Magic Rising

by Jennifer Cloud

  “Why are you here? Why are your men trying to mess with my car? Why are we even talking?” She wanted to ask about her mother’s body but stopped herself. Niam wouldn’t tell her the truth unless he thought it would hurt her. “Why bother me now?”

  “Bother you? Well, I guess our time for pleasantries has ended.”

  Niam drew his sword, a long Samurai sword with carvings in the handle and a very shiny, very sharp looking blade. With his speed and the reach of that thing, he could behead her. Deirdre pulled her pistol.

  “I don’t want to do this.” The gun was cocked, her finger resting on the trigger. “Leave me alone.”

  There was a flash, then pain flooded her hand, and she heard her pistol hit the pavement. He moved too fast, then stood there like he hadn’t done anything while her hand bled profusely from a cut behind her thumb.

  “Don’t ever pull a gun on me. They’re barbaric.”

  Deirdre made a move for the gun on the ground with her uninjured hand, while the other reached to her ankle. He took the bait. She felt the wind move, more than saw him. His sword slashed at her hand while she fired. Then she saw Niam. Her teacher took several steps back. His mouth fell open in surprise. He looked at his shoulder than back at her. She’d fired twice but only one bullet hit him in the shoulder. Hardly a lethal shot, but it broke his concentration and confidence. It was a good beginning battle. Both of them were injured, but he broke stance first, shocked that she’d hurt him.

  Both his hands grasped the handle of his sword and she knew that he would strike again. He was finding his center. Then he blurred, but she was ready, firing again, sensing the point where the sword joined the handle. The blade broke away flying up and over his head, striking the brick building with a resonating metallic chime that reminded her of a tuning fork.

  “Now, what is your problem with me?” Deirdre kept her gun on him.

  Niam looked at the handle, the bit of metal shirred off at the base at an odd angle glimmered in the street lights. It was the image of him, standing there with his broken trinket that shamed her. She hated him, wanted him dead when she’d never held that emotion for another person. Seeing him defeated was more than she’d ever hoped, and also shocking.

  “You left. You shouldn’t have left.” He hung his hooded head and she knew this wasn’t finished. “Rumor has it that you’re after a girl.”

  Back to the girl but if Stone House wasn’t backing him, what would he want with Lora Shope? “What girl?”

  “The Haas girl. She needs to be brought to me.” He eased forward. “If you bring her, I’ll let you live.”

  “Right now I think you should be more concerned about your own health.”

  His strike was fast, turning her head in a haze of black robe while her vision sparked from the blow. The gun went off but flew from her hand. There was no time to think, luckily she didn’t. Her fist went out. She closed her eyes, knowing that her sight wouldn’t help her as another punch found her stomach. Niam made a small noise as she threw wild hits, letting her know that she hurt him, but not as badly as he’d hurt her.

  Her thigh exploded in pain and she went to her knee driving her fist upward but only finding air. Then she heard more footsteps in the street and she opened her eyes, hoping for a cop or at least a witness. Instead there were six or seven of his guys surrounding her, most holding guns, all of them ready to destroy her.

  “Couldn’t even manage a fair fight?”

  Niam stood there, arms folded across his chest. “There’s no point in killing you. Perhaps you could be valuable. I always thought I could use you.” The way he said “use” brought chills. “I always thought you had potential.”

  “No one said you were winning.”

  “Always stubborn.”

  He stepped forward and she balled her fist ready to punch into that black hood and smash whatever was hidden there. Around her, guns cocked, and pointed. She lowered her fist.

  “You know I could kill you with my bare hands.” Niam moved close enough for his robe to brush her body.

  “I’m not that little child anymore. You can’t do shit.” She stared into the blackness, searching for some outline of his features. “Apparently you know it too or you wouldn’t have bothered with your followers and their ‘barbaric’ weapons.”

  “You deserve this treatment. You never took your punishments well. Besides, you should learn what working for a woman like Tamara Haas will get you.”

