A sound that was more a ripple in the air jerked him around. The candles in the Sagrado windows blurred as white mist flowed upward, sealing the Conclave from the inside. Abruptly the murmer of voices within muted. At the same time, the roiling mist beyond the path rose in a murky dome overhead, swallowing the top of the butte entirely.
A bare crunch of gravel and a slither of movement made him tense. Max emerged from around the Sagrado and strode toward him. She was graceful in a martial way, her body more angles than curves, though the outfit she wore was dramatically sexy. She stopped in front of him, her jaw sharp and jutting.
“I probably shouldn’t have said that.”
“Probably?” He was surprised that he was glad for her company. It was better than his own thoughts.
She rolled her eyes. “I sometimes forget how to shut my mouth. It’s genetic. Nothing I can do about it.”
“But you still meant it.”
She grimaced, one shoulder lifting in a shrug as she folded her arms, her legs bracing wide. She sighed, looking down at her feet, her toes curling. “I didn’t choose this life and I sure as hell don’t want it. As far as I’m concerned, the only good witch is a dead witch. But that doesn’t give me any right to judge you. Maybe your witch is okay.” She said it with a look like she had a mouthful of hot peppers.
Alexander ran a hand over his mouth and jaw, not entirely sure how to reply. To say she’d surprised him’again’was an understatement. “Tell me the truth’are you insane?”
She gave him a sideways look as if wondering if he was serious, then pressed a dramatic hand to her forehead, tilting her head back. “Oh, dear’you’ve guessed my secret.” She said it in a bad Scarlett O’Hara accent.
“What secret? You bounce off the walls like a blind crow trapped in a carnival fun house. A mannequin could see you are insane. How the hell did you end up Shadowblade Prime?”
“Because I’m clearly such a bad risk?” She asked with a fleeting self-derogatory smile. “The nutshell version is’bad taste in friends. You?”
“I have not regretted it,” Alexander said defensively, and wondered who he was trying to convince.
“That wasn’t the question.”
“Sure it was.”
She grinned. “Fair enough. So does that mean we have a truce?”
“All right. Now what?” He watched her with no clue as to what she might do or say next.
She glanced around, a smile playing around her lips. “Hmmm. I guess coffee’s out. No clubbing either. What does one do at a Conclave for fun?”
Alexander found himself smiling back. “We could walk and talk,” he said, gesturing toward the path. “We can discuss ...food.” He raised his brows in a question.
“Seems safe enough.”
She began to walk and Alexander fell in beside her. But even as he began to tell her about one of his favorite hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurants, his mind wandered back. Waste of skin. The words would not leave him alone. He thought of Selange with the staff and his stomach churned.
DAWN WAS JUST TWO HOURS AWAY WHEN A WAVE OF magic rippled outward from the Sagrado as the Conclave ended. It shimmered through the air like a heat mirage, and the mist walls peeled away from the butte, sinking into the ground as they went.
Alexander looked sharply at Max. They had spent the last hours talking about little of any consequence. He had discovered she was mercurial in her moods, that she longed to see the rest of the world, and that she had a dream of going to Machu Picchu and another of learning to skin-dive. He had also pieced together from a few unguarded remarks that her hate for her witch was as real and fierce as her devotion to her coven. He had not decided if she was truly suicidal, but did know she was reckless, and that was just as bad. Maybe worse. And he had discovered he enjoyed her company. She was honest and unexpectedly playful. She liked to laugh, though he thought she probably did not do so often. But with the breaking of the Sagrado wards, that woman disappeared and the Shadowblade Prime returned. He felt the savage violence swallow her as completely as if she had sloughed her thin skin of humanity and let the brutal animal inside emerge. The transformation happened in the space of a heartbeat and was utterly complete. His warm, funny companion of the last hours vanished as if she had never existed, and in her place was a cold, iron-willed predator.
“Time to go face the music,” she said through marble lips.
She did not wait for a reply. Alexander followed as she walked away, his own body tensing for battle. At least he would not have to hurt her. He did not want to be responsible for that.
Just before she reached the sweeping, moss-covered front steps, the moon slid from behind the clouds where it had been hiding much of the night. The glare made Alexander glad for his sunglasses. Max hesitated, one foot resting on the bottom step. She glanced up.
“Priceless,” she muttered, and trotted up the curve of steps through the empty arch at the top.
Even as she did, Alexander saw the sweep of hot red that washed her exposed skin, followed by a bubbling of white blisters. He stared. The light of the full moon gave him a slight burn, but nothing like that. She reached the shadows beneath the arch and turned to look at him. The blisters filming her eyes cleared and her skin smoothed back to ice white.
“Coming?”
Alexander joined her at the top of the stairs. “I’ve never seen a Shadowblade burn like that.”
She shrugged. “That’s me, one of a kind.”
She started to turn away and he caught her arm, pulling her around to face him. Though she tensed, she did not jerk away as he expected. “What are you?” he demanded.
