Etienne met Trystan’s gaze without flinching. “What are you waiting for?”
Trystan shook his head. “I hope, for your sake, I can stop in time.”
Chapter 41
Blood, Milk and Sky
Arwen wasn’t sure what prompted her to run. Good sense told her to stay with Etienne but what could he do to protect her? What she was certain of was that something big was about to happen, an event so momentous she’d forever curse herself for not being there. A witch learned to trust her gut instinct.
While they’d walked it had been as if she waded through a thick psychic miasma, an aetheric pea soup. Her ears rang with the pressure, a build-up that made her nauseous and set her teeth on edge.
When they’d stopped to argue about whether to find Trystan, the environment had decompressed, as if all the air had exploded out of a burst balloon. She felt it then, like that night she and Helen had attempted the evocation in the cemetery, a sizzling mass of presence dragging at her from the direction of the dam.
Part of her had urged her to be safe, to stay with her friend, but her infernal curiosity had her running toward the shore before Etienne could talk any sense into her.
She ran as fast as she could without tripping. The vamps were only after Helen. She could talk her way out of anything, right? Her blood buzzed through her veins. The vamps wouldn’t see her, her magic worked. She’d sneak up, look, and hope there would be some way she could manipulate circumstances in her favor. Now that the interference had stopped, Trystan would find her if she was with Helen.
This was, also, possibly the single-most irrational thing she’d ever done, but after all the sneaking about she just couldn’t bother anymore.
Warmth lay ahead, like the glow from a fire. There was no other way to describe it, as if the water silently slapping beneath a thin layer of mist, was radioactive.
The woman’s scream of rage was followed by the sounds of a struggle. Then she made out two figures wrestling by the bank, both clad in dark clothes. They rolled on the ground in a parody of lovers in a fierce embrace.
“It’s your fault,” the female raged but the small male beneath her, his peppercorn hair full of leaves and mud, only gargled in response.
His throat had been torn out.
Eleanor had warned her of the “void-hearted bitch.” This had to be her.
“She will kill you just to spite anyone who may care for you,” Eleanor had said.
Arwen was glad she’d left Etienne behind–safer, she hoped–but what was she to do? These two fought like a pair of hounds over a choice morsel. Where had Helen gone?
She slowed and melted into a thicket of wild banana, praying no spiders inhabited the fronds. Dancing an arachnoleptic fit right now would not be a good idea.
The dam’s water alarmed her. It had not glowed so when they’d passed by earlier. Already the mist thinned but the green phosphorescence remained in glimmering highlights with each slap of ripples reaching the shore.
Stark branches soared skyward as if they’d pluck at the stars with their black fingers. Damn. Where was Helen?
The female vampire screamed–the cry of a triumphant raptor–and ripped at something the approximate size and shape of a rugby ball. She tossed the object so that it fell with a meaty thunk, and rolled to a stop at Arwen’s feet.
She stared at the object for a heartbeat. Something clicked a rapid tattoo and she nudged at the thing with her toe.
A head!
A small shriek escaped before she could collect herself and, as she stumbled, her ankle caught on a projection. Arwen fell onto her side, blind to all save the bulging eyes and snapping fangs that belonged to the small man’s face. His body sprawled more than ten meters away.
Sharp pain bit the soft flesh of her hand as she fell, her blood an iron tang in the air.
“Who’s there?” the raven-haired woman called out.
Ohshitohshitohshit!
Arwen bit her lip to stifle a whimper, not sure of the best course of action. If she attempted to run she’d make too much noise. She could hold perfectly still and pray her invisibility extended to the smell of her own fresh blood mingling with the earth.
She’d expected the woman to approach from the water. Arwen was not prepared for the vice-like grip clamping down on both shoulders, so she was dragged onto her feet. She was spun around and pushed up against the very wild banana with which she’d earlier hoped not to make prolonged contact. Now was not the time to worry about things with more than four legs.
In the dark she couldn’t see what color the woman’s eyes were but they glittered like twin rounds of obsidian. Their wildness was at odds with the fine, oval-shaped face and the lustrous black hair framing it.
The woman’s breath smelled like old blood, her skin musty, reminding Arwen of the python she’d once handled at a traveling snake show. The woman’s skin was as cold. How could Helen not have suspected that Trystan was the same?
“Where is Helen?” The woman’s shriek cut through Arwen’s hearing and her mind, a dual blade which shut down all rational thought.
“I-uh–” Arwen choked. This must be how a rat felt when a cat had it trapped.
The woman shook her hard, so that her head snapped against the trunk. Stars bloomed before her eyes and her teeth clipped her tongue.
“She-she was here by the water. I, uh-came down. She was here, I heard–”
The raven-haired woman hissed, nails breaking Arwen’s skin through her t-shirt, digging into muscle with sharp, sharp nails. Exquisite lances of fire shot through her.
The pain became twofold as the woman brought to bear a psychic assault which left Arwen gasping for air. It felt like someone had wedged a crowbar in at the base of her skull and tried to crack open her head, as if it were no more than an oyster, her brain a quivering mass of gray tissue.
