by Faith Hunter
Chapter 13
It was holding the tanto, and I the silver knife. The walker slashed, faster than I could follow, demon-fast, moves I had never seen. The first drew blood as I blocked with the ceremonial knife and pulled a throwing blade. The silver knife was too soft for fighting, and I slipped into the egret, blocking the successive cuts with swooping, winglike moves. Suddenly Malashe-el was six feet away, laughing, eyes sly. It was a victorious sound, arrogant. As calmly as if it hadn’t moved at all, the beast licked my blood from the tanto’s blade. Its other hand twirled the spur with nimble fingers and closed its eyes in pleasure.
With a quick flick of my wrist, I loosed the ceremonial blade, saying, “Mutuol.”
The knife thunked deep into the walker’s chest. It staggered, eyes wide, and dropped its head to see. Blood welled around the silver blade. The daywalker screamed and dropped both the tanto and the spur conjure.
“Now, Zeddy!” I shouted.
The chanted words changed, almost as if they had rehearsed it. The incantation from Psalms was softly chanted from three sides of the walking circle. “I will call upon the LORD, who is worthy to be praised: so shall I be saved from mine enemies.” Humans could call on the Most High. I was hoping it would be enough.
Backed by the scripture, I stepped over the loop cut into the ground and carefully placed a foot inside the walking circle. I didn’t have long, as the energies would continue to build, but now I could fight. “Mutuol, the bright star. By his power I bind you.”
Fangs wide, the walker pulled the silver knife from its flesh, the motion quick. It dropped the knife and sucked its blistered fingers where the silver had burned it. Bright blood spurted in steady arcs from the hole in its chest. I kicked the tanto and the spur away, and they clattered against rock that ringed the spring. I thought it might attack again, but the daywalker fell back and sat on a stone, its breathing ragged. “So, worthless mage. You have me trapped. What now?”
Ignoring the insult, I judged by the color of its eyes that it was free of its master. “Answer my questions. Provide me with information.”
“Yes. And then?” it asked, voice rough with pain.
“Information first. Tell me all you know about the”—I paused, remembering the phrase it had used—“the mother of Mole Man’s progeny, who was daughter to Adain Hastings.”
“The riddle. My Master will be disappointed.” It pressed its hand over its wound. The bleeding slowed and darkened, but didn’t stop, and its lips were blue from blood loss. “Forcas thought you would ask something important, but so be it. She is a murderer, who killed her own grandson, siphoning him dry. She is full of greed, keeping much of the blood she stole. She is wise, bargaining with the rest for great gain. But my Master has murdered millions, killed his own children, is greedier by far than she, and wiser than his Dark Lord.”
“That’s it? Tell me everything.”
Malashe-el laughed, a breathless sound. “She is a queen, soon to be the mother of thousands. That which was lost shall be restored.”
Darkness was a hierarchical organization, so the Dark Lord concept was logical, and, if Gramma had allied with a Major Darkness to become a dark human, other parts of the riddle made some sense too. Jason, her grandson, had been dead some time, and though I hadn’t known she killed him, the revelation wasn’t surprising. Gramma hadn’t come to Jason’s funeral, odd behavior for a human. They often revered the dead more than the living.
I had met the old woman, a keeper of secrets, tight lipped and watchful. The daywalker’s blood smelled of her, which meant it had recently drunk her blood. One of Forcas’ powers was to restore lost property. Gramma was once rich, but her husband had left her fortune to his grandkids. Had she thought herself wise enough to bargain with the devil? Had she bartered all she had and was to get back what she lost? Had her blood sealed the bargain? Had greed and vengeance been keys to her soul? Whatever she had bargained for, Forcas had tricked her, taken her, changed her, and now she was something else.
I searched through the knowledge the walking circle and the strange rose glow of energy had bequeathed me. Yes. A possessed daywalker could make bargains for its master. It would drink blood to seal the deal. “What kind of queen?” I asked.
It took a moment for it to answer, its throat working as if dry. Its fangs unhinged and extended before it could speak. “The mother of thousands. The breeder.”
