by Nancy Holder
Keeping his calm, he closed his eyes and focused his magical strength, seeing each feather clearly, each shining talon, the beady eyes and greedy beak:
Fantasme, he called. I summon you across the faceless void… .
Now the Golem with the broadsword arced his blade into the side of the sphere. Cracks like lightning flashes jagged all over the surface, obscuring Eli’s vision.
Fantasme …
Three of the strange gelatinous creatures scrabbled to the top of the sphere, rose on their haunches, and dive-bombed inside. One of them landed on Eli’s head and immediately began digging into his scalp with his long, sharp fingers. Eli roared with pain and grabbed the creature with both his hands; its body squirted between his fingers, and he flung it away from himself, disgusted.
The second one took up where the first one had left off, and Eli smashed that one too. The third had landed inside the sphere at his feet and was trying to crawl up his pant leg; with a grunt, he pushed it off with the sole of his high-top and stomped on it.
Two of the Golems rammed the sphere with their shoulders, trying to roll it onto its side. Eli was tossed to his knees; he spread his arms to prevent himself from slipping forward along the curved surface like a hamster in a wheel.
Fantasme! he commanded.
“There he is!” someone shouted in English, and Eli was aware that human troops had just entered the tunnel.
As if they need reinforcements, he thought. He took the opportunity of the rolling sphere’s condition to lob fireballs out of what had once been the top, and now was an open side. He caught the first two human soldiers, who were wearing what looked to be black leather jackets and trousers. The men burst into flame and fell shrieking to the ground.
Damn you, Fantasme, come!
None of the men bothered to help the two who were burning to death. One was blocked by the Golems; it was almost humorous to watch him struggle to bully them out of his way. They paid him absolutely no mind, only kept on taking chunks out of the sphere.
And that is not funny.
The Golem with the mace reached inside, grabbing Eli around the neck. It began to squeeze. The rough dirt of the creature’s flesh sanded Eli’s neck. Eli grabbed his hands around the thing’s thick wrists and fought for air. In another moment or two, the Golem would crush his windpipe … and he would be dead.
Bird, he thought, his brain a roar of words he could no longer bring to mind. My servant …
An explosion rocked the tunnel. The Golem with its hands around Eli’s neck was thrown backward. Eli was yanked out of the sphere and onto its chest. The impact loosened its grip, and Eli savagely lobbed a fire-ball directly into its face.
It made no noise, simply went limp, letting go of its weapon. Eli was surprised—he’d had no idea fire could harm Golems; the fireball had been a reflexive attempt to protect himself—and then he saw a small piece of paper curling into ash inside the Golem’s mouth. Of course. As creations of ancient Jewish magic, one activated a Golem by writing a magic spell on a piece of paper and placing it inside its mouth. His fireball had destroyed the spell.
Seizing the moment to gather his wits, he caused a great wall of flame to ignite, sealing off the majority of the guards and the monsters as they raced into the tunnel. Left with a small band to fight, he poured on the aggression and started taking them out one by one by one, as fast as he could.
There was another explosion. Eli mentally took note of it but otherwise spared no attention. The battle at hand took all his focus … but he knew that if he lived through it, he would have to deal with whatever was coming next.
There was a third explosion, and the ceiling of the tunnel began to shake apart into huge chunks of stone, crashing down on the gelatinous creatures and the Golem with the broadsword, which had just been about to lunge forward toward Eli. Eli immediately shielded himself with a spell, yet the barrage was so incredible that he rolled into a ball and covered his head with his hands. Then, realizing how vulnerable to attack he was allowing himself to be, he rolled onto his side and staggered to his feet as the floor beneath him cracked apart. One huge jagged mass of it collided with another, forcing both pieces upward like a mountain.
His wall of flame held; yet, incredibly, something so massive rose up behind it that Eli saw its silhouette through the rippling tongues of flame. Then it strode through the fiery curtain, sending the third Golem flying with a punch of its gigantic fist.