  He was going to hurt her. That was a fact. She tried to calm down. Her heart hammered and she’d never been more terrified. There was more at stake than her pain though. She had to find out some information before this turned really ugly. It might be her last chance to learn his association with Lora Shope or his intentions with his new religion.

  “What do you want with a girl? Getting lonely since you only have boys to play with?” She motioned to the men standing around her with weapons aimed.

  Niam’s hand clenched and she knew he would try to hit her again. On impulse she moved, and he missed, nearly falling forward from the momentum. It must’ve looked impressive to the other men surrounding her because a few lowered their weapons and all of them stood with their mouths agape. Honestly, she hadn’t known when to move, only sensed the air and followed her instinct. It actually would’ve looked pretty silly if he hadn’t tried to hit her.

  “Come on. Why do you want the girl? Who do you want her for?”

  This time his shoulder twitched, as if readying for the hit. Again, she moved on instinct and Niam missed. Fighting back would only get her shot, so she kept her hands at her sides, waiting and watching for some sign that the beast would strike again.

  “Are you really so afraid of me that you try to hit me while armed men surround us?”

  “I’m not interested in a battle. I just want to break you and bring you home. That’s really the only way this can end. You submit yourself to me. It will hurt less.”

  She knew that a fair fight was the last thing on his mind. He wanted to punish her, put her in her place. Niam loved control and his ecstasy was a woman’s tears while he loomed over them. She’d heard stories about the women he kept and the marks he left on them.

  “Tell me what’s with the girl.”

  He went at her again. This time she dropped to her knees as a flurry of his cloak and one hard kicking foot went over her head. She could’ve struck him then but the men watching would shoot. It didn’t even sound like Niam wanted to kill her, only wound her enough to make her submissive.

  “You’re better at dodging. Nice to see you’ve learned something since we parted.”

  Deirdre didn’t try to see him move, but somehow she could see him this time. It could’ve been because her fear had subsided or maybe she’d found the second sight the old warriors always spoke of. Either way, his left hand came up, aiming for her. She moved her head to the side, and he only struck air. Still afraid to really strike, she reached for his shoulder and helped his energy drive him to the ground. He looked up, and for the first time in ten years, she saw his face as she was standing above him.

  Jagged red scars covered the right side from his temple to his chin. The skin had tried to heal but the burn looked too severe. The once handsome man had been reduced to mirroring the ugliness he’d held inside for so long. When she’d caught a glimpse of him at Stone House, she hadn’t been able to see this side, this horribly twisted scarred sight.

  “I see you had some trouble escaping the fire.” Deirdre tried not to look. The skin, too repulsive as his hood fell completely back to his shoulders and the long black hair blew away from his face. He’d been reduced to a bubbling mask of death and the look suited him better than the model good looks she remembered.

  “Perhaps you should experience the pain of fire.”

  He reached for her, grabbing her before she could move away. She should’ve expected it but the sight of his face made her lose focus. His grip on her arm was agonizing, shocking her at the strength in that d
eformed body, and then his left hand reached to her midsection. “Experience what power the souls can bring.”

  Over her years at Stone House, she’d heard about a power called the burning touch. It was a myth, something to warn young warriors against sloppy fighting. No one had ever experienced it. Not until now.

  For a half a second, only the weight of his hand made it through her thin shirt. Then the heat began, radiating from his palm to her stomach. She tried to pull away, but his other hand held tight while that palm tingled and the first of the pain started. Deirdre tried to hit him and got several blows to that scarred face before one of his henchmen pressed the gun against her temple. She’d have to endure whatever plans he had for her. Then the real pain began, and she couldn’t fight or move.

  The equivalent of hot irons filled her belly, pain worse than anything she’d ever felt before and she went to her knees, staring at the deformed face. He looked amused by his win, smirking at her, while she struggled not to scream.

  “Maybe this will teach you respect.”

  “Is that all you got?” Her skin had to be peeling away, and she fought the tears. “You’re a coward, capable of fighting only while hiding behind a punk with a gun.” She tried to hide the pain, keep it out of her voice.

