by Rob Cornell
“Do I have to walk out of here half naked?”
She set her jaw. “You stubborn son of a bitch.”
“I think I have a right to be. Wherever you go, trouble follows. Fiona, I appreciate what you and your friends want to accomplish. I'm not sure it isn't already too late for them to do any good.”
“That's why we have to strike now, while the new regime is still young and vulnerable.”
“Either way, I don't want to find myself in the middle of another magical massacre.”
“Because that's what's going to happen since I'm involved, you’re saying”
I didn't say anything.
“That's bullshit.”
I still said nothing.
A dimple formed in one of her cheeks as her lips formed a straight line. She clenched and unclenched her fist, looked like she wanted to hit me. “You're going to talk to him. Or, yeah, you're walking out of here naked. You'll have to give the sweat pants back.”
“I don't even know where I am.”
She pointed at her straight face. “Do I look like I care?”
I threw up a hand. “Fine. I'll talk to him. But my answer won't change. I don't want anything to do with your resistance.”
Chapter Eighteen
After she got me a plain white t-shirt, Fiona led me out of the little girl's bedroom, down a flight of carpeted stairs, and into a cramped living room. Besides myself and Fiona, three men and two women occupied the room. Two of the men sat on a pair of chairs flanking a tan leather couch. The two women and remaining man sat in a line on the couch.
A haze of smoke filled the room. An ashtray sat on the coffee table with a pack of Camels beside it. I could tell from the wrinkling around her lips that the woman on the right side of the couch was the smoker.
The man seated between the two women on the couch stood as Fiona and I entered. He brushed his hands off on his faded skinny jeans, and adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses. He looked to be in his early fifties. His peppered hair was a few centimeters too long to count as stubble, but too short to do much more than stick out. It curved around a well-advanced receding hairline. The denim button-up shirt he wore hung loose on his skinny frame.
He cleared his throat and held his hand out across the coffee table. “Mr. Light, I'm Jonah Jackey. It is so good to meet you.”
I crossed the room and shook his hand. I felt penned in by the gazes of the others sitting around me. I was already having self-image issues with my baggy sweat pants and too-tight t-shirt. I guessed the shirt belonged to Jonah, but the pants were way too big for a bean pole like him.
Still, it beat standing there naked.
“Yeah, sure,” I said, my brand tingling again. “Can we move this along, though?”
Jonah took my rudeness in stride, smiling. “Of course.” He twisted and held a hand out toward the empty spot on the couch. “Would you like to have a seat?”
“Not really.”
He nodded firmly. “Okay, I won't waste any of your time. I'm sure Fiona explained who we are.”
“She did.”
“Then you understand what's at stake?”
I glanced at Fiona. She had moved to one side of the wide archway between the living room and kitchen and leaned against the wall. She smiled with half her mouth as if afraid to give me a full one. Good. I had agreed to talk to her fearless leader, but I did not want her to think that made things all right between us.
Things would never be all right between us.
“I understand what you're trying to do,” I said. “I just don't see why you need me.”
He narrowed his eyes and seemed to consider his words carefully. He tugged at the beginnings of a beard on his chin. The beard was about the same length as his hair, so there wasn't much to pull on. “You are a symbol, Mr. Light. The Unturned, of course. But more than that. You represent the impossible. A mortal who cheated undeath. A young sorcerer who single-handedly destroyed the plans of a years-long conspiracy that would have meant disaster for Detroit.”
Wow. He sure did make me sound good. But my ego wasn't that hungry. And, honestly, it sounded like bullshit.
“I don't even know what to say to that.”
“You don't believe it?”
I panned my gaze along the other faces all staring at me. The smoker woman pursed her wrinkled lips and stared at me as if I were the biggest disappointment of her life.
“I'm just a guy. A demon hunter. Sorcerer. But not even a very good sorcerer.” I reached out with my senses and touched an aura of magic surrounding him. “Based on what I'm sensing, you're a hell of a lot more powerful.”