It was a hideous creature, leathery and black, approximately ten feet high. As it shambled toward Eli, it had to duck to avoid hitting the top of the tunnel. Its face was an elongated rectangle ending in a strange triangular configuration of flesh and feathers. Its eyes were huge, and there were no irises, only pupils at least half a foot across. Instead of arms, large, fleshy appendages were covered with quills. Its feet were clawed, resembling those of a hawk.
The thing opened its mouth and made a high-pitched, eerie wail. With a start, Eli realized who and what it was: It was the spirit of the falcon, Fantasme, materialized in some bizarre manifestation he had never seen before. “You heard me,” he blurted.
The bird-creature reached forward with its arm-parts, scooped up Eli against its chest, and whirled around, lunging forward and opening an enormous mouth at the end of its snout. Its jaws cracked open and expanded; another set of jaws extended forward and ripped open the throat of a gelatinous creature that was sailing through the air in an attempt to land on its back.
Bits of goo flew everywhere. Then Fantasme turned back around and began to lope through the tunnel.
The two remaining Golems took off after it. Craning his neck to see, Eli watched them draw near, then recede as Fantasme picked up speed. The tunnel was filling with smoke and a horrible burnt odor. The acrid, oily smoke poured into Eli’s throat before he had a chance to protect himself. He began to cough, his eyes watered. Fantasme gazed down at him and squawked in its incomprehensible speech. Then it jerked toward him and, before Eli could respond, it had engulfed his head inside its beak. It inhaled, exhaled; Eli understood. Fantasme was giving him fresher air to breathe.
The act probably saved Eli’s life, and he kept his head inside Fantasme’s beak as the bird-creature raced faster, and faster still, hunched protectively around Eli like a quarterback around a football.
He didn’t know how long Fantasme ran—it seemed like hours—but the hot, moist breath of the bird grew stale and smoky, as it undoubtedly drew in the poisonous air around itself, filtering as best it could before offering it to Eli. Weakening and feeling ill, he could feel his grip around Fantasme loosening, but the creature held him tightly, and Eli felt a rush of gratitude as they loped along. Throughout the centuries, Fantasme had been a good and faithful servant of his family, in whatever incarnation the bird presented itself.
Of course, that faithfulness had been dearly purchased … with the blood of many, many virgins… .
But now, he was growing fainter. The air was too polluted; he was suffocating inside Fantasme’s mouth. His fingers went limp, and his arm dangled at his side, jangling like a spring as the bird carried him through the dungeon of the castle on Avalon.
I’m not going to die, he thought angrily. I’m a Deveraux. We don’t do that.
Then everything faded, and his soul screamed in terror, for fear that the Horned God would devour it, and gray and spiritless oblivion would be its final reward.
When he woke up, Nicole was bent over him with her mouth over his. He smelled a delicious fragrance of cloves and roses and inhaled greedily. Witch breath. Magic breath. She was apparently unaware that he had regained consciousness, and he made his lungs rise with the air that she was breathing into his mouth. She was giving him mouth-to-mouth, and he loved it.
She was so intent on what she was doing that when he gently touched his tongue to hers, she continued to work on him.
Then her dark, deep-set eyes gazed directly into his own, and she broke contact.
With a grunt, she sat up and narro
wed her eyes, on guard. He made a show of coughing and rolling onto his side, spasming and clenching and unclenching his fists.
She pounded on his back. He grinned to himself and made himself cough a few more times.
“Eli, wake up. Get me the hell out of here,” she demanded harshly. “The water’s rising.”
The water?
Dropping his act, he sat up, realizing that it wasn’t so much of an act after all—he was incredibly weak, and the cave— the cave?— was spinning around him like a crazed merry-go-round.
“That thing broke me out and brought us both to this cave,” she said, pointing to a place behind. He turned. Sure enough, Fantasme loomed protectively over him, its beady eyes reflecting back nothing but the darkness. There was a source of light somewhere in the cave, and Eli glanced around in search of it. A small globe bobbled beside Nicole.
