The copper saucepan sat on the hob, stout and shiny and a souvenir of a childhood David would prefer to forget. A pint of water—no more, no less—was inside, coming to a slow boil over a moderate heat. Along with the water was salt, thyme, and a pinch of turmeric. David had almost questioned the ingredients, but Warwick had assured him before David could open his mouth that he hadn’t gotten them wrong. In his mind they had appeared in pots with labels on their fronts. Now all that was left to do was add the rose petals, which shimmered more fervently, as though the sword had a mind of its own and knew its destination and purpose.
And that was a stupid, unbelievable thought, but it was there in David’s head all the same.
“You have to put the petals in,” Warwick said, “once the water is at boiling point. Only you—I’m not allowed to help with this.”
“How do you know that?” David picked the sword up, and energy from the stem slithered through the skin of his fingers and palm and raced up his arm to end its journey in the region of his heart. Warmth burst there, giving him such a sense of peace that he wished he could hold the flower for the rest of his life. He hadn’t felt so wonderful since he and Warwick had mated.
“Because,” Warwick said, “after we’d mated, I was shown me putting the petals in, and the copper pan exploded, the poison caught fire from the gas on the hob, and the cabin—with us inside it—was razed to the ground. Then I was shown the scenario with you adding them, and nothing happened except that the poison lit up.”
“I can see how your interpretation of that is correct. I’d have thought the same.” David laughed unsteadily. The word ‘poison’ was doing a number on him, bringing to mind all the old-fashioned murder-mystery books he’d read, where the killer always used the wicked stuff to bump people off.
“Oh, and you need a tiny bottle.”
“A tiny bottle? There’s a pint of water in that pan. How small are we talking?”
“In my dream it was a salt cellar.” Warwick shrugged, as if in apology for what the Angels had told him. “I don’t understand it any more than you do.”
“But they have a hole in the lid.” David frowned until it hurt.
“And maybe that’s what’s needed. I’m just telling you what I was shown.”
David pointed to the glass salt cellar on the counter beside the wooden bread bin and recalled the times from the past where his father had liberally coated his food in salt, saying it brought out the taste of whatever had been on his plate. Pepper, too, and David had sneezed once or twice at the dust-mote type haze so much pepper had created. His mother had given his father an admonishing look that had always quickly turned to adoration.
Odd how she’d loved him to distraction, when, to David, he’d been such a mean bear of a bloke who had frightened him more often than not with his harsh words and angry actions. Perhaps his mother had known his father better than anyone and knew what was hidden beneath that gruff exterior. It was a shame the man hadn’t shown his kinder self to David, hadn’t hugged his guilt away over Rachel or treated David as if he were special, too, when Rachel had been alive. All the goodness in that man had been reserved for David’s sister, and, he could admit it now, David had resented Rachel for it.
Warwick going over to retrieve the cellar brought David out of the past and into the present. Warwick emptied the salt onto a saucer then washed the cellar at the sink. “I have the feeling—and it’s stronger than before—that it’s definite only one or two drops of this stuff we’re making that will kill Idaline.”
Another fizzle of energy came from the sword, the onyx stem buzzing against David’s palm and the petals brightening for a few seconds then dousing to their former steady-lambent state.
“It seems the sword agrees.” And David didn’t feel stupid saying that. At one time, he would have laughed cynically if someone had said a flower had the ability to speak to him, but he had experienced it, had felt the power of it, and there was no cynicism in him now, only a fullness, a flurry of knowledge that yes, he had to defeat devils, to wipe them all out, but for good reason. Even though that reason wasn’t quite clear yet.
Warwick shook the excess water from the cellar then stood it upside down on the drainer. Slight droplet speckles clung to the glass. The waning afternoon sun crawling through the window glinted off them, and David turned to the copper pot and peered inside.
“It’s boiling now,” he said.
“Right, well, put the petals in, then.” Warwick came to stand beside him and offered an encouraging smile. “Honestly, it won’t burn the house down if you do it.”
David trusted Warwick, and so he plucked a petal off. It twinkled between his thumb and finger, the light from it making his skin look orange. He dropped it into the pan. “How many does it need?”
“The Angel implied we would know.” Warwick shrugged. “Just keep going?”
David did so, petal after petal ghosting into the pot, landing on the jumbling, tumultuous water then floating beneath the turmeric-colored bubbles. Their shine was still evident, illuminating the potion to a vibrant gold, the fluid reducing at a rapid rate. That would explain only needing a small bottle for the end product, then.
He pulled two more petals off, let them drift down, and the moment they touched the water, the sword in his hand shriveled, wilting as though it had been removed from the ground not an hour but days ago. The rose itself no longer sparkled, the edges crispy, and the buzzing stopped, as if all the influence inside it had gone. He touched what was left of the emaciated bloom, and it crumbled, wandering to the floor as a gray ribbon of dust. The stem vanished, and he stared at his open hand.
“Like I said.” Warwick smiled. “We’ll know when there’s enough.”