The alien presence rifled through her memories, leaving Arwen’s thoughts in disarray, like so much paper upended to flutter about. She could compare the process to watching reruns of scenes on fast-forward, with particular attention paid to the events of the past two weeks.
When the woman encountered Eleanor, she hissed again and thrust Arwen away so that she fell in an awkward position into a small tree.
The sharp branches and finger-thick thorns bit into her skin. In many places, burning sap came into contact with flesh where skin had been rubbed raw.
A large stave of rusted wrought iron–obviously intended for signage or supporting a plant–protruded from her abdomen. She hadn’t felt it pierce her and it didn’t hurt yet. Did blood always soak through fabric so quickly? If only it were water.
Arwen cupped the wound with her hands, hardly daring to believe this was her life flowing away between her fingers, warm and smelling like the sea. When last had she seen the sea? Shouldn’t she be panicking about now?
“You consort with demons!” the raven-haired woman howled.
Arwen laughed. The woman’s statement was rich, considering she wasn’t even human.
Then the pain rushed through her, blossomed in her gut and traveled up her spine, making her rigid.
The woman advanced, every move liquid, speaking of centuries’ perfection in the art of predation.
It shouldn’t end like this. I’m only sixteen. I’ve never slept with a boy. I didn’t get to finish school. I never found out what I wanted to be one day.
Dozens of similar protests flashed through Arwen’s mind as she watched death approach.
Chapter 42
Bargains
Helen struggled at first, her lungs preparing for that first draught of murky water, which never came. Instead she sprawled in long grass, the scent of bitter herbs staining the air.
Wherever she was, no Southern Cross burned above her. The insects in the brush near her sawed a harsh melody that set her teeth on edge and not one but three moons in various phases hung low on the horizon. One was full and bloody and dwarfed its companions.
She patted at her clothe
s, dry–how? Then she stood, dizzy, not quite trusting that her feet rested on even ground. Some bird gave a subdued, mournful cry, three notes descending in pitch before warbling into silence. Three heartbeats passed before it called again.
A stick snapped, a harsh staccato. She spun around. A boy stood before her, not much older than her. He was tall, angular and dressed in little more than a pair of leather trousers–much patched. Long, dark hair spilled over his shoulders until halfway down his back and he watched her with the same slit eyes she’d looked into moments earlier.
“Who? What?”
He laughed and rubbed at his wiry brown arms as he stepped forward. “Who do you think, what do you think, Helen Ashfield with the soul of ancients?”
“I-I don’t know what to think. What happened? One moment I–”
“Then don’t think, Helen, my bright one.”
“Bijou! She’ll be in danger! I must...” She turned on the spot, searching for a direction to take but with equal knowledge that any course she chose would only plunge her deeper into an unfamiliar landscape, like Alice in Wonderland but without a white rabbit.
The boy regarded her, and tilted his head to one side, examining her as if he’d never seen a human before. And, if there was one thing he wasn’t, it was human. This was a certainty.
His features were too sharp. He had two sets of vestigial nipples beneath the first and fine membranes webbed his fingers, which terminated in small dark nails, like a dog’s. The breeze shifted and Helen caught the all-too familiar whiff of fish.
“You’re that thing! That thing from the dam!”
He grinned then, a too-wide smile that nearly split his face with a set of small, too-sharp teeth, like she’d expect on a lizard.
“I’d prefer not to be referred to as a thing, Miss Helen. I’ve waited many years for the right time to approach you, and things tend not to think or plan, for that matter.”
“What do you want with me?”
“Well, you, of course, my bright little flame.”
“Everyone seems to want me! What’s so special about me, anyway? Everyone says I’m powerful but I’m just a girl. Everything was normal a few weeks ago, now I don’t know what’s what anymore.”
He sneered, and started walking around her. “Ah, poor little Helen, feeling all sorry for herself now that she’s so popular. Oh, so she just wants to be an ordinary, boring smelly little teen, does she? Guess what! Life isn’t fair. You got something everyone wants and if you can’t protect yourself, they’re going to take it whether you want them to or not.”
Helen shivered and hugged her arms to her chest. How the hell could she reconcile this boy with the beast that had dragged her beneath the water? This refrain of life not being fair was all too familiar. The huge amount of what-the-fuckery in which she had been dumped almost choked a whimper out of her.
“So, what do you want with me?” She tried to summon a brave face.
“Ever heard of the wise snake that lives beneath the river or the lake?”
“That’s an old African legend the black people tell.”
“And?” He looked at her with an air of expectance, as if she should finish telling a story.
She’d humor him. If he’d wanted her dead she wouldn’t be standing here. “The wise person goes to the water and the snake spirit chooses them and keeps them for a while, teaching them how to work magic, before letting them back to the real world.”
He beamed at her, clapping his hands. “Clever girl! Although I wonder...I don’t think this world is any less real than what you’ve been taking for granted.” He paused, tapped a fingernail to his lips.
“But my friend!” Helen said.
“Poo to your friend.”
“Bijou’s mother died trying to save me. Bijou’s in grave danger.”
