Midnight

by Megan Derr

  Now they were moving with a bit more purpose, as the scent of his life reached them. They made noises that, for a living creature, would have been sounds of hunger, hate, even a bit like lust.

  Backing up a step as they increased their pace, Devlin threw a single rune at the nearest, calling out as he did so, "As you will it."

  He did not wait to see what would happen, merely repeated the gesture at the other two.

  As one, they burst into flames that were deep blue and violet, with hints of purest white and dark scarlet. The draugr screamed and snarled as best they were able.

  Then they vanished.

  Devlin frowned.

  Something was wrong. They should have burned to ash, the witch flames shifting from violet and blue to far more common orange and red as first the curse was burned away, then the remaining magic and corrupted bits of soul used to do the cursing, and finally the body itself.

  They should not have simply vanished.

  Someone, or something, had called the draugr away before they could be completely destroyed. Whoever had done it had not only sensed the draugr had come to harm, but had overpowered his rune-cast witch fire.

  That would require sorcery or necromancy. An alchemist, perhaps, if he was of sufficient skill. A demon could do it, but this was not a demon's style. Demons had no need of draugr or other such creatures. Demons had no need of anyone. A sorcerer could be using a demon, of course, but again, there was no need for the draugr, not if he had a demon at his disposal.

  Surely Devlin would have sensed someone of such magical talent in the vicinity.

  Little wonder Lord Tamor had sent him and the vampires had agreed. This clearly ran deeper than simply draugr stirring to protect their possessions. They were not waking, but being woken.

  "Bah," Devlin said and held out his hand, summoning his cast runes.

  He did not restore all the runes to his bag, only those he had just used. The others he kept hold of, to use should things shift against him.

  It was still far too quiet. Night was never truly silent when one knew how to listen. A silence this deep was the silence of fear, and it that the dead still walked amongst the living.

  The runes were hot in his hand, agreeing with his assessment, awaiting their casting.

  Nothing stirred. Nothing smelled. Nothing contradicted the apparent calm of the night.

  He did not like it.

  Brow furrowed, Devlin turned back to the dark pond, watching the silver ripples as a light breeze stirred the water, upsetting the reflected moon. He looked up. No clouds inhabited the sky, leaving the stars naked and bright, dancing around the queen moon.

  He looked back down at the pond, and a sudden burst of heat from the runes made him wince.

  That and the splash caused him to leap back just in time, as a roaring monstrosity rose from the pond, sloshing about and spraying him with water along with what were probably bits of rotted flesh. Grimacing, Devlin threw three of the remaining four runes he held, calling for the runes to do as they saw fit—the creature burst into witch fire, shrieking in pain, but it did not stop coming toward him.

  It was large, easily the size of an ox, here stark white, there dark blue, slimy like the soured meat it was but with the telltale gleam of scales that said this thing that had once been human was becoming a true monster.

  Devlin swore softly and threw his final rune to slow it, reaching to grab more—when bright gold flames joined his dark ones, and the creature was turned to ash.

  The presence struck his senses just as he heard a voice, and Devlin whipped around to face the newcomer.

  "Well, well," said a man who might have been carved from ice, he seemed so cold and hard. Devlin did not need the light to know he wore the stiff, imposing garb of a priest and the holy marks of a slayer. "I might have known that if draugr were about, a witch would be as well."

  Devlin ignored him for the moment. Turning his back to the man, he held out his hand. "Bones of my father's father, return to my hand."

  Runes back in hand, he deposited all, with a kiss to the last, then finally turned back to the priest. "If I am a witch, you should not suffer me to live, priest. Have you come to kill me?"

  "Such a one as you is not worth my time, Winterbourne."

  "Hmm," Devlin said. "Here I thought you might be able to do something about the sudden chill I was feeling. I suppose I shall have to light the fire myself."

  The priest shifted restlessly, angrily. The bastard had never possessed so much as a scrap of humor. "Why are you summoning more draugr, Your Grace? Have you grown bored with that abomination you are said to possess?"