No help at all. This was getting me nowhere. I pulled the walking stick blade and bent for the ceremonial knife, covered in the walker’s blood. Backing away from the walker, I found the supply bag I had set within the circle. In it was a small stone jar and a swatch of cloth.
One eye on Malashe-el, I scoured the silver knife on the cloth, polishing the gleaming metal. The blade was nicked from Malashe-el’s sword, which annoyed me. When it was clean, I opened the stone jar, exposing the earth salt within. I thrust the silver blade inside, deactivating any microscopic traces of blood. The scent of brimstone billowed out.
A silent click, a sound I heard in my mind and not in my ears, alerted me that the visa had activated itself. I didn’t know why the official amulet was working, and I had no way to figure it out.
I inserted the cleansed blade into a sheath sewn in the dobok. The bloody cloth I tucked into the stone jar. The daywalker’s mouth tightened and I grinned at it, showing my teeth. I might not have fangs, but my meaning was clear. I had its blood. For the moment, I owned it. Face pale, it took a wheezing breath, as if air entered its lungs through the chest cavity. If it had been human, it would be dead.
“Tell me of the seraphs beneath the Trine,” I said
Its eyes, growing bluer as it weakened, darted between the silver hilt and the stone jar in my left hand before it answered, panting. “Privacy is a gift.”
Understanding, I found an amulet by feel. With a thought and a delicate squeeze, I activated the incantation stored in it, letting the building energies of the walking circle power a privacy circle. Strangely, a discomfort I hadn’t noticed eased with the privacy circle. The energies were still building. I didn’t have long. “You have your gift,” I said.
“Barak. Succubus. Queen. Larvae. Baraqyal.” It put out a hand, steadying itself on a nearby boulder. Its blood smeared the stone. “I am dying,” it said, sounding astonished.
“So?”
“Alive, I am of use to you,” it bargained. “Alive, my Mistress has a conduit. Ask me of her.”
“Who is your Mistress?”
“Holy Amethyst, mate to Zadkiel, the winged-warrior.”
“Where is Zadkiel?”
“Trapped above her prison. Hurry. I am dying.” Malashe-el slipped from the stone to the ground. Blood coated its ugly shirt. It was shivering.
It hadn’t been a dream. I had seen Zadkiel, the winged-warrior, in a vision, and had thought it a nightmare, some representational image I would someday understand. But it had been truth.
“Reset the trap,” he—it—said. “Set me free and I might yet live.”
“At the behest of Forcas or of the Mistress?”
“Your choice. You have the power. She knew you had the power. She watches you.”
Its face was whiter than the snow beneath it. Its blood, a scarlet stain on the white, had slowed to a trickle. The walker was no threat. I sheathed my sword and pulled the silver knife. With a single slash, I opened the privacy circle and buried the silver point against the earth at the broken loop that had modified the walking circle.
Thunder sounded in the distance. “Get down,” I shouted. Rupert fell, followed by Jacey and Zeddy. I had a single instant to shield my eyes. A flash hit the ground. The earth erupted. Rocks and soil flew. When I opened my eyes, Malashe-el was gone. I was lying faceup on the ground, my legs spread in snowmelt and mud. Tree branches above me smoked. The air smelled of sulfur.
Zeddy held a shovel at the ready. Rupert and Jacey bent over me, staring, faces concerned. Audric was standing over me, both swords drawn. “The swan,” I said,
identifying the position of his swords. “Very flashy.” I started coughing.
Audric grinned and sheathed both swords. “Yes, I am.” He held an arm to pull me to my feet, steadying me as the coughing fit passed. “Almost as flashy as you releasing both a privacy circle and a walking circle with a sword and sending the daywalker back where it came from.”
I caught my breath, looking around. The spur that had conjured the injured place in my side was gone. “I didn’t. Exactly.” At his look, which was mostly unreadable, but certainly not happy, I said, “ Well, I did open the privacy circle with it. But not the walking circle. I was just going to cut into the earth underneath the trough and release the energies back into the ground. The explosion wasn’t me.”
His face shut down. “Your eyebrows are burned off,” he said before he turned and walked away.