  The heat became too much. Sweat ran down her forehead and any other attempts at speaking died in her mouth, burned to a cinder by whatever demonic gift Niam had salvaged from Stone House.

  “Ask me to stop.” He leaned closer licking his lips, from burned side to normal.

  She couldn’t speak, could barely breathe. Everything in her focused on the horrible pain burrowing through her body. She tried the old ways to alleviate pain, picturing blue calm, white healing, but all she felt was bright red torture.

  “Come on rebellious whore. Beg for me.”

  He wouldn’t let this end. He’d hurt her until she passed out or died, unless she begged for him. Nothing on earth would make her beg to that bastard, not even the fires in hell.

  Deirdre summoned all her strength, focused on one thing. Speaking. Before she passed out she had to make her mouth work, needed to make her voice heard above these bastards with their guns. They had to see rebellion.

  “Fuck you.” Then she slumped forward, trying to relax enough so Niam would believe she’d passed out from pain.

  “Dragonfly, you always were stubborn.” He removed the hand from her stomach. “Disband. We’ll take the woman with us. I’ll finish my work on her later.”

  He released his hold on her arm and she fell forward, hitting the asphalt. She felt the rough surface dig into her scalp. It would’ve hurt, if not for the throbbing at her belly. Nothing hurt as much as a burn.

  Several men moved around, while two stepped on each side of her, sliding their hands under her shoulders. Oh for heaven’s sake. I don’t weigh that much, she thought as the one on her left groaned. She couldn’t look but felt a gloved hand touch her cheek. It had to be Niam.

  Her timing would have to be perfect or they’d take her back. She didn’t want to go back as his student. He’d been brutal when she was a child and with her reaching proper age, there was no telling what he’d do to her.

  An engine started, somewhere at the corner, grumbling and pulling closer. Niam’s men held her upright, probably waiting for a car to pull in front. She held her breath. Hopefully, she could pull this off without getting shot. At least the bits of a plan she had in mind didn’t include a bullet wound.

  The two men kept her between them, and she felt the leather glove make contact for the second time. His cloak brushed her thigh and she knew that he was close enough. With every ounce of power she had, she brought her knee up. Her body was held too high for a groin shot, but she nailed his lower abdomen. He doubled over, with a hate-filled glare meeting her eyes. As she looked, the men on each side seemed too shocked to react. One released his hold and went to Niam, but before more orders could be given, Deirdre attacked. She head butted one then swung her leg up, kicking the other squarely in the head. Neither went unconscious but they were also too dazed to fight or pull a gun. They lay on the pavement, unsure of what to do next.

  Niam didn’t stay doubled over long. He was back on his feet, a small dagger in his right hand. It was time to fight him again. She wanted to take him on, even as his men gathered behind him, backing up their master.

  “Come on.” Deirdre was ready for battle. Even a bullet in the head would be preferable to the lessons Niam would teach her in private.

  Somewhere in the city sirens wailed, filling the town with a warning. The men, who lingered behind Niam, ran. Vehicles on adjacent roads started and tires burned rubber in a mass retreat. She had no idea Niam had brought so many people, so many poorly trained people.

  “I will teach you manners, Dragonfly.” He took a step backwards. “I warn you. Bring me the girl or our next meeting won’t be so nice.” Then the scarred face drew tight, eyes turning to slits. “Maybe you’re not capable of learning respect. Maybe you should just die.” He shook his head, giving her a long look from head to toe. “No, I have other plans for you.”

  Deirdre flipped him a bird. If he remembered nothing else, let him linger on her hate, on how as a child she’d tried to kill him, and never surrendered. She was a woman now, stronger, and more stubborn than ever.

  Niam took a few more steps toward the street as a motorcycle pulled up. He got on, behind a muscular man with a pistol strapped to his leg. As the motorcycle started moving forward, she saw his hand move then the flash of silver. The dagger he’d been holding came at her, aimed for her heart. It moved too fast. All this she registered as the blade cut into her shirt.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Something touched him, bringing him out from the darkness and forcing him to open his eyes. The beeping of hospital machines, like some obscene alarm clock, broke through the spell of sleep and caused reality to come crashing through him.

