by Ann Aguirre
“In my day, it wasn’t remotely appropriate to manhandle expectant ladies.”
“Yeah, they frown on it today too.” I paused. “Do you seriously think—”
“I don’t know. But it’s certain he’ll never return if you give up. But that’s your call to make. I understand if it’s too much, especially right now.”
An exhausted sigh pushed out of me. “No. We’ll keep at it, right up until the wire. If I fail, it won’t be because I stopped trying.”
“We’ll start back in the morning. There are still twenty more books to examine, some of which might actually be relevant. Perhaps one full week will mark lucky seven indeed.”
I could only hope.
That night, I didn’t sleep much. I tossed and turned, and when I did finally drift off my dreams were haunted by images of failure. First, it was Chance, stranded in his father’s realm and forgetting all about his human life, and then it was my child’s accusing eyes every time some other kid mentioned his dad. From that point, the dreams morphed into nightmares, becoming odd and disjointed, and incorporated events from Sheol that still haunted me. I woke bathed in sweat that I’d thought was blood, and my heart was going like a trip-hammer. Taking a few bolstering breaths, I got up and padded barefoot to the bathroom. The fixtures were dull and water-stained, and the whole place needed to be regrouted, but for five hundred bucks a month, it was the best I could hope for. I tried not to wake Booke, but he was used to being alone so my footfalls roused him as I crept back toward the bedroom.
“Bad dreams?” he asked.
“That obvious?”
Booke shrugged. “I’ve had a few in my time.”
“I’d imagine so.”
“The worst one used to be dying alone and undiscovered.”
I came toward him, then perched on the edge of the couch, which was covered in rumpled bedding. “At least you don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
He smiled at me. “See, things do get better.”
At that point, I really didn’t want to talk about it. “What time does the library open?” It made sense that it could only be accessible to the public during bowling alley operating hours, but I waited for confirmation.
“Not until ten.”
I smiled. “You’ll get to sleep in once you start this new gig.”
“It works out beautifully for all my anticipated carousing. You should try to get a bit more rest, Corine. For the baby, if not yourself.”
“That’s a low blow.” I was still tired, but I couldn’t face going back to bed. “Tell me something about your life.”
“Are you asking for a bedtime story?” His tone was amused.
Closing my eyes, I leaned my head against the back of the sofa. “Maybe.”
“I’ve already told you the worst, but there are some amusing anecdotes along the way. You know that my father was an influential man among his peers. His spells were powerful and highly sought-after. Which meant we lived well.”
I didn’t ask what he meant by that, but I figured people hired his dad as a kind of magickal merc. Though not everyone did that, there were a number of practitioners who found it to be the most practical way to make ends meet. Some would cast any spell for the right coin; others had a code that prevented inflicting harm.
“Go on,” I prompted.
“I grew spoiled. Self-indulgent. As you already know from my behavior with Marlena. So when I chose to enlist, my father was surprised. And resistant. He couldn’t have his only son and heir at risk with common barbarians.”
“This was the Second World War?” I felt reasonably confident on that, based on what I knew of his life and my history classes, but it couldn’t hurt to confirm.
“Yes. My reasons for joining up were complicated. Part of it was hoping to impress Marlena, make her love me. But some small aspect of me wanted to do something important—fight the good fight. The propaganda films in those days were incredibly effective.”
“That was before the Internet.”
Ignoring me, he went on at length, describing the German countryside and the people he met. His voice took on a suspicious lull, but before I could protest, Booke did the job, and I passed out. It was daylight when I woke next; my sleep was dreamless. I didn’t know if he’d slept any more, but he’d clearly showered and was fiddling in the kitchen with an old toaster.
“What a dirty trick,” I muttered. “Was there ever a point to any of it?”
“Of course. And that point was to get you some rest. Mission accomplished.”
“One of these days, I want a real story out of you. I’m sure you have one.”
“I do,” he said, smiling. “Peanut butter toast and fruit sound all right for breakfast? Is your stomach sound today?”