She must have created it, he thought, and reminded himself sternly that she was a Cahors witch and, as such, still his enemy. The old days of high school and her having the hots for him belonged to two inhabitants of a past, foreign country.
“If this is a plan to deliver me to your father or James, I’ll kill you,” she said. As if to prove that she had the moxie to do it, she pulled a dagger on him and held it to his throat.
Fantasme lunged toward her, but Eli held up a restraining hand and said, “Back.”
He recognized the dagger from rituals he had performed with James. It was one of his athames. Wicked-sharp, it had sliced through the breast of a goat with one easy stroke—but he doubted Nicole knew that.
“I’m not here to give you to James or my father,” he said. “I’m here to rescue you. Period.”
“Why?” she demanded.
He thought about telling her that he loved her, but she would never believe that. Or that he wanted her, which she would probably find offensive. So he told her the truth. “You’re powerful, and you’re valuable. I need some bargaining chips. You’re good in my back pocket.” He chuckled at his nonsensical but vaguely sexual turn of phrase.
“Don’t you touch me,” she said savagely, showing her teeth like a feral cat. That turned him on. “Don’t you so much as get near me.”
“No worries.” He held up his hands. “Down, Sheba.” Then he smiled and said, “But if I need mouth-to-mouth again, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“I saved your life,” she hissed. “But not out of any compassion for you, Eli. I need you to get me out of here. But if you try anything, I’ll kill you.”
Fantasme took another step forward. Again, Eli motioned to it to stay put.
“Fair enough, babe,” he tossed off. “Same here. Let’s agree to a truce until we’re out of this mess.”
“And then … ?”
“Then we’ll see where we’re at. As we used to say back when we were kids.”
She scowled at him. “I never talked like that. Neither did you. Your father did, maybe. He was always trying so hard to be ‘cool.’” She tossed her hair, and it was hard for him not to grab her and kiss her. He loved sassy, bitchy chicks.
“My dad is cool,” he retorted.
“You know what, Eli? I really don’t care,”
she said. She was dressed in a shapeless rustling gown of satin and black lace, which was quite fetching on her. It was richly embroidered with Cahors silver at the low-cut bodice and long sleeves, which half-covered the backs of her hands. Though she had been a prisoner slated for death, she was also the bride of a Moore—until such time as she was the dead bride of a Moore. Her dark, curly hair had grown since they’d been together, and it was twisted at the sides and hung long down her back. She was incredibly beautiful.
For a moment he imagined what it must have been like for her, with James. James had shared some of the brutal details with him, and Eli had been angry, jealous that another man touched her. Until now, though, he had never stopped to think what it must have been like for her. He shook his head.
Fantasme made a strange scrying noise, and for a moment Eli had the ridiculous, giddy thought that they were in a Scooby-Doo episode and Fantasme was the guy in the suit. Then he sobered as icy, brackish water sloshed over his already-sodden track shoes. “All right, so where are we? I’ll skip the Kansas cliché.”
“We’re at sea level,” Nicole informed him. “It brought us to a cave. The water’s been coming in steadily. I think the tide is rising.”
“Are we still being hunted?” he asked her.
She snorted. “Of course. There are a couple of these icky guys made out of mud—”
“Golems,” he informed her.
“Whatever. And demons and goo monsters. All kinds of things. Your birdman outran them and then I put a glamour on this cave so they couldn’t see the entrance. But I don’t know how good of a spell it was, and I don’t know when they’ll break down my wards and stuff. I used your cloak of invisibility,” she added. “It’s a good one.” That sounded like a difficult admission for her to make, so he didn’t reply.
“So. Did you have a plan?” she demanded.
“Of course,” he shot back. “It was based entirely on stealth,” he added, so she wouldn’t press him for details he did not have. “James knows this entire island. He spent most of his childhood here. He’ll figure out where we are.” He frowned. “If he hasn’t already.”
