by Megan Derr
Despite their legacy, the runes always made him think of Midnight. Devlin had to bite his tongue against the urge to tell the driver to turn back, take him home first.
Dark, however, was hours away yet. Midnight was still sleeping. That aside, to alter the journey in such fashion would break the spell he had just cast.
He meant what he'd said, anyway. He did not want Midnight brought in to this affair.
Since coming into his care almost fifteen years ago, and after he had come of age, Midnight had proven an invaluable assistant. But no matter the spells, Midnight was still a draugr. There was no telling how being around other draugr would affect him.
Devlin did not want either of them to wind up regretting what might come to pass.
He did, however, sorely miss Midnight's gentle presence. Having him along always made these outings more adventure and less nightmare.
For more reasons than Devlin was comfortable admitting, even to himself.
He looked again at his runes. They were simple, plain, as all true and proper runes were. The marks were carved deep, and they were always warm to his touch, growing warmer still when in use.
Returning two to the bag, Devlin held the last one to his lips and kissed it lightly before returning it to the bag as well and put the bag back in his jacket pocket.
Settling back until he was as comfortable as it was possible to be in a carriage, Devlin closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. He did not doubt he would require all his energy and alertness upon his arrival. Experience had taught him that adventures never waited for him to be ready.
Moonlight
"What have we here now?" a woman's voice demanded, slicing through the carriage loud and sharp and grating, reminding Devlin unpleasantly of his nanny.
Fighting the last dregs of sleep and straightening his clothes and hair, sensing they were a lost cause for the moment, he threw open the carriage door and stumbled his way out. He managed to gain his feet and stand up straight and tall just as his driver answered the shrew's demands.
"Lord Devlin White, the Duke of Winterbourne," the driver announced imperiously. "He has arrived on a matter most urgent and does not care to be impeded. I trust, madam, that you will inform your master straight away."
The woman nodded but made no move to obey, too busy gawking openly at Devlin.
He resumed the battle with his clothing and hair, giving her a moment to stare and—hopefully—overcome it. He was not especially handsome, at least he had never thought so. Certainly he was not ugly. Bright blond hair, well-trimmed and generally neat, not quite perfectly straight. Blue eyes, as most of his family bore. Tall and slender of build but not overly skinny. Some might say he was striking, if they were being kind, and but for all he was not ugly neither was he remarkable.
If only it was his appearance that caused the gawking. Suffering from an excess of vanity would be far preferable to the reality.
No, they all gawked because there was not a bloody fool alive who did not seem to know the name Winterbourne. The Mad Dukes, the Satan Lovers, the Witches, they who consorted with devils—a family of darkness who mockingly bore the surname of White.
"Madam," he said finally, when she showed no intention of moving any time soon. "I trust you have lodgings available? Also, my man requires a fire and good, hot food as well as a good bed."
"Y-yes, My Lord. Your Grace! Yes, Your Grace," the woman said, tripping over the words and nearly her own skirts as she came to her senses and hastened to obey, shoving back a messy mop of gray-streaked brown curls, resettling the cap upon her head. "Yes, Your Grace," she repeated. "At once. Right this way. Your man can go to the kitchens. The cook will fix him up right and proper."
Signaling to his driver that he was free to go and would not be needed further for some time, Devlin followed the woman into the lodge proper and up to a room on the second floor that proved to be a suite of respectable quality. The last time he'd ventured out, he'd spent an alarming amount of time sleeping on the ground and he would give up magic before he put up with that insult again anytime soon.
"Thank you, madam," Devlin said. "Food and a hot bath would be wonderful, if you would be so good as to arrange it. Also, a servant of mine should be arriving within the next hour or so. Show him up straight away, if you please, and see he is given all he requests."
"Yes, Your Grace," the woman replied, bobbing a curtsy before shuffling out of the room as quickly as she could, no doubt to tell the whole of the village who was staying in her lodge.
Sighing softly, he began to strip out of his greatcoat and gloves, realizing belatedly that he had completely forgotten his hat in the carriage. Shrugging, he tossed the discarded clothes into an armchair and set to work on the rest.
A small glass dish rested on top of a bureau in the bedroom, and into this he cast his diamond cravat pin and matching cufflinks. He stripped off his neck cloth with a grunt of satisfaction, then sat down to remove his boots and set them aside to be taken away for cleaning and polishing. Stripping off his deep blue velvet afternoon jacket, he retrieved his runes and tossed the jacket onto the armchair with the rest of his clothing and sat back in just his breeches and shirtsleeves.
Taking the runes, he placed them beneath a pillow on the bed, then moved to sit in an armchair with a glass of whiskey.
Several minutes later, the silence was broken by a rap on the door. The woman bustled in bearing a tray heavily laden with food, tea, and what looked like whiskey. She was followed by two large men in livery carrying a massive silver tub and several more servants with the first buckets of hot water.
Devlin sat in silence as they worked to fill it, thanking the woman for the food and what proved to be remarkably good whiskey.
