo ramp began its slow, whirring descent. Jessie and Harmony stood at the ramp’s edge, the fold of metal exposing the world beyond as it inched downward. Daniel and Caitlin—the latter stoic, her scarlet hair in a French braid that draped over one shoulder of her white leather trench coat—stood beside them.

  Carolyn was at Caitlin’s shoulder. She gave the demoness a tiny arm nudge. Caitlin glanced back and arched a sculpted eyebrow.

  “Isn’t it a little warm for that coat?” Carolyn asked.

  “As you know perfectly well, because you’ve written about it in your little books, my prince’s domain is the West Coast. I’m not necessarily welcome in New York, and with the locals hostile, Nyx and her hunters on a rampage, and the Network afoot, I chose to wear a symbol they’re well familiar with. The white coat is a message.”

  “What’s the message?” she asked.

  Caitlin pulled back one side of her coat. A coiled bullwhip, old and supple leather, its cold brass handle inscribed with jagged runes, dangled on her hip.

  “I don’t come for parley,” Caitlin said in her Scottish burr. “I come for war.”

  Carolyn fell silent for a moment. Then she said: “So…does your prince read my books?”

  “You renamed him ‘Citron.’”

  Carolyn nodded. “I change all the names.”

  Caitlin folded her arms and stared dead ahead.

  “My prince,” she said, “is not a lemon.”

  On her other side, Daniel leaned closer to Harmony.

  “Been meaning to ask you something.”

  “Hopefully not a favor, under the circumstances.”

  “Something like that,” he said. “You stole my car last year.”

  “Your car was impounded after you were arrested. Considering you’re legally dead, it’s not your car anymore.”

  “But then you stole it,” he said. “My fixer got me the impound records.”

  “Putting in a legal requisition form for a vehicle is not ‘stealing’ it.”

  “I’m just saying, you don’t mess with a man’s wheels. You just don’t do it.”

  “You faked your own death,” Harmony said.

  “Well, now you know better.” He paused. “So?”

  Harmony gestured to the plane’s cavernous cargo bay.

  “Do you see a car here?”

  He couldn’t argue with the empty space. He faced the ramp, tapping his foot.

  “Really want my ride back,” he said.

  “We’ll see,” she told him.

  Behind them, Gazelle was corralling the last survivors of the Pallid Masque. Butterfly, Vole, Roach, and Mantis clustered around her. Half of them were visibly shaky and pale, Gazelle foremost among them.

  “We are all agreed,” she said, “that metal cages that fly without magic are terrible, and we never need to do this again.”

  She drank in the chorus of nods.

  “But we’re here now,” Gazelle said. “The Dire Mother is counting on us, and the Owl is counting on us. We can’t let them down. No matt
er what happens tonight, we stay strong and we hold the line.”

  They agreed with that, too. By silent accord the witches formed a circle and joined hands, the five sharing their strength between them, feeling it flow.

  When they broke ranks, Jessie stood at the circle’s edge. She waved Gazelle over with a casual flip of her hand.

  “You in charge of this crew?” Jessie asked.

  “The Mouse is our leader. It’s my honor to serve as her knight.”

  “My partner and I are wondering about your intentions, when this is all done and the dust settles.”

  “Intentions?” Gazelle asked.

  “Specifically, are you planning to return to your world of native origin?”

  Gazelle glanced to the ceiling of the plane, head tilted, thinking.

  “Well, that’s going to be up to the Mouse, but we’re largely in agreement that we’d like to settle here. For one thing, there’s a murder cult trying to kill us back in our own world. For another, this world has hot running water and minibars and barbecue potato chips.”

  “These are compelling arguments,” Jessie said. “We’re gonna have to talk about this. After.”

  The ramp touched down. They moved out.

  * * *

  A convoy of yellow cabs snaked through the streets of Queens. The passengers disembarked outside a plain brick apartment building over a convenience store.