Nicole cast an anxious glance over her shoulder. All he saw was rock, but he guessed that that was where his cloak was shielding the entrance. For all either of them knew, an army of Supreme Coven minions, human or otherwise, was massed on the other side, waiting for them to come out.
He could have taken the knife from her then, but he liked her cute little show of power, so he gave up the chance. Maybe she sensed his thoughts, because she whipped her head back at him and pressed a little harder on the knife. He doubted that she realized that it turned him on even more.
It was too much for Fantasme. The creature arced back an … appendage … and whacked the knife out of Nicole’s grasp. She screamed in agony and crumpled onto the cave floor. “My wrist!” she managed, her voice a raspy shriek.
Eli smoothly picked up the athame and slipped it inside his black leather jacket. Then he roughly covered her mouth to muffle her screams. That made her scream harder, so he murmured a spell of silence, which rendered her mute.
And for old times’ sake, he took away the pain and told her wrist to start healing itself.
Jer: Gorman, California
Jer had stopped to gas up the car on the top of the Grapevine before starting the descent into the L.A. basin. From there he would head east toward New Mexico. The night was dark, clouds covering the face of the moon as he glanced anxiously skyward. Wind Moon is coming, he thought with a shudder. There’s a good chance none of us are going to survive it.
“Not if I can help it,” he vowed out loud, startling a woman pumping gas into a red minivan five feet away. He narrowed his eyes; there was something about the woman that didn’t seem … right.
Her short hair was plastered to her head, and there was something distinctly European about her features. He stared at her hand as it replaced the gas nozzle. She was gripping it tight, the muscles in her forearm knotting. Impressive muscles they were, too. He narrowed his eyes and tried to make out more details in the fluorescent light.
There was scarring on her arm, a long, straight line consistent with self-mutilation. It was on the top of her arm, so it couldn’t have been a suicide attempt. No, it looked familiar, like something one would inflict doing a ritual—
She lunged at him, throwing him to the ground and landing on top of him. His head hit the concrete with a dull thud, and a roaring sound filled his ears. His vision blurred, but he felt a sudden stabbing pain in the area of his throat.
“Tell me where your father is,” the woman hissed.
His vision snapped back into focus as he realized she was pressing a knife to his throat.
“I’m not entirely sure,” he answered honestly. There was no need t
o lie to a woman who could and would kill him for doing so.
He could tell by the way she pursed her lips that she knew he was telling the truth.
“Don’t tell me, he jilted you and you’re looking for revenge?” he joked, not knowing what else to do. She had him, and could slit his throat before he could do a thing, magical or otherwise, to try to escape.
She laughed soullessly. “Nothing so exciting. But I am going to kill him.”
Jer swallowed hard, trying to ignore the feeling of the blade cutting his skin. “You’ll have to stand in line, then.”
“Why should I believe you? Why should I believe you are going to kill your own father?”
“You know who I am and who my father is and yet you have to ask?”
She nodded, seemingly satisfied, and stood up in one fluid motion. She extended her hand, and he took it. As he scrambled back to his feet, he put a few feet between them with a sense of relief.
“Sir William has ordered your father executed. You, however, he said nothing about.”
“I never thought being ignored could have such advantages,” he quipped lamely as he touched his hand gingerly to his neck. Spots of blood came back on his fingertips, and he cursed under his breath.
“Trust me, he’s not ignoring you, he never ignores anyone, which is why he’s still alive.”
“Sounds like you speak from personal experience.”
She glanced up at him with a shake of her head. “I’ve seen what he can do. I’m not anxious to have him do it to me.”
Jer smiled at the double entendre. It was a grim testament to the world that the woman had chosen to live in, the side she had aligned herself with.
“Leave the car. You’re riding with me,” the woman ordered.
He looked at her warily. “So, I’m your prisoner?”
“Think of yourself more as an accomplice. As I see it, we’re both pursuing the same goal.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll just meet you there,” he said, backing toward his car and preparing to erect a barrier between them.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she warned as he touched the handle on the car.