Following another shower and two cups of strong black tea to fortify myself, I sat down at the computer and signed on to the Internet. I wasn’t sure what I had accomplished in the walking circle, with the talk of riddles. All I really had were the five words Malashe-el said when in the privacy circle. “Barak. Succubus. Queen. Larvae. Baraqyal.” Barak and Baraqyal I thought I recognized from old neomage legends, but nothing came readily to mind.
It was not yet nine in the morning and I had another hour before the shop opened when I secreted myself beneath the stairs to my loft, my amulet necklace on the doorknob. For the second time in a row, the Internet was agreeable, which was sort of scary in a Murphy’s Law kinda way, and I quickly found a ring of sites run by a mage-chaser, one of the humans who follow and document every bit of neomage news, history, gossip, and lies, detailing every fact and fancy about each documented mage, and lots of foolishness about undocumented ones too. Until I acquired my visa, I hadn’t appeared on the site, so either the mage-watcher had limited resources or I was very well hidden. But I was there now.
Unable to resist, I pulled up my own page. “Saint’s blood,” I whispered. There was a full page of text next to a photo of me in mage-garb at the trial. One arm was extended at the elder’s face, the point of the sword touching his throat. I faced the crowd, glowing like a light bulb. I looked… well, Lolo wouldn’t be happy. I didn’t have the heart to read the text. I hit the BACK button and found Barak under the pages classified as “Verified Anecdotes.” I expected to find that one part in four had a basis in fact, but was surprised when most of the story was true to my memory, though told from a human perspective.
The fallen seraph called Barak, an Allied One, formerly named Baraqyal, was badly burned in a battle over the Gulf of Mexico twelve to fourteen years Post-Ap. The soldier-seraph landed and was found on a white sand beach by a nomadic human clan. He was burned almost to nothingness, nearly dead. Nursed back to health by the small clan, he stayed with them for some time as his skin and wings regenerated and new feathers grew.
Though damaged, he offered them protection at a time when little was available. In return they gave him sanctuary and a family such as he never knew. Barak was nearly healed when Daria, the adolescent pictured here, entered pubescence and was revealed as a neomage. The seraph recognized the presence of a new creature when her gifts blossomed and went wild. Unable to resist her, he mated with the first-generation witchy-woman, stealing her virginity and altering the fledging world of the neomages forever.
The union produced a first litter of three boy children, half seraph, half mage, all with full-sized wings but incapable of flight or transmogrification—the kylen. The second litter produced four viable, winged offspring as scientists called them. Daria and Barak had six litters before the seraph disappeared in the major battle that destroyed Mexico City. **See section: Mage War.
The twenty kylen were incorporated into the New Orleans Enclave and grew to be powerful and prolific neomages. When they reached adolescence, they created an unexpected heat in the neomages. A mating frenzy resulted. Rumors of that event are responsible for what the orthodox consider the licentious sexual practices of mages. **See section: Mage Breeding Habits.
In the second generation, the crossbreeding of seraphs and kylen with neomages was banned following an accidental discharge of wild-magic that killed many. The neomage population stopped expanding with the edict. Without seraphs to stimulate mage females into heat, neomages don’t breed easily or quickly. **See section: Mage Breeding Habits.
By seraphic decree, kylen now mate only with humans, and all offspring are taken at birth to a Realm of Light. Mage-powers demonstrated by the first generation have been diluted with the human gene pool, and the wings have vanished entirely from recent generations. Yet kylen, who have vastly longer life spans than humans or mages, are known throughout the protected domains as wizards who answer the call and will of the High Host.
Though I had some answers, I was left with more questions than when I started. What were Allied Ones? What was a nomadic human clan? I didn’t remember that from schoolroom studies. What did it mean to be burned almost to nothingness? And what was this about the New Orleans Enclave being the site of the first mage-heat, and the birth-place of most of the kylen? I had lived there for fourteen years and never heard that. Was Daria still living? The photo was grainy and blurred, the face unfamiliar.