I shifted in an experimental fashion. No nausea. I was a little queasy, but unless somebody started cooking pork roast, I should be fine.
“Got a crick in my neck, and I think I drooled in my sleep, but otherwise I’m well enough.”
Deadpan, he offered, “That is, obviously, your most charming quality.”
“Whatever. I’m taking a shower.”
Because I actually was hungry, I hurried through my daily routine—scrubbing up, washing my hair, and then moisturizing in the steamy bathroom. The niceties didn’t run to an air extractor, which meant by the time I finished, it was hard to see for all the steam. In the misty whorls and the fog covering the glass, I imagined I glimpsed Chance peering at me through the mirror, his expression anxious and imploring. But when I stepped forward to get a clearer look, the picture vanished, leaving me with a tightness in my stomach comprised entirely of fear. At that moment, I desperately wanted to hear his voice, a reiteration of his promise: Even death will not keep me from you. But there was only the sad drip-drip from the showerhead. Chance’s vow could only go so far; I had to do my part or there could be no happy ending.
A little voice whispered, Maybe his father’s right. He’s not meant for you.
With great fortitude, I shut the doubts down. I couldn’t afford them. After wrapping in a rough towel, I went to the bedroom to dress and braid my hair. All signs indicated it would be another long, fruitless day at the arcane library, poring over our last few possible tomes. If we didn’t find the spell soon—well.
I took care of Butch’s needs and then headed grimly out to the car. Though we had a week left, it felt as though time had already run out.
Against All Odds
At four that afternoon, I gave up hope.
It might be hormones, but I had spent so many days belowground that I was probably suffering from SAD, as well as feeling sad, but when I laid my head down on the library table, I didn’t have the heart to read on. This was just wasting my time when I should be planning for my baby’s future, not spinning my wheels. The tears I expected didn’t come, though. Instead I had this awful, creeping numbness.
I’m sorry, Chance. I left it too long—
“Corine! Wake up.” Booke’s excited voice attracted the attention of the two elderly women who had been paging through resource materials with us all week. For them, I suspected it was a hobby more than life and death; everyone knew how elderly witches could be after retirement.
“Did you find something?” I asked without raising my head.
Gods, I was so tired. Surely this wasn’t normal. Otherwise, how did women manage to hold down a job? All I wanted to do was sleep, even with so much resting on my shoulders. He yanked me upright, not particularly delicate in his excitement. Booke didn’t notice my dirty look, as he was reading aloud in what sounded like Old German. Not that I was an expert. I’d barely made it through The Miller’s Tale during the brief portion of my high school career when we studied Chaucer.
When he paused, I put in testily, “Translation, please?”
“Right, sorry. Basically, the text references the ritual we’re looking for, naming another tome. It wasn’t on the list Ms. Devlin gave us, most probably because there’s no existing translat
ion. The volume we need is that old, probably written in Sumerian or Babylonian.”
“And there happens to be a copy of it here in San Antonio?”
He bit his lip. “Unfortunately, no. It’s not a book at all, in fact. More a set of scrolls. And I’m not sure whether I can run down a surviving copy in time. There weren’t many . . . and only the most prestigious private collectors would own such a rare treasure.”
“So . . . we have six days to track down the rarest of rare ancient scrolls, get a translation, and flawlessly perform an unknown ritual?”
Booke sighed. “When you put it that way, it sounds rather daunting.”
“At least we have a lead now. Do you know any top-tier collectors?”
“I can put out a few feelers,” he said. “And I’m sure the curator could give me some names.”
“There’s no point in hanging out here, though. We’re not finding what we need on these shelves.”
“Yes, at least we’ve hurdled this particular obstacle.”
“Is that how you see this venture? Like a course laid out with hoops for us to jump through and barricades to clamber over?”
“Perhaps,” he admitted sheepishly.
“No wonder I’ve been so miserable. My coordination sucks.”
“But your determination is top-notch.”