  "He might be an abomination in the eyes of most," Devlin said coldly, then pointed a finger at the silent, shadowy figure half-hidden behind the priest, "but that, Father Winsted, is cruelty in the eyes of all."

  Father Winsted stepped back, chest puffing out with anger and pride. "This? You can only envy the skill."

  Devlin stared at the sad, pathetic creature that stood motionless and uncaring as Father Winsted petted it. "That is the saddest excuse for an angel I have ever seen. Your lot never could perform real magic worth a damn."

  "I believe it was holy fire that just saved your worthless skin, witch," Father Winsted replied. "It would behoove you to show a bit more gratitude."

  "I am the eleventh Duke of Winterbourne," Devlin replied, reaching up to smooth a hand down his jacket in a gesture of bored amusement. Flicking back the lace at his sleeves with a practiced motion, he made certain the moonlight caught in the various jewels he wore. "Showing gratitude to lowly priests is beneath me. Especially when they are lowly slayers who form poor angels from a weak will and must use holy fire to kill a draugr when basic witch fire is more than sufficient."

  "Arrogance will be your downfall," Father Winsted snapped. "No good ever came from choosing the path of the devil."

  Devlin shrugged. "The devil always hosts a better fête, and he is by far the better dancer. I do not work well when priests are about, so I shall leave the draugr hunting to you this night, Father. Do indulge me though: Who bid you come here?"

  "None but the Lord."

  "I was afraid of that," Devlin replied and walked past him, headed slowly back toward the village.

  Marvelous. Draugr were not enough, now he must contend with a bloody slayer. Hadn't they all been killed off and eaten by goblins yet? He had not stumbled across one for so long, he had begun to hope they had finally passed out of existence.

  Draugr, slayers… he did not want to know what might cross his path next.

  "Your Grace!"

  He looked up as Barra came loping toward him. "What is it?"

  "A priest—oh, nevermind. Sorry, Your Grace. I had hoped to find you before he did. Smelled him right as I was bedding down for the night."

  Devlin gripped Barra's shoulder in comfort. "Quite all right, Barra. I should have sensed him before I did, but the draugr rather took all my concentration."

  "So you did find them, Your Grace?"

  "Yes," Devlin said. "Something most strange is afoot. Did you bring my books?"

  Barra bristled. "Of course I did, Your Grace, and Master Midnight added a few more to the pile as well. Said you should have thought of them but probably were too distracted."

  Devlin smiled.

  "What with the draugr and the priest now... do you think it might be prudent, begging my forwardness and all…"

  "No," Devlin replied to the question Barra did not quite manage to ask. "Midnight is to remain home, and that is final. The more I see of this mess, the better I feel he did not come."

  That was not true. He ached for the soft smile that eased him no matter what his mood or troubles, the touching words that always discomfited but warmed nonetheless.

  He lightly touched his chest, feeling the warmth of the marks over his heart.

  "Look sharp, Your Grace," Barra said. "That bloody priest is coming 'round again."

  "I am overcome with excitement," Devlin m
urmured, making Barra laugh.

  He turned slowly, resisting an impulse simply to walk away—it would just annoy the good Father all the more and compel him to follow Devlin back to his lodgings.

  "Father, is it not well past the time when good, God-fearing children should be tucked into their wee beds?"

  "'Tis my divine duty to slay the heathen creatures infesting the night and drive them back into hell where they belong. Should I start with that filthy mongrel you call a manservant?"

  Devlin regarded him coolly, looking down his nose at the supercilious bastard with every scrap of condescension bred into him. "Strictly speaking, only demons come from hell, and they are always summoned by others. It is impossible for them to come if not called. This man is not my manservant, but a trusted and valuable friend. If you so much as harm a hair upon his head, I will kill you."

  "Threatening a man of the cloth, are you?" Father Winsted asked, seeming more amused than angry.