Next I searched for succubus. That was enlightening. A succubus was a noncorporeal demon who could temporarily coalesce to take on the physical form of a human female, or who could possess a human female to lure human men into sexual sin. Occasionally a succubus would then bring the man to its master or kill him, sort of a demonic black widow. I couldn’t see Gramma—who had to be eighty—being successful at the possessed part at all. A succubus had to be sexually alluring and Gramma… wasn’t. Not by a long shot.
Next I looked up queen, and found thousands of sites, books, and papers relating to human queens, queen bees, Pre-Ap queens who were beheaded, queens who used to be human males, which had to be painful, and hundreds of other types of queens. I didn’t find one single reference that might fit the daywalker’s obscure words.
On a whim, I tried succubus queen and hit pay dirt. A succubus queen was purported to be half human, half demon, a rare supernat capable of casting a glamour that could fool even seraphs. When bred with a Major Darkness it could produce thousands of eggs. The hatchling larvae would all be female succubi—true female beings, capable of giving birth when mated to anything male. If Gramma had been replaced with a succubus queen, or been possessed by a succubus, capable of a glamour to hide her physical appearance, that might fit. Though why a sex demon would want to possess Gramma was a mystery.
Still not satisfied, I looked up more sites mentioning Baraqyal. The name turned up on an incomprehensible site dedicated to seraph watching. Seraphs had groupies, much like mages did, and not all were totally rational. The keeper of this site surely wasn’t, with whole sections ranting about seraphs, mages, evil, sex, and demons, none of it comprehensible except the dictionary of seraphic names, which was organized and coherent enough to have been imported from another site or created before she lost her mind.
There was also a Web page listing the traits of seraphs, including their limitations, which was a surprise. Most humans seemed to think they were omniscient, omnipresent, all-powerful beings. They weren’t. According to both current and ancient theology, their power and knowledge were finite, often held in check by the Most High.
In another section, I found pictures of seraphs, which made my blood pound and my breathing speed. I shifted from page to page and found a picture of my own special seraph, Raziel. He looked back at me in full color, with blazing ruby irises, scarlet feathers, crimson hair upswept in a breeze, and muscles that looked as if they had been chiseled from marble.
My knees went weak. Heat, never far away, threatened. My seraph. It was how I thought of him, in lots of carnal circumstances and positions. Dangerous thoughts in light of the death penalty imposed upon mages who mated seraphs. Reluctantly, I went back to my search. But I book-marked the page and the pict
ure.
Baraqyal was listed as one of two hundred Watchers, fallen but repentant seraphs, as referenced in Enoch I. I hadn’t heard of Enoch I. But the description matched the seraph I’d seen in the pit on the Trine, the silver-haired one with clipped wings. Barak was in a list of nearly a hundred missing Allied Ones, most not seen in decades. A quick search proved that Enoch I was not available on the web. Neither was a picture of Barak, and that bothered me.
I hadn’t known there were repentant seraphs among the Fallen, and that most had joined the Allied Ones. There was an awful lot I didn’t know, not with my neomage schooling and training cut short, terminated by the priestess of the New Orleans Enclave, and most of the Internet information was confusing. But one thing was clear in all the accounts of Baraqyal, Barak, and kylen. They had been in the same Enclave where the first litters of kylen were born. Where the first mage-heats took place.
Apparently, Barak had allied with the winged-warriors, the seraphim, in the Last War. He was also a Watcher, a fallen but repentant seraph. Was Barak really Baraqyal? If so, then another part of the puzzle that started and ended with Lolo, the priestess of the Enclave of my birth, was making sense.
Little facts and bits of memory were beginning to fall into place in the depths of my mind. Thoughtfully, I signed off the Internet. I had to have a long chat with Lolo.
Chapter 14
Friday was my day to work in back, while Jacey and Rupert handled shop business. With the clearing weather, there should have been a lot of walk-in traffic, but things seemed awfully quiet when I came down the stairs dressed in jeans and layered T-shirts. Jacey was sitting at a display, with an adding machine, pencil, and notepad, doing the books and Rupert was resetting a cabochon in an old setting. Repair work. No customers.
“You guys look relaxed,” I said.
Neither looked up. Rupert said, “Taking it easy after a wild morning trapping demons, chanting, and getting blown up.”