When at last the tub was filled, he refused an offer of assistance and dismissed them with another word of thanks. Alone again, he stood and finished stripping. Purely by habit he looked over the scars that decorated his body—a long gash up his right thigh, so deep he had feared he would not be able to use it again. If not for his sister, that likely would have been the case. Knife wounds, bullet wounds, and teeth and claw marks ran the length of his torso and back, his legs and arms. He was not a pretty sight, at least according to his few foolish attempts at taking a lover.
He looked in the full-length mirror tucked into one corner of the room near the bureau, hand moving to the only mark that mattered to him—a set of three runes, carved into his skin forever, shimmering occasionally with ripples of magic.
My heartbeat is your heartbeat, my breath is your breath, my soul is your soul, until my heart ceases to beat and my breath at last runs out and my soul passes on.
Turning away, he cast the last of his clothes onto the armchair and slid into the steaming water with a deep, satisfied groan.
A small table had been set nearby, holding a tray with an assortment of soaps and oils. He picked one at random, more interested in feeling clean than whether he smelled like roses or sandalwood, and quickly set to work, starting with his hair and working from there.
It was only as he was rinsing the soap away that he finally registered the almost sickly sweet scents of vanilla mingled with honeysuckle. Wrinkling his nose, he made a note to pay a tad bit more attention next time.
Shaking his head, he rested his head against the back of the tub and simply sat in the warm water, enjoying the heat of the nearby fire. Devlin was more than content to avoid any thought of draugr for a little while longer.
He stirred only when the water began to turn unbearably cool, and stood up, water splashing all about as he climbed from the tub.
Someone had considerately left a robe for him, the woman obviously having noted he had brought no luggage. It was, oddly enough, a trifle too large. Crossing the room, he poured a fresh glass of whiskey and then returned to lounge by the fire until he had suitably dried and warmed.
By the time he had finished the whiskey, he was warm inside and out. Moving to the large, canopied bed, he shucked his robe a
nd slid beneath the blankets. Pulling them up to rest securely and comfortably about him, he slipped into sleep.
Devlin woke with a jerk, gasping as dreams warred with reality, memories and nightmares fading away only slowly as the glow of the fire and the sounds of someone moving about the room slowly registered.
"Sorry, Your Grace," said a soft, rumbling voice with a trace of Irish accent. "Didn't mean to wake you."
"No," Devlin said groggily, scrubbing at his face and raking his loose hair back. "I should have woken some time ago, if it's as late as I suspect."
"Just on nine o'clock, Your Grace."
"Thank you, Barra. Your journey went well?"
"Aye, Your Grace. Well enough. Your lad weren't happy to be left at home. Said to tell you that you will be suffering mightily for it upon your return, but he'll stay home as you bid."
Devlin let out the breath he had been holding since first learning he would be facing draugr. "Good. Have you clothes set out?"
Barra just glared at him.
Laughing, Devlin threw back his blankets and climbed out of bed, crossing to where fresh clothes were neatly set out on a small sofa. Barra moved to help him, and Devlin permitted it like always because Barra was happiest when helping and fussing.
When at last finished, he was dressed head to foot in black and dark, smoky grey. Black opals gleamed at his throat and in his cuff links, with shining ebony for the buttons of his jacket.
"I'm going to hunt for draugr, Barra," Devlin said in amusement, "not attend a ball."
Barra sniffed. "No sense in looking like a heathen, Your Grace. The clothes are sturdy enough, for all they look like ballroom frippery."
"Of course," Devlin said, checking himself in the mirror and fussing briefly with the knot of his neck cloth. Holding out his hand, he accepted the rings that Barra set in his palm, sliding them onto his fingers—the snowflake signet, a blood red ruby set in gold, an amethyst set in silver, and a plain band of braided silver and gold. That done, he permitted Barra to place opal studs in his ears.
"Am I suitable?" he asked at last.
Barra looked at him critically. "Yes, Your Grace. Do try not to ruin the clothes your first night out. The gray coat just arrived yesterday and you did pay handsomely for it."
"Yes, Barra." Devlin returned to the bed, reaching beneath his pillow to extract his runes. Striding back across the room, he knelt before the fireplace and closed his eyes. "What have you heard since your arrival?"
"Whole place is warded. People have protections up thick enough to make me sneeze. Once it began to grow dark, they took to their houses. There's definitely draugr about; I can smell their traces. I don't envy you having to deal with them."
Devlin snorted. "I certainly would rather give the task to someone else." No man should have to deal with such a dire case of draugr twice in his life.
Eyes still closed, he focused on the draugr, on the village, on finding and fighting, but also on the safety of the townspeople. Bringing the thoughts together as one wish, one spell, he reached into his bag of runes and withdrew those warmest to his touch.
He did not look at them, but cast them before the fire. The bone seemed to absorb the firelight and flicker with it. Devlin studied the runes in silence for a moment. "Moonlight on water," he said at last. "High land—hills, most likely. The mountains, I think, are too far off and not what the runes intend."
"The pond, perhaps?" Barra said. "I heard mention of it, from a woman shrieking at her husband for going out that way when he knows there are demons about."
Devlin rolled his eyes. "Demons. No demon would bother to cause such trouble in vampire territory, especially when it is so close to dragon territory."