“I’m a Blade, same as you.”
“Not the same. Even I do not burn that way.”
“Even you, huh? Wow. I must be a super-duper special snowflake, then.”
His fingers tightened. “Who is your witch? Where did you come from?”
She grabbed his hand and twisted it away. He let her. “None of your business, Slick. Now they are waiting for us to entertain them. Let’s get on with it.”
They entered a shadowy foyer. Its stone floor was strewn with fresh herbs and flower petals. The scent of them was pungent and cleansing. On the opposite wall was another opening leading into the rectangular nave. Inside, the air was humid with too many bodies. The room swam thick with antagonism.
Alexander and Max strode through the wide door shoulder to shoulder. Inside, the throng of witches waited, standing outside the anneau floor made up of the encompassing circle surrounding a five-pointed star, which embraced the triangle, and at the center of it, the eye. The last was a ruby-colored, oval stone set flat into the blond wood.
Half-melted butter-colored candles traced the brilliant hues of the circle, star, and triangle, each shape inlaid into the floor in glimmering precious and semi-precious stones. The walls were swathed in jewel-bright painted silk tapestries. They depicted scenes of erotic couplings and pastoral scenes of Uncanny and Divine creatures juxtaposed with violent images of human battle and depravity. Sinuous wood carvings in shapes of arcane power interspersed the wall hangings and windows. Six-candle chandeliers, made of heavy, black iron, dangled from the high, beamed ceiling.
Above the tall windows was a narrow balcony that ran down both sides of the long walls and across the rear of the Sagrado. Narrow stairs slotted down in the corners. They were filled with a moving line of men and women dressed as scantily as Alexander and Max, many more so. They crouched and stood, predators poised for attack, spectators for the show.
Alexander assessed the gathered witches. They comprised both men and women, some surprisingly old, with silvered hair and lined faces. Some wore dramatic clothing off the pages of a Shakespeare play or a King Arthur tale, while others were dressed in chic high fashion, while still others looked like they were off to do a Cirque du Soleil performance. Each had bare feet and bare heads, as required by the laws of Conclave, and each had that hard, arrogant, unrelenting look that Alexander always associated with
territory witches. These were leaders’kings and queens of magical countries, their borders constantly under attack.
His gaze came at last to rest on Selange and Giselle. They stood together. Selange’s cheeks were spotted with red, her mouth quivering. She was furious. By contrast, Giselle looked ethereal and calm, as if she already knew the outcome of this challenge and did not fear it. Her glance flicked between Alexander and Max, one brow rising in a silent question to her Prime.
“Welcome back, my friends, to the show that never ends,” Max murmured.
“What is that?”
“It’s from a song. Pretty much covers the story of my life. But we should get this over with. There’s not much night left.”
With that she strode forward. Alexander followed. They went around the circle, coming to a halt in front of the two witches.
Selange glanced at Giselle, then raised her voice to the assembly. “I claim the right of challenge. The witch Giselle has invaded my territory. I demand atonement.”
“I deny your accusations,” Giselle said in ritual answer. “I claim the right of challenge to demonstrate my innocence.”
“Then we shall proceed,” Selange said smugly. “As the offense is against me, I claim also the terms. If you are innocent, the Guardians will not let you fail.”
She spoke the last by rote’quoting witch law. Alexander expected that she had studied the language today.
“So mote it be,” Giselle answered without any uneasiness at all.
“These are the terms. Our Primes will stand champion for each of us. They will be bound inside the circle. It will be a test of each of our skill and power in the making and breaking of them. Any attack is permissible, short of killing blows. Whichever of them falls unconscious first will forfeit the challenge. The winning witch shall claim the fallen Shadowblade as her prize, to do with as she chooses. Additionally, the winning witch shall claim a tithe from the other in the form of a treaty that shall include the right of free passage through the other’s territory for the span of seven years. Do you agree?”
“I shall look forward to possessing your Prime,” Giselle said with a slow look that traced Alexander from head to toe and set his teeth on edge. “Passage into your territory will be quite valuable to me.”
Selange’s lips thinned. “Do not claim your prizes yet. I may prove more formidable an opponent than you expect.”
“You might,” Giselle agreed, sounding unconvinced. “Shall we begin? The sun will rise soon. There is not much time.”
“This will not take long,” Selange said. “Step into the circle.”
Alexander stripped off his silk shirt and dropped it on the floor with his sunglasses on top before entering the circle. He took a deep breath, the muscles of his stomach tightening. No matter how short the duration, this was going to be very difficult. Beside him, Max brushed against his arm. He looked at her, oddly wanting to reassure her. But she needed none. Her body was loose and relaxed, her face almost serene. She faced forward, but Alexander wondered if she saw anything at all. Her eyes were shuttered as if she had left her body altogether. Alexander frowned. Was that possible? If so, he could not defeat her. It would be like competing with a corpse.
