Khalil unsheathed his sword, and Isaac looked at him as if he had gone mad. “You plan to kill a tiger with that?”
“Tell me a better idea,” Khalil insisted. “You led us here; now we’re trapped.”
Dónall glanced down to the garden’s floor, some seven stories below. From the stairwell, another thunderous impact rocked the minaret’s door, and this time he heard wood crack. The crystal’s light had begun to fade as a fierce crash resounded up the stairwell, followed by a triumphant roar. Dónall cursed, thinking, it can’t end now.
Seeing Khalil standing ready with his sword, Dónall remembered his own leaf-shaped blade. And as he reached for it, an idea struck—a desperate, foolish idea. He prayed it would work.
Exhaling, he relaxed his mind, focusing on the air around him, and uttered a Fae verse. Then he raised his sword, and a rush of wind blasted up the tower. “Grab the carpet!” he ordered. “Bring it to the edge, and hold on for your lives.”
“You want to leap from the tower?” Khalil yelled. “Are you insane?”
“The wind will hold us!” Dónall insisted, trying to concentrate on his summoning.
Inside the minaret, Isaac pulled the edge of the carpet off the floor. “I trust him,” he told Khalil.
A fierce growl echoed up the stairwell. Shaking his head, Khalil grabbed the carpet’s other edge and helped Isaac drag it onto the balcony. The wind howled, whipping the carpet’s tasseled fringe. Dónall grabbed hold. “Run toward the parapet—and jump.”
“You are certain this will work?” Khalil pressed.
Another roar, closer now, reverberated through the minaret.
“Let’s hope,” Dónall said. “Now, jump!”
They leaped, hurling themselves off the parapet with the carpet beneath them.
And then they fell.
Drawing on all his strength, Dónall summoned more wind, and as they neared the topmost branches of the cypresses, a powerful gust slowed, then stopped, their descent. The carpet rippled and rolled, kept aloft on the rushing wind as if riding a wave. Dónall held on tight with his left hand, while directing the wind with his sword. Terrified, Khalil clung to the carpet, his hair blowing behind him in the crisp night air. In the garden below, the Moors looked up in awe.
“We’re flying!” Isaac exclaimed.
The fluttering carpet soared over the courtyard and crossed the Great Mosque’s crenellated wall. Beneath them, Córdoba sparkled with a thousand lamplights. The carpet glided over rooftops, rising for an instant. But then the carpet buckled. Dónall fought to control the wind. They began to dive. Dónall felt his power slipping.
“We’re going to crash!” Khalil cried.
Dónall’s eyes grew wide. “Hold on!”
The carpet banked sharply, narrowly missing a clay-tiled roof. They gained speed, careening forward, straight for a cluster of stuccoed buildings. Dónall frantically swung his sword, and with a burst of wind, the carpet veered away from the sharp corner of one of the structures. Isaac, who had turned deathly pale, pointed ahead. “Aim for that bazaar!”
Ahead, the buildings surrounded a plaza filled with scores of striped tents. The carpet dropped sharply, and Dónall flung back his blade, hoping to summon the last vestiges of wind to slow their fall. And with a loud rending of cloth and snapping of poles, the carpet dived into the cluster of tents, ripping tethers from their stakes.
Tent cloth enveloped the three riders as they collided with the ground. Pain shuddered down Dónall’s spine, and he feared that he had broken something, but he found he could still wiggle his fingers and toes. Beside him, Khalil groaned.
As Dónall’s head cleared and his pounding heart began to slow, he looked around him, but everything was dark. Then he realized they were buried under a tent canopy. “Isaac,” he muttered.
“Never again,” the rabbi moaned.
After a long moment, Khalil sat up and struggled to pull away the layers of tent cloth that covered them. He tugged at the cloth, folding it aside. “How large was this tent?”
A loud rip answered his question, followed by the tip of a curved sword. Between Dónall and Khalil, the blade sliced through the tent. Hands emerged in the breach, tearing the severed cloth.
Dónall muttered an oath. Standing over them, with a sword arched above his head, was the broad-chested eunuch, Najah. His mouth twisted into a wicked grin, and hate blazed in his eyes.