“It isn't just about power. It's about inspiration. Leadership.”
That last word made my skin crawl. “You're the leader here. Not me.”
“A lot of people in the Ministry look up to you.”
I laughed. “I've had nothing but trouble with the Ministry.”
“You can't think the corruption represents the whole, can you? After all, you used to work with the Ministry.”
“On a freelance basis. No more.”
He tilted his head slightly to one side. The light from a lamp on the nearest end table cast a yellowish gleam across the lenses of his glasses. “Your mother and father were two of the most respected members of the Ministry. Their work was invaluable.”
“And look where that work got them.”
He winced. “I'm sorry. I didn't know either of them directly. Only by reputation. The Light name has quite the pedigree.”
“And I'm the last of them.” I hadn't thought of it that way until just then. But it was true. I was the last of a once great line of sorcerers. What a fucking disappointment I would have seemed to my ancestors. The smoking lady had it right after all.
“Look, I'm glad you think I'm super cool or whatever, but I really have somewhere I need to be.”
“Is it anything we can help you with?”
“Nah. Kind of a personal matter.”
Fiona pushed away from the wall. “Sebastian, you need—”
I spun on her. “I need you to leave me the fuck alone.”
I turned back to Jonah. “I honestly wish you luck. I've had a run in with the new prefect. He's one-hundred percent a dick. So I hope you can topple the fucker.”
“You've met Orosco?” Jonah asked.
“Yes.”
The smoking lady reached for her pack of cigarettes while she narrowed her eyes at me. “That who cut you up?”
“Who are you?” I asked.
She drew a cigarette and lit it up with a pink lighter tucked into the cellophane around the pack. She exhaled a stream of smoke and leaned back. “I'm the gal who doesn't think you're as slick as everyone else seems to.”
I held my hand out to her. “There you go. I rest my case. Can I go now?”
“Tell him, Jonah,” Fiona said.
Jonah's frown drew deep lines in his face. He looked washed out, like he hadn't eaten in a while, or slept. “I don't think it's necessary.”
“Tell me what?” I asked.
Fiona ignored me. “He doesn't think it affects him. He doesn't understand the stakes.”
“I was there when the Maidens took out Rachel Strand and all of her friends. I know damn well what they've done. I also know I have my own fight, and I can do it better alone.”
“Tell him,” Fiona repeated.
Jonah closed his eyes and took a deep breath. I couldn't imagine that would help much with the cigarette smog hanging in the room. When he opened his eyes, his gaze focused so intently on me I could practically feel it.
“The bedroom you woke in,” he started. “That belonged to my daughter. She was eight.”
I picked up on his use of the past tense and knew I didn't want to hear any more of this.
“When the Maidens of Shadow struck, my wife was one of the targets. She had been in the process of teaching my daughter a spell. A simple charm that would make her pet rabbit speak. So silly. So…innocent.”
I'd never hear
d of such a spell. Why hadn't my parents taught me that one?
“But the energy of spells, as you know, is a complex thing. When my wife suddenly dropped dead, the magic she had started to draw misfired and took my daughter, too.”
A sourness filled my mouth that vaguely tasted like the jambalaya from Slows. “I'm sorry.”
“The stakes are real, Mr. Light. Painfully so.”
“I never said they weren't. My mother was a casualty of the conflict as well. That's why I have my mission. What were your wife and daughter's names?”
“Belinda and Maya.”
“When I catch up to the Maidens, I'll keep their memory in mind and get justice for them, too.”
His lips pulled back from his teeth. He growled and kicked the coffee table over. The ashtray tumbled off and dumped ash and butts onto the carpet. He shouted, “This isn't about justice, it's about freedom. Do you have any idea what these people plan to do with their power?”
I thought back to what Annabelle, one of the mothers of the coven, had said before I had killed her, about some of the things she expected the new regime to accomplish. Things like legalizing human sacrifices and all manner of blood magic.