“Smooth talker. Save it for Dolores.”
“Speaking of which . . .” He winked. “I’ve got an engagement tonight. Will you be all right at the flat on your own?”
“You’re seeing her again?” My eyes widened.
“Not Dolores. Ms. Devlin.”
“You’re incorrigible. So I’m taking the car and the dog, and you’ll make your way home when you’re good and ready?”
“That’s the size of it. May I have the spare key? And I trust you don’t mind?”
“Not at all. Here you go.”
Amusement at Booke’s ability to find the bright side of any situation carried me all the way back to the dismal apartment. Where I had my mood ruined by the demon laying in wait. Sick terror roiled in my stomach, knotting the bread from the sandwich into a heavy lump of dough that I might launch at the impossibly handsome male lounging on my couch. At a glance, I ID’d him as White Hair, who had crashed Chuch’s backyard BBQ. His insouciance on Twila’s turf made me nervous, as Jesse had been clear about what would happen if the demons pressed their claim; and since I was under Twila’s protection, her retaliation would be even worse. From his expression, the Luren no longer cared.
But he was alone, another matter of concern. I froze by the door while Butch snapped and snarled from my purse. Somehow I managed to set him gently on the floor, afraid of him getting hurt in the cross fire. Moreover, I was terrified the Luren would harm the baby. Gods, no. In this fight, I was completely alone, no hope of rescue, and with far too much at stake.
“It’s polite to call before you drop by,” I said, as if I wasn’t scared to death.
“I thought it best to have this conversation in private. You’ve accumulated quite an entourage . . . and their company can be tiresome.”
“Say your piece and get out.” There was no hope in hell that this encounter would end peacefully, but I’d offer bravado until the end.
Is the Taser still in my purse? Will it work on a demon?
“Come, there’s no need to be hostile. Not when I know so very much about you.”
My blood chilled. “Am I supposed to be impressed? Anyone over the age of eight can master the art of innuendo.”
The Luren frowned, his expression playful, but his dark eyes remained dead and dark in contrast to his shining hair. “Do you remember an encounter you had with an exceedingly helpful orderly? He was so solicitous, so knowledgeable . . .”
Actually, I’d been in such a bad way that I hadn’t noticed much about the admission process. My hospital stay was a blur, apart from learning I was pregnant. So I shook my head reflexively, knowing I wouldn’t like what was coming.
“Come now. He gave you all the necessary information about animal bites. Do you think that’s customary?”
“I have no idea,” I said honestly.
“Well, it’s not. He was one of ours, once-Binder. Not handsome enough to host, but fair enough to serve. He watched you. Reported on you.” He paused delicately, his smile sharpening until I had chills. “We know about the whelp.”
It’s worse than I thought.
“I never promised Sibella my unborn child,” I said quietly.
“But you are in arrears. Leaving Sheol is not an acceptable dispensation of your debt.”
“I take it you have a plan?” If I could keep him talking, it might give me time to figure out how to kill him. I inched my fingers into my purse while Butch growled from behind my legs. My fingers brushed up against wallet, brush, phone, crumpled tissues . . . aha. Taser. “I’m sure I won’t like it, but go ahead.”
“With its unique heritage, your child is exceedingly valuable to the Luren. Not only did your consort possess supernal beauty, but he also sprang from divinity. Your antecedents are exceptional as well. And the conception itself? Fascinating. For obvious reasons, we intend to make use of this hybrid.”
Over my dead body, I thought.
Rage crashed over me in a massive wave, so fierce I was surprised it didn’t slay the demon where it sat, sprawled with lazy grace on my sofa. In my head, I saw mass destruction: tsunamis destroyed villages, mushroom clouds detonated, and fires raged until the land was nothing but a blackened husk. With incredible focus, I honed that anger as my fingers curled around the Taser’s handle.
“What do you have in mind?” I asked. Neutral tone.
Yeah, I should win an Oscar for this performance.