“Bijou’s marked by Ngbandi of the north. She is not my concern. You belong here, with me, until such time that I decide to release you. I’ve lost many like you to the hungry ones, too many to count. I won’t lose you.”
“I appreciate your concern but–”
“But nothing, Helen Ashfield. Your soul has burned bright for many lives. It is only fitting that you are now mine to teach.”
Helen twisted on the spot. Her brother, Etienne, her dad, grandmother...they would worry. What about her mom? She wouldn’t even know she was missing.
Helen swallowed hard. If anything she needed to say goodbye or at least reassure them. The legends always said the people returned once the spirit had finished teaching them. But she didn’t want this, did she?
Trystan! What about him? She gasped. Why couldn’t life just go according to what she wanted for a change?
“I-I can’t! I refuse!”
“Then you stay here until you change your mind. I can wait. I’m very patient.” The being folded his arms, and regarded her from beneath a fall of coarse hair. His smile was so goddamned smug she wanted to scream.
“Argh! You’re all so god-damned infuriating!” She punched him in the chest. It was like hitting a wall, and the boy didn’t move an inch.
“Done with the physical violence?” He looked down at her fist, his expression quizzical.
Helen withdrew her hand, rubbing her knuckles until the stinging went away. “All right, so once you’re done teaching me, I’m free to go?”
He nodded. “Free to go.”
“What do you get out of the deal?”
“The knowledge that you’re not a slave to anyone who’s going to work against your purpose.”
“Not even to you?”
“No, but we will have an extra special, um, understanding.” He gave another too-wide grin, his teeth flashing white.
“Okay, well, then hear me out.” She had to get away. “What if we strike a bargain? What if you allow me to go back just to make sure that Bijou is fine and that everyone knows I’m okay? Then I’ll come back and be your willing, erm, pupil.”
The boy threw back his head and laughed, his body shaking from the mirth. He wiped at his eyes once his amusement subsided. “What do you take me for, Helen, naive? I may not be given to human niceties but I’m not going to go as far as trusting you.”
“I promise.”
“Will you swear an oath?” He pressed his face close, the fishy smell turning her stomach.
“Sure, I’ll swear an oath–anything–I just need to get back.”
“Yeah, yeah, to make sure that everyone’s doing all right. I know you’ve got no intention of honoring your oath but in this reality oaths are, um, a bit more... How should we put it? Binding?” Something else lingered in his eyes, something that spoke of ancient secrets carved on forgotten stelae.
What was she getting herself into? Maybe she’d find a way to wiggle out of the deal but anything right now beat not knowing that she’d been able to assure everyone that she was not dead, or worse.
“Okay, so how do I make this oath?” Helen asked.
If the being’s grin could grow any larger, she didn’t think it possible. “An oath sworn in blood.”
Helen stepped back. “That’s just gross.”
He shrugged. “It’s more binding than your word.”
“How?”
“You could call it magic. We must go to the lefika. It would be...appropriate.”
Before she could protest, he grabbed her hand, his skin cold and clammy like that of an amphibian, and dragged her, stumbling, along a cobbled path she had not noticed before.
“Is it far? Will it take long?”
“Distance and time are relative here, bright one.”
“Hey?”
“I could send you back to before you were born or five hundred years in the future, so don’t piss me off.”
“You wouldn’t!”
The entity stopped, spun around, and pressed his cheek against hers. “Try me.”
Every inch of Helen’s being screamed against the contact but she held still. “It’s fine. Really.”
“Good!” He yanked h
er on.
They walked beneath tall trees, which reminded Helen of slender oaks in shape, with bark that shone with a hint of bioluminescence. Beyond this avenue it grew dark. Not even the stars penetrated the canopy of gray, palmate leaves.
The path stretched ahead, undulating like a lazy snake, each cobble giving off a sheen of light, a tint echoing the green of her companion’s eyes.
“What is your name?”
“I have many names,” he said, without turning to face her, seeming intent rather on scanning the landscape on either side.
“Which one do you care to tell me?”
“You can call me Troth. That’s a nice name.”
“It’s not your real name, is it?”
“It’s the name I choose to give you and you may call me by it. Therefore, it’s a real name.”
“But...”
“What is a name but a made-up word used to identify a person, animal or object?”
“You’re infuriating!”
“That’s the second time you’ve said that today, it’s wearing thin. I’m Troth. Get it right.”
Helen shut her mouth. There was no way she’d subject herself to anything this being wanted to teach her. She wasn’t one given to lying but in this case she was glad to make an exception.
Presently, the avenue of trees broadened into a clearing with a ten-meter diameter. In its center, rising from a carpet of fallen leaves, stood a plinth, rectangular and hewn from pale rose-colored stone with rough strokes.
The stone reached Helen’s waist, the surface warm to the touch. A depression, the size and depth of a saucer, held a small pool of clear liquid. Water, perhaps?
“Pretty, eh?” Troth asked. “The lefika.”
“For a bird bath.”
Troth smirked. “Trying to be clever now, Miss Helen?”
“Perhaps, but not too clever, mind you,” she said.
Camdeboo Nights Page 24