David eyed the tiles beneath his feet. There was no dust, nothing at all to indicate what had happened, except that the well-being in him remained, and some kind of power or energy that hummed in his solar plexus. Whatever the rose had contained was now inside him, giving him the strength he’d needed for so long. Many a time he’d wished for such strength, to be able to go forth boldly instead of meekly. Now it was as though he’d never been afraid before. The feeling was amazing.
But will it last?
Stop being negative.
He diverted his attention to the pot, surprised to see the concoction was only about half an inch deep now. “When will it be ready, do you think?” He looked at Warwick. “Okay, I get it. We’ll know, right?”
“We’ll know.”
A fantastic light beamed in the pan, and David stepped back, the brilliance of it hurting his eyes. He blinked a few times, and several ghostly imprints of the pot appeared with every closing of his lids, then disappeared completely. He stared inside the pot again, squinting to guard himself from the glare, but the glow had simmered down, now a warm radiance that reminded him of the amber halo produced by street lamps in the dead of night.
“It’s ready,” he said and turned off the gas flame.
“You’re sure?” Warwick asked.
“Absolutely, I feel it in my gut.” He did, too, the warmth there growing by degrees to something he might call unbearable if it weren’t so pleasant.
“Right, the next thing you have to do is get that poison into the little bottle and secure the lid immediately.”
“Not much pressure there, then.” His old self had crept in without his permission, and he batted the Doubting Thomas away.
I can do this.
“Of course you can.” Warwick took the now-dry cellar from the drainer and placed it on the counter beside the hob. “How you’re not going to spill some is anyone’s guess, because I know your mother didn’t have a funnel.”
David wondered the same himself, considering that the lip of the copper pot was so wide, but he’d give it his best shot. He took hold of the pan’s handle and began lowering the pot to the cellar. Before he had a chance to pour, the liquid eddied then formed a cyclone, rising out in a gorgeous, twisting golden arc, a swirling ribbon much
like the rose dust had been. It found its own way into the cellar, where it sparkled as though glitter was one of the main ingredients.
Pot returned to the hob, David stood back then glanced at Warwick.
“It wasn’t just me who saw that, was it?” David asked, a little stupefied by the wonder of it. “I mean, it leaped out.”
“I saw it. Bloody amazing, it was.” Warwick broke eye contact to pick up the cellar top and hand it to David. “Best you do this bit, too.”
David took it and, as he was about to approach the small bottle, the lid whipped out of his hand and screwed itself onto the cellar. Then the hole in the top closed over, answering David’s unasked question of how they were supposed to not spill any poison on their travels to the underworld.
“Fucking hell,” he breathed. “I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself.”
“Me neither.”
Warwick laughed—a shaky laugh that told David his mate wasn’t as self-assured as he appeared, that some things did rattle or unnerve him.
“I’ll wash the copper pot.” Warwick hauled it to the sink, obviously knowing he was allowed to get involved from here on out. “Ah. I forgot about this bit. This needs washing then wiping with—and you’re not going to believe this—a cabbage leaf.”
“You what?” David widened his eyes.
“You heard me well enough.” Warwick chuckled and stared through the window. “Maybe there’s something in the leaves that removes the poison from the copper, who knows. It’s a good job you have some growing in the garden, isn’t it.”
“Too right, although the vegetables might not be much cop now. It hasn’t rained in ages, and it’s been two weeks since my dad would have watered them, and I was stupid—or too busy drowning in my sorrows—to do it myself.”
Drowning in my sorrows. Apt, considering how they died.
Don’t. Don’t go there.
David straightened his shoulders and left the kitchen via the back door. He strode over to the allotment and crouched beside a row of almost-wilted cabbages. The sun had ravaged them good and proper.
He stared at the sky, dusty blue with comfy-looking clouds. “You might have been an arsehole to me, Dad, but I wouldn’t wish your kind of death on anyone.” He sighed. “I’m sorry we never got to know each other properly. I’m sorry for taking Rachel away. But I hope you know the truth of it all now. And I hope you can forgive me.”
He wrenched a cabbage from its birthplace and returned to the cabin, the resolve in his belly whirling pleasantly, as though his father had heard what David had said and that indeed, all had been forgiven.
Chapter Eight
Warwick sat on the sofa in the living room and rested his head back. David settled beside him, their thighs and the tops of their arms touching, and Warwick knew, without a doubt, that David needed the contact.
Emotions seeped through from David and into Warwick: David coming to terms with the new feelings inside him, of being stronger and believing in himself more; David wishing he’d felt this way a long time ago and mourning the fact that he hadn’t; David grappling with the guilt of having to kill Idaline and the devils, equating it with the death of Rachel, which, in Warwick’s opinion, wasn’t the same thing at all.
“Don’t,” Warwick said. “Rachel’s death was an accident, you must accept that. And as for Idaline and the others—I just know that if we don’t kill them, they’ll kill us. All of us. Every single shifter out there.”
“We can’t let that happen.”
“No, we can’t—and we won’t. The Angels wouldn’t make us do something like this if there wasn’t a great need. They’re angels, for God’s sake, not a bad bone in their bodies, so for them to sanction a mass devil cull, there has to be something bigger going on, hence me mentioning us all being killed. I feel it inside, that we’ll be wiped out if you don’t do this thing.”