Especially because I wanted to fly at him and kill him with my bare hands. Until this moment, I was a mess, coping with the unexpected, but it was like some switch flipped in my head, and I was a mother. Not just expecting; I would do anything—anything—to keep this child safe.
“You will pledge the child to our service. Should you make this bargain, Sibella reckons it sufficient recompense for the deal that was broken.”
Gods, the Luren didn’t know shit about human beings. First the lady knight put a whammy on my pet, thinking I intended to eat it later. Now, she honestly believed I would agree to this insane deal to save my own skin? If the situation wasn’t heart-attack serious, I’d laugh at how misguided they were.
“Do I get a grace period to think about it?”
“The last time Sibella extended you such a courtesy, you staged a coup and then fled the realm when it failed.”
“So that’s a no, then.”
By its expression, the demon wasn’t amused. “It irritates me that you don’t seem to be giving this offer the requisite amount of consideration.”
That’s because it’s not happening, asshole.
“I’m sorry. Have you prepared documents for me to sign?” My tone was snide, but the Luren didn’t seem to notice.
“In blood.”
“Really?” Belatedly I remembered how the contracts that my fallen friend Greydusk—the demon who had helped me in Sheol—signed had not only been in blood, but with an arcane compulsion as well, so if he failed to fulfill it, he died. “I’m fixing a cup of tea. Then I’ll take a look at the papers. Want anything?”
“You’d serve me hemlock,” the demon observed.
“Unfortunately, my canisters don’t run to exotic poisons.”
“Indeed. I’m glad you’re being reasonable about this. The chances are excellent that service to the Luren will come with incomparable rewards.”
“Oh yeah?” I didn’t care, but I had to keep him talking.
My brain wasn’t working nearly as fast as it should. While the Taser should render his host helpless temporarily, how the hell could I kill a demon? I wished I had one of those shining silver blades that Kel used. In Barachiel’s hand, it took out the Luren leader just fine. Unfortunately, I had dull kitchen knives an
d the one I’d bought from Gold Malibu’s trunk. Probably not demon-worthy.
“Those who rule the cult of personality . . . haven’t you ever wondered why people who do nothing other than exist—and look attractive—should become so absurdly famous?”
Well, now that you mention it . . .
“Yeah. So the pretty people and certain reality stars are Luren?”
“Often, they’re hosts. Being famous makes for an irresistible sexual draw to a certain psyche, which offers us a rich feeding ground. Is your tea done yet?”
“Steeping now.” I dunked the tea bag a few times to show I meant business with the drink. Then I carried it over to the table. I set my purse carefully beside me on the floor within easy reach. “Let’s see the contract.”
The document he brought out of an expensive briefcase had to be fifty pages long. Reading that—and I actually was a slow reader—would take me a while. By the time I flipped the last page, I’d have a plan, or I was dead. It was that simple.
“You might want to find a book,” I suggested. “I’m not signing anything without reading the fine print. I learned that lesson on my last cell phone plan.”
To my surprise, the Luren laughed. He seemed at ease, now that he imagined we’d come to amicable terms. Which substantiated my long-held belief that the Luren tended toward the stupid end of the demon spectrum. Not that I was complaining; a smarter demon like a Birsael would’ve long since copped to my ruse and be devouring my soul in retaliation for my bullshit.
The Luren got a magazine off the side table. Since it wasn’t mine, it must belong to Booke—and gods only knew what he was reading. Instead of the contract, I peered at the cover. A travel zine. That made sense. Maybe the demon had vacation time coming . . . pity he wouldn’t live to see it. Then I remembered what he planned for my unborn child.
Okay, not really.
I paged through the contract while pretending to read, frantically racking my brain. Taser, then what . . . ? Searching for inspiration, I skimmed the room, taking in the paltry furnishings as if a solution would jump out at me. And then it did, at least figuratively. On the far shelf, Booke had left a couple of foci left over from our rescue run. I couldn’t remember what the tiny horse did, but the ceramic knot? I absolutely recognized that one.