  "No," Devlin replied. "It has been my experience that threats are most often empty. Do not hunt those who belong to me, do not even insinuate that you might. I have killed for far less."

  Father Winsted glared, his smug amusement gone. "You are the one who requires killing."

  "You are welcome to try. Certainly your ancestors put enough of mine to the pyre and listened to their screams. What stays you from doing so now?" He bared his teeth in a smile of mocking cordiality.

  In reply, Father Winsted only glared hatefully.

  Still all charm and smiles, Devlin asked, "How is your little sister these days, Father?"

  "One day, Lord White, I will see you put to death," Winsted snarled.

  "I do not doubt that one day I will die with your knife in my back," Devlin said. "However, the blood debt you owe me will stay your hand a little while longer, and we both know you are not quite foolish enough to spill the blood of a witch so close to the full moon. Holy man you might be, but fighting with the devil is simply another manner of dance. Ta."

  With that, he turned and walked away, Barra close upon his heels, ever watchful.

  This time, Father Winsted did not pursue them.

  "No mistake, Your Grace," Barra said a few minutes later, "that one won't be happy till he bathes in your blood."

  "Indeed," Devlin replied. "I expect some day he shall. I do not doubt he helped persuade my brother and sister to depart for the new world to find salvation." He grimaced.

  Barra snorted. "Whites have always been witches, and the very best of the lot. 'Tis a sad day indeed when they begin to follow the path of the so-called righteous."

  "All things come to an end, Barra," Devlin said quietly. "Everything which rises must someday fall. The Whites were always bound to decline." He smiled faintly. "We shall not fade away entirely, however. Too many fortunetellers have declared we would live forever, one way or another. Perhaps some of that time will be amongst the righteous, but the truth will out. One day we shall all be black once more."

  "Aye, Your Grace."

  They lapsed into silence then, content to stay so until they reached their lodgings. "My books, Barra," Devlin said as they entered the building. "Perhaps a pot of tea as well, if one can be found at this hour?"

  "Of course, Your Grace. Bite to eat as well, I should think. Back in a blink. The books will be on your bed," Barra replied, leaving him at the foot of the stairs to see to the food.

  Climbing the stairs, Devlin let himself into his rooms and promptly stripped down to his black waistcoat, casting all else aside for Barra to tend. Then he strode across the room to the bed to take up the half-dozen volumes sitting upon it.

  Three were of a goodly size. One was bound in black leather with archaic symbols written in an ornate script across it; the second was bound in deep blue leather, stamped with silvery runes; and the last was bound in red leather and bore no markings.

  Of the remaining three, two were of an average size, both bound in plain brown leather with only simple runes stamped along the spine and the snowflake crest on the front. They were spelled so that only those of White blood, or those who had permission freely given, could open them.

  The last was small enough to tuck into his jacket should he desire. It was a compendium of his encounters with the walking dead. He had started it a little over fourteen years ago, when a night that had started out so simple and calm turned into a complicated nightmare and had thrown him down the path to becoming an expert not simply on nightwalkers, but on the walking dead.

  Moving to the fireplace, he set the books on a small table beside one of the deep armchairs there. Settling comfortably into it, he took up the larger black book first. As always, Midnight proved an invaluable assistant; even at a distance, he filled in the holes Devlin left.

  The black book was a general history of magic in the area—when the various types of nightwalkers had begun to appear, when the vampires had staked their claim, what little information was available on the reclusive, secretive dragon clans. It was not a book he had thought to request, being far more interest in his family grimoires and two of his more interesting bestiaries.

  Ignoring the pang that came with thoughts of Midnight, Devlin settled down to read.

  Tradition

  He muttered to himself as he read, a habit of old that had often reduced his siblings to groaning and complaining and throwing things at him until he shut up.

  More than once he found himself starting to speak more loudly and clearly, as though to another person. He also caught himself looking up to catch a patient, gentle smile, or starting to give an order to jot something down. He scowled each time he did it, growing increasingly aggravated. Honestly, was he so attached?