  Deirdre Flye called the police. That was Ryan Farmer’s first thought. His second centered on the nurse’s breasts poised over his head as she checked a machine at the top of the bed.

  “Am I alive or dead?”

  The nurse looked down, a soft smile on her very young face. Her hair, wrapped and stuffed into a half hat, had a few tendrils that had worked loose. They were almost as white as her uniform, a very light blonde. Perhaps she was an angel.

  “Well Mr. Farmer, you are very much alive. It’s nice to hear you talking.”

  He felt dizzy, but had to sit up a few inches to see where he lay. Two IVs were going into his body, one in his right hand, the other in the main vein above his left forearm. The one in his left was red, blood probably, filling him up from the loss at Deirdre’s house. Who knows what diseases that thing carried?

  “How long was I out?”

  “About five hours.” She made a mark on the chart by the door. “There are some men outside who would like to speak to you. I’ll let them know you’re awake.”

  She left with the swish of her starched white uniform. Ryan watched, appreciating the view. He always had a thing for nurses. There was something sexy about a woman taking care of him.

  He leaned his head back, trying to remember the details that had brought him here. The pain in his thigh reminded him. He pushed away the blanket and looked at his leg, bandaged, wrapped tightly, with probably a dozen or more stitches holding him together. The stitches he couldn’t see, but the pain throbbing from his knee to hip was from a serious wound.

  As he lay there, someone knocked lightly on the door. He hoped it was the pretty little nurse again. Her presence soothed him. He might even get a pain pill for his leg. That would be nice.

  “Mr. Farmer?” The door opened and Ryan saw two men in suits and ties enter his room. He also noticed that they’d called him mister instead of detective. He didn’t like that at all.

  “Yes.”

  He already knew who they were before they introduced themselves as Detectives John Harper and Lewis Tinsdale from
Internal Affairs. He’d seen them at the station, although IA rarely spoke with regular officers. When a cop saw those guys, they knew the shit had hit the fan.

  “We’d like to talk to you about the incident last night.” The one called Harper spoke, his voice calm and mild. “Why don’t you tell us what you were doing at Deirdre Flye’s home?”

  “I don’t believe this is an appropriate time for questions. Perhaps we can do this later with a rep from the union present or maybe an attorney.”

  “This isn’t anything formal. We’re just buddies trying to get through a bad situation.” Harper shrugged. “Unless you’d rather this turn into a formal query. Most officers don’t like formal queries.”

  Damn bullies. “What did Deirdre say?” He leaned his head back, trying to stare at the ceiling.

  “That’s not what I asked you.” He eased closer to the bed. “We want to hear your version of events. Nobody wants this to go any further. We’re looking out for you here.”

  Ryan’s heart pounded, knowing the routine, and the lies IA would tell to get him to confess. He couldn’t believe Deirdre would do this to him. First she goes to the station to disgrace him, and then she has the fucking IA on his ass. Cops rarely recovered from their investigations. They were more than thorough and sometimes bordered on a witch hunt.

  “That bitch. I can’t believe this!”

  Tinsdale crept toward the bed, staying at the foot while Harper got as close as possible without disturbing the machines or interfering with the tubes and wires dangling alongside the bed. They both studied him too closely, looking for anything they could use to prove Deirdre’s case.

  “You seem very upset. What’s going on between you and Deirdre?”

  “What’s going on?” Ryan had just opened his eyes and they were questioning him over a woman set on his downfall. “Deirdre has had it in for me from day one. Stupid whore is always on me, trying to make me look like a fool.”

  Tinsdale pulled out a little notebook, Ryan hated those little notebooks. They were used when a detail was too juicy and had to be written down before the tidbit slipped away. Later tonight those two investigators would sit and look over all the notes and bits about him, convicting him on their merit or reinstating him. Sure, the decision went beyond those two but IA was never doubted or questioned. Their recommendations usually stuck. Next there’d be a taped interrogation, charges and a formal hearing. Damn it all.