Dónall uttered a fearsome word: “Megaera.”
*
Ciarán and Alais darted through the entrance to the Great Mosque, only to find themselves within a forest of slender columns supporting horseshoe-shaped archways of alternating red brick and white stone. It was like no place of worship that Ciarán had ever seen. Each archway sat atop another, identical in pattern and shape, so that it appeared as if hundreds of archways filled the chamber, which was so vast, the other side disappeared in the dim light of the oil lamps that hung from the vaultlike ceiling. At first glance, the myriad of archways and columns seemed like a maze, but soon he discerned that the archways were arranged in aisles from one end of the mosque to the other.
“Are you sure about this?” Alais asked.
“They shouldn’t have been able to enter the mosque,” he whispered, wondering where they could go from here. Everywhere he looked, row upon row of archways stood on columns of marble, granite, and onyx. He started down one of the aisles, moving toward the back of the mosque. Their sandals echoed against the mosaic-tiled floor.
An instant later, Alais gripped his arm so hard, her nails bit into his flesh. In the glimmer of moonlight, a dark feline form emerged at the mosque entrance. Then a great black paw reached across the threshold.
Alais gasped, and a chill washed over Ciarán as the panther’s deep growl echoed through the mosque. Unsure whether it had seen them yet, he grabbed Alais and tried to hide in the shadows between the archways.
“Over there,” Alais whispered, pointing toward the north end of the mosque, where a series of wrought-iron gates enclosed the northernmost aisle. A gateway stood open just ten aisles away.
“Let’s go,” Ciarán said under his breath. “And run!”
They bolted toward the gate, and with a roar, the great cat bounded through archways, skidding around the columns and quickly closing the gap. But Ciarán and Alais were much closer to the gate. Ciarán grabbed the iron bars as Alais jumped through, and he followed, slamming the gate shut. The panther lunged, fire in its eyes. On the other side of the gate, a small key jutted from the only lock. Ciarán reached for the key and turned it. He could feel the panther’s hot breath as he wrenched the key from the lock and pulled back his arm. Biting pain shot up his arm, and he jerked back, fearing that the panther had hold of him. The sleeve of his habit was ripped to shreds, and blood soaked his arm, but it was free. The panther thudded against the gate, clawing and thrashing, roaring in its fury.
“Ciarán!” Alais cried, seeing his arm.
Clinging to the wound with his other hand, he watched the blood seep through his fingers. He peered down the aisle, gritting his teeth. Moonlight spilled through an archway at the far end. It must lead back into the garden. Grimacing in pain, he said, “That way.”
As they hurried down the aisle, the panther tracked them, its eyes never leaving theirs. It growled and hissed but could do nothing against the iron barrier.
Ciarán’s arm throbbed. When they reached the archway that led back into the garden, the panther gave a final hiss and darted back into the shadows of the mosque.
Outside, the Moorish swordsmen paid them no attention. Some chattered frantically, while others looked up transfixed, pointing at the sky.
Just yards away, another gateway in the curtain wall opened back into the city. “Thank God!” Ciarán whispered. “We have to get to the ship—it’s our only chance.”
Alais nodded, still panting, and off they ran.
*
Amid a sea of striped tents, Najah brought down his sword. He aimed the blade’s sh
arp edge for Dónall’s head, but it met the scabbard Khalil thrust into its path. The eunuch’s sword cleaved into the scabbard’s leather until it hit the steel of the Persian’s own blade. Najah struck again, his face contorted in rage, and the blow nearly drove the scabbard into Khalil’s chest. Dónall twisted away as, behind Najah, a dozen warriors watched, some apparently intrigued by the spectacle of single combat. Others looked on warily, as if fearful of whatever magic had lofted the carpet into the bazaar. Isaac scurried to Dónall’s side. Najah kept hacking away at Khalil, who defended with his scabbard held in both hands.
Another blow threatened to drive Khalil to the ground, but Najah’s curved blade caught on the scabbard’s brass fittings. Khalil jerked the hilt, and his blade slid free from the scabbard.