“Light the circle,” Selange said. The gathered witches sifted into a line along the outside of the ring of candles. They stood palm to palm in a chain and began a high-pitched chant. It was a rusty scrape of ice and steel from the base of Alexander’s skull to his tailbone.
As the volume increased, magic sluiced into the hall. These were the most powerful witches in western America. Each had built his or her own covenstead and held the reins of a stable of lesser witches. So it was no wonder that the magic they summoned here was powerful enough to make the containment spells of the Sagrado shudder and the chandeliers sway. Alexander felt the magic ripple through his flesh. It pressed against his ears and sinuses and tugged at his lungs, running through the marrow of his bones like acid.
Suddenly the half-melted candles surrounding the stone circle flickered and flared. Alexander had already closed his eyes so that he would not be blinded. The heat from the flames wafted like a midsummer’s breeze. The radiance on the other side of his eyelids dimmed and he slitted them open. The candles had melted into sweet-smelling puddles on the floor, and their flames had sunk down into the circle, lighting the brilliantly colored gemstones like the shattered fragments of a rainbow.
The unearthly voices of the witches rose in a discordant crescendo before abruptly cutting off. The silence resonated with anticipation. Above on the balcony, Alexander could hear the shifting of the watching Shadowblades as they pressed forward to see the show.
“The terms are set,” Selange said into the silence. “Do you have any last words before the challenge begins?” She looked at Max.
Max snorted, glancing at her. “Shut up and let’s get on with this, bitch.”
Alexander recoiled.
Selange’s face contorted. “You will pay for that when you are mine,” she said softly.
Max’s teeth bared in a snarl or a bitter smile’Alexander couldn’t tell. “Fuck off.”
Selange’s mouth snapped shut and she jerked as if slapped. Alexander’s first thought was fury. He stepped protectively in front of Selange, turning to face Max. Even as he did, a second, unexpected thought crept through’did she not know that angering Selange would only make this ordeal worse for her?
“Shut your mouth,” he said, his voice low. “Or I will shut it for you.”
Her lips quirked, her eyes cobra-flat. “You could try. Wanna play?”
There was no emotion in her voice. Was she that good? Or was this suicidal recklessness? She hated serving Giselle’she’d made that clear. Somehow the thought made Alexander feel slightly ill. “Those aren’t the rules,” he said.
“Fuck the rules. I didn’t make them.”
“Enough.” This time it was Giselle.
Max’s attention slid slowly from Alexander back to her witch.
“Remember why you are here.”
There was something more behind Giselle’s slow, precise words than Alexander could understand. But Max did. She went still, then drew herself up. She gave a regal nod. Slowly the heat in her eyes cooled, and once again she withdrew deep inside herself. Her eyes turned almost vacant as she shut the doors on her mental fortress.
“And you, Alexander. Do you have something more ...eloquent?” Selange prompted.
He turned and bowed and was surprised to hear Max’s muttered, “thought it was damned eloquent, myself.”
Selange did not hear, though she scowled, seeing Max’s lips move. Alexander spoke quickly. “I live only to serve you, my witch. It is my pride and honor to stand here as your champion.”
She smiled at him. “I know you will not fail me,” she purred.
But the warm promise in her eyes left him cold. He kept his expression bland.
“Let us begin,” Selange said to Giselle.
Selange wasted no time. Her scarlet-tipped fingers flicked. A crimson line opened at Max’s breastbone, her skin unzippering as the wound traveled down below her belt. Blood ran from the wound, trickling down her legs to drip onto the floor. Only her tightly laced vest kept her intestines from spilling out of her body. But she made no sound, only wrapping her arms around herself and pushing the wound together to help her body heal.
Then Alexander was struck with such pain that his mind scattered before it like ash. He fell to the floor, writhing and moaning, unable to stop himself.
There was something crawling around inside him.
He screamed, the horror of the realization making him vomit. He felt the creatures wiggling and squirming and ...chewing.
Agony rippled through him. He bucked against the floor. Pain burned in his back and abdomen and he felt digging and tearing as the things sought a way out. They pushed and nuzzled, gnawed and clawed. He screamed again, his head cracking against the floor. He looked down at himself. His stomach lumped and then
his skin split. A bloody, whiskered snout protruded through. A blood-slicked head followed.
It was a sewer rat.
Another squabbled with the first. They fought and pushed through, stretching and tearing open the rent in Alexander’s skin. Then another hole opened and another. His stomach and chest felt full of them. They hooked their claws in his flesh and scrabbled for freedom in a frenzy of panic. He felt one crawling up to gnaw and dig at his throat. Another burrowed through his back, sending spasms down his legs.
The agony was awful. But the horror of it was more than he could bear. He screamed and thrashed, rolling and snatching at the rats and yanking them from his flesh. He threw them and they returned, crawling over him, biting him. He dug his fingers into the wounds, trying to drag out more of the creatures. All rationality fled. He began to strike himself, trying to kill the rats within.
Bitter Night Page 11