Before I could answer him, my brand started to burn. I clenched my teeth as I poured still more power against the infection's advances. How long could this go on? Had the infection somehow grown stronger?
I didn't want to find out the hard way. I needed to get this taken care of.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “I have to go.”
He hung his head.
The smoker blew another couple rings. “Told you.”
I noticed no one was staring at me anymore. I'd let them all down.
“Can anyone give me a ride back to my car?” I asked.
Fiona made a disgusted noise under her breath. “We brought your car back here. It's parked outside. Keys are in it. Enjoy your private, unwinnable war against the Maidens.”
“It's not unwinnable,” I said. “They're going down. And with them out of the way, your crew will have an easier time ousting Orosco and his crew.”
She shook her head and sneered. “You're an idiot.”
“And you're a traitor.” I hooked a thumb over my shoulder. “Do they know that?”
She opened her mouth as if to answer, but I walked out before she could say anything. It wasn't me she had to answer to anyway.
Chapter Nineteen
I would have liked to call Odi and fill him in on where I'd been. It was around eleven, so he'd been up for a while. Unfortunately, I didn't have my phone, and I didn't want to take the time to swing by the house and pick him up. I had only one destination in mind.
The man who had performed the ritual with the brand was a mage who used to freelance for Toft. If anyone could fix this thing, it was him. Or, if not fix it, give me a new brand.
Navroz Danesh answered his door in nothing but a pair of white boxer shorts. His dark-skinned, wrinkly body looked like leather stretched over bones. His eyes sparkled at the sight of me. His wide smile unnerved me for some reason. I didn't like that he seemed so happy to see me.
“What a pleasant surprise,” he said.
“I need your help.”
His gaze scrolled down the length of me. I was still wearing the sweat pants and tight t-shirt. I had lost my new coat somewhere between getting knocked out at Slows and passing out in the parking lot of the banquet hall. I couldn't remember if I'd put it on after escaping or not. In any case, the night had to have fallen into the low forties. I trembled from the cold even though I felt feverish from the continued amount of power I had to put into keeping the infection at bay. It had definitely evolved in some way, as if it intended to turn me once and for all.
“What an interesting outfit,” Danesh said.
“Look who's talking.”
He smiled again. “Ah, yes. Come in. I'll get dressed and you can tell me all about your problem.”
He directed me to wait in his kitchen while he strolled down the hall to put on some clothes. On his way, he said, “I have a feeling I know why you're here.”
I doubt it, buddy.
I paced over the linoleum tiles while I waited. He only took a minute. It felt like an age.
He came out dressed in a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt. I wrinkled my brow and blinked at him. He smiled knowingly. “Now we are a pair of fashionistas.”
Whatever. Just as long as he fixed the brand.
“So,” he said easing into a chair at the kitchen table. “How did it happen?”
I stayed on my feet. I doubted I could sit still. “You don't even know what I'm here for.”
“Your brand,” he said. “It has weakened.”
My mouth fell open. I took a second to reorder my thoughts. “How did you know?”
“I expected the day would come. The brand's magic is strong. The brand itself is only skin deep. And skin is soft, vulnerable.”
“You knew this could happen all along and you didn't think to tell me?”
“Would you have refused the brand, had I?”
“No. But I would have been more…careful.”
He laughed with bright amusement. Sure was glad he thought this whole thing was such a lark.
“Even if you slept in armor, skin is impermanent. Warning you would have distracted you with a paranoia that would do you no good.”
Made sense, but that didn't make me any less pissed. “Just tell me you can fix it. Or redo it.”
He folded his hands and rested them on the table. “I'm afraid I cannot.”
My gut twisted. “Why not?”
“The brand is gone. I sold it to a collector for a hefty sum.”
“Son of a bitch. Who did you sell it to?”
“It doesn't matter.”