  The answer, he conceded reluctantly, appeared to be yes. It should not come as a surprise, for he had always made a poor hermit. He was the oldest of four and had ever been surrounded by two boisterous sisters and a reckless brother. His parents had been just as vibrant, perhaps to counter the grim realities of living a nightwalker's life. He was the eleventh Duke of Winterbourne, a position that had more than a few conventional obligations in addition to his decidedly unconventional responsibilities. He had little use for normal companions, but counted several nightwalkers as friends and dozens more as comrades in arms and associates.

  Barra had been with him even longer than Midnight; he was far more friend than manservant.

  Despite their profound stupidity, he still loved his siblings, who even now were crossing the sea to find a new home. He treasured his remaining sister all the more for being the only one to stand with him. He still missed his parents something fierce.

  He did not deny he loved Midnight. From the very first, Midnight had stirred something protective and fierce. How could he not love Midnight, who shared his heartbeat, breath, and soul.

  Still, he should not be… Oh, bugger it. He was pining away like a homesick lover, though he certainly did not love Midnight in such fashion.

  What was Midnight doing now? At this late hour, with no one else about, he was likely buried in the library. Perhaps stretched out on the long chaise Devlin had put there solely for Midnight when he was still a small child. He had been a voracious reader from the very first, reading faster than Devlin could acquire new volumes.

  He might go in search of a bit of fresh blood, a rare indulgence but one Devlin granted him. He did not require it the same as other living dead, but he enjoyed it in much the same fashion Devlin enjoyed his brandy. He certainly drank far less than the vampires wandering about the city.

  Swearing softly, Devlin slammed his book shut and returned it to the pile on the table. Rubbing his temples, he forced away thoughts of Midnight. He did not need Midnight to do this; it was foolish to feel so out of sorts simply because a trivial pattern was broken. Another day or two and he would be home again and all would be well.

  Nodding, he reached out and picked up the red leather book. The pages were hand written in an elegant, spidery script, the writing frequently interspersed with drawings,
diagrams, and other useful visuals. It was a bestiary that focused exclusively on the walking dead and was extremely rare. Only three other copies of it remained. It was only one of many valuable books in his family's collection.

  Not a one of them, he could not help thinking with a hint of smugness, contained anything even remotely similar in nature to Midnight.

  He sighed as he realized that the very moment he had let his guard down, his thoughts had gone straight back to his absent ward. When had he become so dependent upon Midnight? How had he never noticed?

  Perhaps it was simply because they had never been apart so long, for Midnight had helped him from the very moment he was old enough, strong enough, to do so. Before that, Devlin had taken Midnight along with him anyway, far too worried about what might happen were he to leave his mysterious charge alone.

  Too many had wanted Midnight killed once and for all. Still others, when seeing what Devlin had done, had wanted to learn the spell, duplicate it. He had not dared let Midnight out of his sight in those earliest days.

  Now he could not even study without Midnight near to hand, far too used to reading and dictating while Midnight transcribed his words and bickered over every last one of them.

  He rubbed his temples again, chagrined by the depths of a dependence he had never even noticed was there.

  The sound of the door opening drew his attention and he looked up, grateful for any distraction.

  "Tea, Your Grace," Barra called as he came bustling in with a tray that was piled high with a good bit more than tea. "I managed to nick a bit of leftover supper as well. Books proving useful at all?"

  "Yes," Devlin said. "A bit." He accepted the cup of tea Barra held out, taking several sips. Strong and sweet, perfect as always. "Marvelous. Thank you, Barra."

  "Aye, Your Grace," Barra said, then grinned. "You look a bit put out, if you do not mind my saying so."

  Devlin glared at him over the rim of the teacup. "Only if you are about to encourage me to summon Midnight."

  "Oh, I would never be as impertinent as that, Your Grace."