Najah swung with reckless ferocity. Khalil jumped to his feet and sliced low at his attacker, but the eunuch parried and then struck again with inhuman fury. Khalil’s sword saved his life, but the force of the strike knocked him off balance.
Dónall’s pulse began to race. Though Khalil was skilled, he looked weary from the crash, and he faced an opponent fueled by a supernatural evil. Hammering blows struck again and again at his blade, the clang of steel ringing through the bazaar. Then Khalil’s knees began to buckle.
Dónall had to do something. Raising his blade, he cried, “Megaera! It is not him you want, but me, Dónall mac Taidg, who have defeated you and your sisters twice since you were summoned from hell!”
The eunuch hissed at Dónall, and in the moment of distraction, Khalil swept a backhanded stroke across his belly. Najah’s mouth fell open in horror as his bowels spilled like a nest of writhing snakes to the ground. The fire in the eunuch’s eyes flickered as he slumped to his knees. Khalil swung again, his blade cleaving through the eunuch’s throat, just below the chin.
Then chaos erupted.
A fierce gale exploded through the plaza, whipping the fallen tent canopy and tearing lines from their stakes. Dónall and Isaac shielded their eyes as the tempest howled around them like a banshee, funneling toward the scattering Moors. One of them, a large, bearded warrior with a barrel chest and wearing a bow slung over his shoulder, clutched at his head, as if trying to claw out his own eyes. He let loose an anguished cry.
“She’s possessing another,” Dónall said, grabbing Khalil by the sleeve. “Now, go!”
They fled down an alley. Khalil seemed to know every narrow outlet and street in this part of the city. With the Moor’s screams fading behind them, Khalil stopped to catch his breath.
“That name—Megaera, was it?” Khalil said between gasps.
Dónall held his hands on his knees, also trying to calm his breathing. “Yes. It’s the name of the demon that possessed him.”
Khalil looked up. “It is also a name from mythology—one of three Furies of ancient Greece.”
“Say that again?”
“The Furies,” Khalil replied. “Vengeful spirits of the gods: Megaera, Alecto, and Tisiphone.”
Dónall stared at Khalil as the realization sank in. There was truth behind the old myths, so why couldn’t the Furies be demons—the souls of fallen Nephilim?
Isaac scratched his head. “Then if you know all their names . . .”
“By Patrick’s beard . . .” Dónall’s mind was racing. “Of course!” He shrugged the book satchel off his shoulder and pulled out the Book of Maugis d’Aygremont. Flipping through the pages, he settled on the nearly blank page with the scrawled words “The warding and binding of demons.” He removed the crystal from his habit and summoned his soul light. Amid the white glow, the words began to roll clearly down the page. And so did the solution. He cursed himself for not realizing it sooner. For when he challenged Megaera in the battle over Ciarán’s mind, he had learned her true name, the one precious secret she could never afford to reveal.
“Find the ship, and wait for me,” he told them, stowing the book.
“Where are you going?” Khalil asked.
“Trust me,” Dónall said. “I have a plan.”
*
Alais clung to Ciarán’s good hand. His other was slick with blood. They emerged from one of the cramped alleyways onto a main avenue lined by oil lamps swaying with the wind. She feared she heard the panther behind her, purring as it stalked its prey, but when she glanced back she saw only the few Córdobans who walked along the avenue this evening: merchants in turbans leaving their shops, a Berber soldier walking with a woman, two urchins begging for handouts. Ahead loomed one of the city’s massive gates, standing open. Alais wondered for an instant whether they ever closed it, but right now she didn’t care. All she wanted to do was find the docks and Évrard’s ship.
Their run had slowed to a hurried walk as they fought to catch their breath. Somewhere, she knew, a gang of warriors also pursued them, and she feared them nearly as much as the great cats. The air held the faint smell of fish and water weeds—the river was close.
Ciarán grimaced. His right arm dangled at his side. Four Moorish guards were posted at the gate, but two were dozing, slouched against the sandstone wall, while their companions passed the time in idle conversation. Alais and Ciarán neared the portal as, behind them, a chorus of startled cries rang out. The Córdobans scattered as the panther leaped into the avenue with a threatening roar.