  They met on the roof. Nessa was already there, Hedy at her side. Night had fallen, and Manhattan was a glowing beacon in the distance. The bars across the way were lighting up blue and white, shutters rolling open, and the streets were clogged with slow-motion traffic. Ordinary people, trying to get home from another ordinary day.

  That was me once, Nessa thought. She could barely remember the feeling of a life without magic, a life before she got onto the roller coaster and climbed to the first crescendo before the fall. A time before she’d embraced the role she’d been cast in against her will.

  And tonight, my final scene.

  All eyes were on her. She felt like she should say something. She decided to keep it simple.

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen tonight,” she said. “I wish I could offer you some certainty, some solace, some glimmer of what the world will look like come dawn. I can’t. All I know is this. Once upon a time, God wrote a story. A story about two women who met and fell very much in love, and would move worlds for one another. And for one of those women, a miserable, evil, and most wicked witch, this love was the only good and pure thing in her entire life.”

  Nessa’s grip tightened on her Cutting Knife. Clytemnestra’s silhouette wavered upon the dark steel blade.

  “And then he killed them. Over and over and over again. Two women fell in love, and he killed them for it.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “Our author has wronged us. And tonight he’s going to hear from me.” She looked to her daughter. “Hedy, hold the book. Gazelle, take up the candle.”

  In her other hand, Nessa brandished the copper bell.

  “Let’s get started.”

  * * *

  The world swam back to Marie in slow, gentle waves, like her bed was rocking upon a tropical pool. She opened her eyes, squinting, rubbing the blur out of them.

  Then she remembered how she got there, and shot bolt upright.

  She jumped off the mattress, frantic, and spotted the folded letter on her bedside table. Nessa’s precise cursive spelled out Read Me. She grabbed it and unfolded it, her heart sinking with every word.

  Marie, my love,

  First, don’t be angry at Hedy. She hexed your tea, but it was by my command. She wasn’t happy about it. Janine had no idea, either. This betrayal is mine alone.

  I can only hope that you’ll forgive me, and that someday you’ll understand why I did it. I meant every word I said, love. There is a time for romantic and doomed last stands, but this…this is not that time. We have a once-in-all-our-lifetimes chance to make a change, and part of that change is a twist in the tale. This time, the Knight lives.

  I won’t be entirely alone. Clytemnestra is with me. We have a plan. An idea, more than a plan, and I’d mark our chance of success…I don’t even want to write down a number that small. But it’s better than nothing.

  And you’ll be with me, too.

  Hedy told me something that I taught her, when I was the Owl of Mirenze. All successful witchcraft begins in passion. In hunger. In fury and darkness. When you approach the altar of magic, you can’t just come with a wish cupped in your open hands. You have to bring the fire.

  You are my fire, Marie.

  You gave me love I didn’t deserve. Strength I never knew I needed. You came into my life and brought magic with you.

  You were always the best part of me. I love you. And I always will.

  Nessa

  Marie bolted out the door. Janine was on the futon, hands clasped in her lap, staring at the floor like a patient in a doctor’s waiting room.

  “Where?” Marie demanded.

  “Marie, she already—”

  “Where?”

  “The roof,” Janine said. Her head hung once more as Marie dashed out of the apartment. She took the old wooden stairs two at a time, feet pounding on the dusty risers, and threw open the access door at the top.

  Everyone was there. Everyone but Nessa. And at the heart of the rooftop, a shadow in the shape of a woman had been scorched black upon the dirty concrete.

  Marie fell to her knees and pressed her hands to her face, fighting back the tears.

  Forty

  Nessa stood upon a silver walkway, ten feet wide and polished to a mirror sheen, suspended in a murky abyss. The world around her was a void of molten mercury, shifting, lights glimmering beyond misty clouds.

  Crystal statues flanked the walkway. They were towering, brandishing wickedly barbed spears. As she strode toward them, their heads turned her way.

  “No god’s design will bar my path,” Nessa hissed. “No locks, no wards.”