"Aye, Your Grace, but you know how the normal folk are," Barra said and held out his greatcoat as Devlin stood and returned all but one rune to his bag. The last he kissed softly, whispering a prayer before returning it to its brothers and the bag to his jacket.
"It would seem I am going fishing, Barra. Do not wait up for me."
Barra nodded. "Aye, Your Grace. I'll have breakfast ready."
"That would be wonderful. Good night, Barra."
"G'night, Your Grace."
Nodding in reply, Devlin departed. He did not bother to take a hat, propriety in this case overruled by the fact he had lost nearly three dozen hats in the course of his eccentric occupation.
Outside, the village was quiet, empty. Even a remote village such as this should not have been quite so still at this hour. The pub, at the very least, should have a bit of life to it.
It was not odd the normal folk were tucked safely away in their homes. They always panicked far sooner than the nightwalkers.
That the nightwalkers too were unwilling to brave their own hours…
Frown deepening, Devlin continued on his way along the cobblestone streets, headed north as his runes had bid. In the distance, he could see the jagged shadow of the mountains that marked the end of vampire territory and the beginning of dragon country.
Strange that the vampires did not simply tend to the matter of the draugr themselves. Walking dead should not pose a difficulty to vampires.
Then again, this was the very edge of their territory; Devlin had not seen a single vampire since his arrival, and Barra had not mentioned any. Likely they feared adding to the problem with their own presence. Of all the nightwalkers, vampires and witches were the most talked about and feared. Normals were wrong about nearly everything they said, but ignorance often caused more harm than truth.
The vampires might also be afraid the dragons would become tangled up in the affair at some point, in which case a third party was indeed the best option. The dragon clans were nothing if not an entirely too traditional lot.
Faint threads of mist had curled lazily about in the village. Here, just outside it, the mist was swiftly turning into a proper fog. It reflected and obscured the light of the near-full moon.
It also distorted sound, but Devlin had not survived as a nightwalker by falling prey to the deceitful ways of mist.
His power would be strongest on the morrow, when the moon was full, for the moonlight had ever been the truest friend of nightwalkers. Not that he was anyone to be trifled with even on a moonless night, but the addition of the full moon made everything so much the sweeter.
Unfortunately, it also meant the draugr would be stronger—significantly.
Best to conclude matters as quickly as possible, before the full moon granted powers to the walking dead that would make them ever so much harder to destroy.
This time he did not close his eyes, simply focused on what he desired, needed—moonlight and clarity, to hear and see those he hunted, who would be hunting him shortly if they were not already.
Reaching into his jacket, he did not take out the bag but simply opened it where it rested. Slipping his fingers inside, Devlin extracted three runes that were nearly too hot to hold.
Not looking at them, he cast them into the thick fog. "As you will it," he said softly, bidding the runes to do as they saw fit.
At first, nothing seemed to happen, but Devlin knew patience. A moment later the fog shimmered and pulsed, and slowly thinned once more into a half-hearted mist.
The draugr were strong, but not yet strong enough their magic was superior to his own.
"Bones of my father's father," he murmured, stretching out his right hand, palm up, "return to my hand."
He'd barely finished the words when the runes he'd cast landed softly in his palm. Closing his hand around them, he returned two to the bag and kissed the last before it joined its fellows.
Mist more or less negated as a threat, he looked around what remained. Dark fields dotted with stone and shrubs. Not far ahead was the pond, and Devlin did not doubt he would soon be greeting company. The runes had said the safest place to encounter them—both for himself and to keep the villagers from harm—would be here.
The pond glistened in the dark, moonlight rippling like quicksilver over bl
ack ink.
The smell struck him before anything else, for draugr were nearly always a pungent lot. He turned slowly, not eager to call attention to himself if they had not yet spotted him, and waited for the approaching shadows to draw near.
Witch
There were three of them, and to judge by the increasingly awful smell, they were quite old.
Arguments abounded about whether fresh corpses or old corpses made the better draugr. The fresher, the better put together and the longer it would last physically. As they grew in power, the body would weather the changes better. Older corpses, however, took better to the magic. They would grow stronger faster and be all the better for it—if they survived the rigorous changes required. They'd also had more time to forget any personal elements of what it was like to live; they would not try to find old lovers or family, old homes.
It was also a toss-up between land draugr and sea draugr, but Devlin had always considered that a pointless argument. One worked with what one had, and if there was no ocean at hand, then land draugr it was to be.
Here, however, both would be available. The three approaching him appeared to be nothing more than low level land draugr, hardly a reason to summon him. They were not even attempting to go on the attack, just heading toward him at a steady gait.
Thinking only of what he faced, what he must do, Devlin reached into his jacket and gave his trust to the runes.
Seven were hot to the touch and came to his hand at once. Holding them loosely, he let his arm rest at his side and waited.
Their eyes glowed a rich blue that was both dark and bright. These were old corpses, but not terribly old, for significant amounts of flesh remained. The skin was snow white where it still clung to the rotting bodies, shining in the moonlight where it managed to slip through the mist. The bones, where they peeked through the rotting flesh, looked black.
They were, in fact, deepest blue. Corpse blue, some called it. Draugr were a type of walking dead most distinguished by their stark white flesh and dark blue bones.