“I feel it, too, and it makes it a little easier to come to terms with it. I have to keep telling myself, whenever I think about the killing of them, that they’re not people. And when they were people, they were bad, otherwise they wouldn’t even be in the underworld. That’s the truth of it, isn’t it?”
“So we’re led to believe. Even full humans think the same way. If you’re bad, you go to Hell. If you’re good, you go to Heaven.”
“But isn’t killing bad and a reason to be sent to Hell?”
Warwick had known that question was coming. He’d pondered over it himself. And theoretically, yes, that was true, but in this case? No, he didn’t think after they’d culled every evil being from the shifter underworld that he and David would have to inhabit it themselves as punishment, waiting for new malevolent souls to arrive.
Suddenly, David jolted, sat forward, and stared ahead. Warwick saw what was going through his mate’s mind—after every single devil had burned to a crisp, the underworld’s rocky caverns powdered like the crumpled sword had, leaving behind a vast, dark-gray ash desert.
“Blimey,” David said. “We have to destroy the underworld, too.”
Warwick was shaking inside, but he was buggered if he’d let those shakes manifest on his outer body, letting David know he was just as afraid. But he had to voice the question that was spinning through his mind. “How do we destroy it without potentially destroying ourselves?”
“Exactly what I was thinking.” David released a shaky sigh. “If we’re there, in the underworld, we risk being obliterated with it, don’t we? Exploding, boiling-hot rocks…”
“That can’t be.” Warwick shook his head. “The Angels must have something up their sleeves.”
“But what if they don’t? What if that’s what my ‘good’ thing is? That I was destined to bring down the underworld and sacrifice my life while doing it? Saving all the shifters from terrible deaths at the hands of Idaline and her lot but experiencing an excruciatingly painful death of my own?”
“No, I won’t believe that.” Warwick couldn’t entertain it so switched subjects and suggested, “We ought to have a nap before venturing out later, really.”
He’d been given no clue as to how they would get to the underworld once the rip appeared, and he suspected David would be told, hopefully by the knowledge that seemed to dump itself into him when he wasn’t sure what to do. Odd how the Angels were contacting them so differently, but good that they could give David insight without the vehicle of dreams.
“Can we even sleep after what we’ve just been discussing?” David asked. “I don’t think I’ll be able to manage it, although I am exhausted.”
“We should try. We need to be on the ball, be hyper alert for what’s ahead. The lack of sleep might muddy things. We might make rash decisions or not make them quickly enough. It’s important that we get this right. Come on, lean back on me and shut your eyes.”
David obeyed, and they snuggled together, Warwick remaining awake for a long while until David’s breathing had gone slow and steady and a small snore erupted from him. Only then did Warwick allow his eyes to close, and he was surprised at how fast his body surrendered to the embrace of the sofa and sleep’s soft and silky arms.
He stood on firm ground, although he couldn’t see it, hiding as it was beneath a layer of churning stratocumulus that reached mid-calf. Warwick stared around, seeing nothing but whiteness—white sky, white buildings, white flowers. His clothes stood out, marking him as a newcomer, someone who didn’t belong compared to the stream of people now coming out of a glass structure to his right, the surrounding whiteness reflected in the panes so the building didn’t appear to be there at all unless he looked really hard.
The people wore white robes and seemed to float, although he’d bet that was only an illusion the clouds were giving. Like Warwick, the small crowd’s hair and skin broke up the lack of color, bringing blasts of bright red waves, golden waterfalls, and black curls that cascaded from their heads. Their faces were tanned by the sun or burnished in various shades of mahogany, and everyone beamed with smiles.
Warwick wasn’t dead, he realized that—he was just a visitor, brought here by his dream-visiting Angel for whatever reason. Or perhaps he was being shown how calm shifter Heaven would be once the underworld had been annihilated. Whatever, he was grateful to have this chance to know where he would end up if he continued to live his life in the way he always had done—being as fair and as honest as possible. And maybe, just maybe, his Angel was trying to tell him that he and David would arrive here at the end of their days and not somewhere else. Although where else would they go other than here if their mission was a success and the underworld ceased to exist?
The crowd walk-floated ahead, and Warwick followed them, eager to see more of this place. Their indecipherable chatter trailed in their wake, and one of them, a man with magnificent, waist-length russet hair and a beard to match, glanced back over his shoulder. He beckoned Warwick to come closer, and it seemed it only took a second for him to be beside the man, floating with the crowd like he belonged.
“My name is Manakel, named after one of the Angels of Peace, which is why I was chosen to visit you in your dreams. Peace—it is something we have strived for but have not fully achieved. We had to wait until you and David received your Hails for true peace to begin to happen. It has seemed a long time, waiting for this day.”
Warwick didn’t know what to say. It felt as though he didn’t have to say anything, just that he should think and his words would come out as speech.
“That’s right,” Manakel said. “That’s exactly how it works here. In death, here in our heaven, we adopt the same process of thought-speech as we did on Earth with our mates—except we can all hear one another, no secrets here.”
“Doesn’t it get noisy in your head?” Warwick asked.
The Crumpled Sword Page 6