  She raised the copper bell high and brought it slashing down. A shock wave erupted along the walkway and caught a statue head-on, blasting it into a shower of crystal shards.

  “No hopes, no dreams,” she said.

  The bell swooped down. It clanged with the sound of a cannon shot, and a second statue exploded.

  “I am the night wind,” Nessa said. “I am inevitable consequence.”

  The bell’s merciless echo rained destruction down upon the path. Ancient guardians crumbled, blowing off the lip of the walkway and plummeting into the endless void in pieces. Crystal heads and hands and spear hafts littered the road ahead as she walked forward, relentless.

  A mammoth shape rose from the deep, looming alongside the path and hovering there. It was a wheel of flesh a hundred feet across, whirling and spitting gouts of blue-hot flame from its spokes. Eyes sprouted from the wheel’s face, countless, all sizes and colors and all staring at Nessa with a single emotion: hatred. She turned to face the wheel and raised the bell high.

  “And I will not be denied,” she shouted and whipped the bell downward. The wheel’s flames turned to ice under the sheer force of her fury, and it spun, falling, plummeting back into the mercury abyss.

  Nessa strode onward.

  A door stood at the walkway’s end. Simple, plain, wooden. The grainy knob yielded to the turn of her wrist, and she let herself inside.

  * * *

  A small, grassy lawn surrounded a small, humble cottage. A trickle of black smoke leaked from a brick chimney, poking through the crude thatched rooftop. The smoke coiled up to a bubble-dome of sky. And beyond it, the endless dark void of the Shadow In-Between. Nessa looked in all directions, seeing where the lawn suddenly cut off at the bubble’s edge. It was a very small world.

  The air was cool and crisp like a perfect fall morning. She caught the scent of home cooking, some kind of comforting stew. She walked up to the cottage.

  Outside the front door, a mound o
f bare earth marked the length of a grave. A simple pylon of stone stood at the grave’s head, with simple letters etched into the rock: Sophia.

  “She’s not really in there,” said a small voice at Nessa’s back.

  “I know.” Nessa turned, raising her hand, taking in the void above. “She’s out there. She’s everywhere.”

  The voice belonged to a child. Maybe twelve or so, towheaded and dressed in a white linen robe. Grass stains clung to the robe’s hem and knees. He kept his distance, uncertain.

  “You aren’t one of the kings.”

  “Don’t you know who I am?”

  He shook his head, and a fresh spark of anger fired in Nessa’s heart. She fought to keep it under control.

  “But you are him,” she said. “You’re Wisdom’s child. The creator. The Demiurge.”

  “I don’t do that anymore,” he said.

  “How can you not know who I am?”

  The child squinted at her. “You don’t have a human soul. What are you?”

  “Look harder,” Nessa said through gritted teeth.

  “Oh.” He took a halting step back, sandals scuffling in the tall grass. “Oh. I wrote you. I remember now.”

  She closed in on him. “You remember? You mean you forgot about us?”

  “It’s not that simple. I made so many things…” He looked to the void. “I made too many things. I just wanted to be like my mother. She was perfect. I wanted to make something perfect.”

  “World after world after world,” she said. “And because humanity didn’t live up to, what, some arbitrary standard of perfection, you abandoned them.”

  “I didn’t mean to!” he said. “I mean, I tried. But I could hear them. I can still hear them, praying to me. Imagine eight billion voices in your head. A million times eight billion. And they’re all hurting and they all need something and I can’t.”

  He paced across the grass, keeping his distance, his face twisted in a grimace as he slapped at one of his ears.

  “Imagine hearing a child dying of hunger, and you’re trying to pick out their voice, just one voice, while ten thousand people are shouting that they want you to make their football team win, and ten thousand more are shouting for the other side. In my other ear I have a policeman who wants me to help him catch a criminal, and that same criminal is begging me for help because he stole bread to feed his family. Every second of every hour of every day, they all want me to be judge and jury, they all want me to fix everything, fix their lives, fix what hurts, and it’s too many. I can’t. I just can’t.”