“Through the gate!” Ciarán urged. Alais prayed that it led to the docks. They ran, and the guardsmen awoke, but only to gape at the panther bolting toward them. As they reached the arched opening of the massive gateway, Ciarán swore, and Alais’ heart sank. For the gateway led to the vast Roman bridge that spanned the river. The other side was hundreds of yards away, obscured by the fog rising from the water.
She glanced over her shoulder to see the panther bounding down the street. To her horror, the white tiger trailed not two lengths behind it.
“There’s two of them!” she said frantically as she and Ciarán hurried onto the bridge. To the east, not far down the riverbank, the lights from the dock shone like a beacon. Only a few ships were docked there, Évrard’s among them. A frightened yell came from the guards at the gate as the paws of the great cats padded against the paved street.
Ciarán looked at her with a glimmer of hope. “Can you swim?”
“Yes,” she said, recalling the days when she and Adeline would play in the Clain.
“Then, we’ll jump!”
She looked down at the river, more than twenty feet below. The panther roared as the great cats leaped through the gateway.
Ciarán lifted her onto the bridge’s broad parapet. “Now!”
She jumped first, arms flailing as she fell. Then she plunged into the chilling water. She sank for an instant, then kicked to the surface. Already, the current was carrying her downriver. Ten yards away, Ciarán splashed into the water. Above him on the bridge, the great cats climbed onto the parapet.
Ciarán began to swim. Looking back past him, Alais gasped as the creatures leaped into the night air.
“Swim!” he yelled.
Alais swam furiously as the cats splashed into the river. The current drifted her toward the ships. Wide-eyed, she looked back at the slick, wet shape, like a giant otter, of the panther pursuing her. It moved faster than she could have imagined.
She kicked and stroked through the water, but the creature was gaining. A cry echoed from one of the ships. She heard men clamoring from the decks. Her arms began to ache, and she feared she might not make it.
“Over here!” a voice cried.
Through the splashing water, she saw Eli, clinging to a loop of rope lowered from the ship. He hung just above the water, offering an outstretched hand.
She grabbed and missed as the pursuing panther behind her grew nearer. She extended her arm again, and this time her fingertips caught Eli’s. He grabbed her wrist, pulling her close.
As Eli drew her in, a terrible roar erupted, and the panther thrashed violently. Something dangling from her rescuer’s neck glinted in the moonlight. Eli’s talism
an—it can’t get near it, she realized. With a hiss, the panther turned away and dived beneath the surface.
Alais scanned the river. “Where’s Ciarán!” she cried.
Eli gave her a hopeless look. “It pulled him under. It’s too late . . . He’s gone.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
SHOWDOWN
The water turned red with Ciarán’s blood. The tiger had swum faster than he could have imagined, and to his horror, it dived beneath the surface. Dagger-sharp claws raked his legs, snagging his habit and pulling him under.
His lungs burned. Then a primal instinct seized him: to fight, to live. He tore off his cowl, and it drifted through the water, into the path of the great hooked claws.
The beast flailed, shredding the cowl as Ciarán rent the ties of his habit. He wriggled out of the habit and kicked it into the tiger’s path. The habit wafted underwater like a giant jellyfish, enveloping the tiger’s head. Furious, the beast thrashed wildly in the dark water.
Ciarán kicked toward the surface, struggling to propel himself farther from the possessed animal. That his legs still functioned meant his wounds were perhaps less severe than he had thought, though pain still lanced through his limbs as he swam for the dock.
The pilings emerged from the river’s surface just strokes away. He had lost sight of Alais but prayed she was safe. He glanced back; the tiger was nowhere in sight. Grabbing one of the wooden pilings, he embraced it and worked his way up. Splinters gouged his arms and the insides of his thighs, which were already bleeding from the mauling he had taken, but at last he pulled himself onto the dock, gasping for breath. His soaked undertunic, dark with his blood, clung to him.
He fought the urge to lie there and surrender to the pain and fatigue. His wounds throbbed, and he knew that they must be bound or his life would drain away as his mind faded into delirium. He clung to thoughts of Alais and Dónall and the mystery that consumed them. The device. The apocalypse. And the unthinkable consequences if he let sleep take him now.
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