“I'll get it back.” I felt short of breath. “Tell me who has it.”
“You don't understand. If I thought I could repeat the ritual, I would have kept it. But something like that? It's a magical fluke. I wasn't even sure it would work in the first place.”
My heart raced. Suddenly, my legs didn't want to hold me up any longer. I staggered to the nearest seat at the table and fell into it. My thoughts went blank, like a whiteboard with the marker erased, like my brain had ceased to function. All I could do was stare at an empty wooden napkin holder in the center of the table and the ceramic salt and pepper shakers.
I felt a hand on my shoulder.
At some point, Danesh had come over to stand at my side. I hadn't seen him move. I had lost track of everything, including time. He had a clock on the wall and it said ten minutes had passed while I sat there.
“I'm sorry, my friend,” he said. “Perhaps it's time to accept your fate.”
That reminded me of my dream. The details were clouded, but hadn't Toft said something very similar?
I also remembered the taste of the blood that had carried for a second across the border from dream to reality. I could not accept that fate. I would not become something I used to hunt and destroy. I didn't care that many “tame” vamps walked the streets of the Motor City without breaking Ministry Law. Vampires were still monsters.
Have you told Odi that?
I curled my fingers into a fist and pounded the table.
Danesh jerked back. “I do not understand.”
I looked up at him as if he'd spoke in tongues. “What is there to understand? You want me to roll over and let myself turn? You really think that's a good option?”
“Mr. Light,” he said softly. “I believe it is your only option.”
“No.” I stood up shaking my head. “I can fight this.”
“For a while, perhaps. But—”
I grabbed at his shirt collar and yanked him so we came nose-to-nose. “I. Will. Fight this.”
All the twinkle left his eyes, replaced with sadness. “Okay. As you say.”
I shoved him away and stormed out.
Outside, my breath puffed in the air, but the cold night couldn't penetrate the
heat burning inside of me. I didn't feel the cold. I didn't feel anything. Except the heat. The rage.
And the phantom taste of blood on my tongue.
Chapter Twenty
I arrived home to find Odi waiting for me on the porch steps. He sat with his feet propped on the step below so his knees stuck up and he could rest his arms on them.
I pulled into the driveway and got out of the car.
He watched me approach without a word, his expression unreadable in the night shadows.
When I reached the steps, he narrowed his eyes. “Nice threads.” His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air. “Whoa, dude. And what is that?”
My stomach ached. I hadn't eaten anything since Slows. I needed to get some nourishment, build up my strength so I could keep fighting the infection.
“I'm sorry about last night,” I said, my voice raspy.
“Good thing, 'cause you were a grade-A tool.” He drew his eyebrows together. “What's going on with you? You look like shit, and you smell like…” He shook his head. “Still can't place it.”
“Let's go inside.”
I went straight for the kitchen and dug through the fridge. I pulled out a loaf of bread, some salami from the deli, and some mayo that didn't look like it had gone bad. Yet.
I dropped the stuff on the counter and started work on a sandwich, not bothering with a plate.
Odi watched me with his hands in his jeans pockets. He looked worried. I hated stringing him along like this, but I felt like I might pass out if I didn't eat. Explanations later.
The second I had a sandwich together, I chomped into it. I barely chewed before swallowing. But when the bite landed, my stomach revolted. I coughed and threw up onto the counter.
“Holy shit, dude.” Odi rushed over, then stood there gaping at me as if he didn't know what to do next.
I felt a second purge coming up. I rushed to the sink and puked into the drain. I had little more than bile to hack up after only the one bite of sandwich.
I clutched the kitchen counter and fought to keep from vomiting again. The peppery aftertaste of salami hung in my mouth. I wanted the taste off my tongue so badly, I would have licked sandpaper if I'd had some. I ran the sink and drank from the faucet, swished and spit. But the water alone wouldn't be enough. I needed to brush my teeth. About thirty times.
