Night Terrors (Sarah Beauhall Book 4) Page 17

  I looked at her for a couple of seconds before I realized I had my mouth open. I closed it and blinked a couple of times. “Um … My Stuart?”

  Qindra chuckled. “Well, I’m sure he’s his own man, but yes. Stuart Black, I’m sure you know him.”

  I swallowed. Stuart had pulled her out of the house in Chumstick. He’d been very protective of her that night. I guess it didn’t stop then. “He’s his own man, for true. I just didn’t realize the two of you had kept in touch.”

  Qindra shrugged. “We’ve shared a meal or two in the intervening months. I quite enjoy his company.”

  I was stunned, frankly. And was Qindra blushing?

  “Surely you’re not asking my permission?” I asked.

  She shook her head, “Of course not. We’re both adults. I just thought it may be easier if you were aware of it rather than finding out from other sources.”

  She was sweet on him. I’d have to pump him for information the first chance I got. The old dog. I thought he’d given up on women.

  “So, are you asking me to nudge him along the direction of going down to Portland with you?”

  She shrugged again, the color in her face deepening. “I’ve never had a …” she bit her lip, thinking of the right word, I’m sure. “Companion.”

  I couldn’t help it, I laughed. “You’re smitten.”

  She sat up straight, her back stiff. “I’ll thank you not to belittle my situation, Sarah.”

  I held up both hands, shaking my head, the laugh dying on my lips. “No, I’m sorry. I think it’s odd, but somehow intriguing. I love him,” I said, realizing I really meant it. “He’s one of the good guys. Don’t hurt him.”

  She smiled demurely, “I have no intention of hurting him.”

  This was strange. I was terrible at dating, and here she was seeking my help. My how the world turns. “You know,” I said, sitting back and cradling my coffee mug against my chest, “it may be a good idea for Stuart to get a lay of the land down in Portland. Check up on Frederick, make sure nothing negative is going to impact Black Briar.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Excellent suggestion,” she said. “I’ll mention it.”

  We finished our coffee discussing Stuart and the different views we had of him. I’d never had a girlfriend like that, talking about dating, comparing notes on the folks we crushed on. It was nice.

  The fact she was a witch who worked for a dragon didn’t really seem to matter in that moment. Of course, I worked for the same dragon now. Katie would find this whole thing charming.

  Jimmy, on the other hand, was going to flip his shit. His inner circle was being compromised into the world of the dragons. The lines were blurring and the enemy was not so easy to discern. So much for the Tolkien view of orcs and goblins. Maybe the enemy was not always quite so obvious.

  Unless they were about to kill you. That usually cleared things up. Of course, there was that one time, when the dwarf Rolph came after me with an axe.

  Of course, I was about to give Gram to the awful fucking dragon, Jean-Paul in exchange for Katie and Julie.

  He had a different view on things. Some days I’m surprised we’re still friends.

  And that’s when I suddenly realized that I had some of the strangest friends. Ma and da wouldn’t recognize me. Maybe this was what it was like to grow up. I could get used to the change. Too much angst just makes me tired.

  Thirty-one

  Meeting with Qindra had given me a few ideas. I rode back to Circle Q, grabbed the diary and put it in my saddlebags, giving it the right side to its lonesome and putting the rest of the gear in the left side. I left the hammers in the bottom of the closet and closed the door. I had Gram, hopefully I wouldn’t be meeting anyone that required hammering.

  I wanted to get all the pieces of magic in one place, see if they influenced each other. I debated taking Bub with me, but thought twice about it. This wasn’t a smithing problem. It was a discovery issue.

  Back to Kent I went, this time on the bike. I got a few honks and waves, which was not something that normally happened. I chalked it up to the kicking paint job and the mufflers.

  The gun store which sat under our apartment was open, but I didn’t have time to run in and see Elmer. Besides there were a bunch of people milling around inside, so he was busy.

  Instead I unlocked the door between Elmer’s gun and knife store and the … I stopped to look … bakery. That place changed over pretty frequently. This latest tenant, a cupcake maven, had some strange damn hours. Thursdays were eleven-thirty to three-forty-five. What the hell was that about? I didn’t understand how she stayed in business.

  I jogged up the stairs with my gear and opened the door. The place had grown cold, devoid of love or joy. Most of our stuff was there, scattered about in the way that happens when you live a full and busy life. But now, things looked abandoned, wasted.

  There was nothing of the passion Katie and I had shared here. We’d made love in this place, sometimes quiet, sometimes crazy. These walls were witness to some creative debauchery and more love than I ever thought I’d be blessed with.

  Now it was empty. Even when she came back to me, came back to Jai Li, we couldn’t live here. We needed a new space to grow into. A space that glowed with joy.

  I called Qindra, explained I was going to try something she wouldn’t like, and for her to make sure Nidhogg was in a safe place, that the staff were busy elsewhere. I told her to expect something within the next hour.

  She was not happy, nor supportive. But assured she would keep her clan safe.

  I washed dishes, cleared the counters, folded bedding and generally cleaned up while I gave Qindra time to prepare. I needed to do something here, something to unravel this damned mystery.

  The apartment looked fairly good for the amount of work I’d just done. It’s amazing how much you can get done in just an hour. Maybe I should do this more. Take care of the little things before they got out of control.

  The real trouble was, beyond laundry and dishes, knowing which of the little things you could deal with was a real bitch to get a grip on.

  After the hour mark, I gathered my things and prepared.

  I sat down on the couch setting the saddlebags at my feet and holding Gram on my lap. Gram was another lover. That is how she saw it, in any case—that black blade who sang to me of battle, who cried for the blood of the dragons. She needed my touch as much as I needed to feel her in my hands again.

  I grasped the pommel, letting the power of her course through me, and pulled her free of her sheath. This was power the likes the world had not seen in generations. This magic blade, tuned to me, embodied the power to slay a dragon, to bring down giants and trolls. The runes along her fuller glowed a soft, deep red when I turned her from side to side, letting the light play across her lines.

  The amulet on my chest pulsed as I gripped Gram tighter and opened to her, allowing my true self to meet the sentience of the blade. For the briefest instance the room flared with light, crisp and clean. This was one of the gifts of Gram. The world became clearer, the good and the bad, the broken and the beloved—each shone with a clarity that I didn’t experience without her.

  This place, this apartment was dead to me. I could see it even more clearly now that I held the black blade. One of my top priorities had to be finding us someplace we could call home. Someplace to raise Jai Li.

  I set Gram across my knees and pulled the diary from my saddlebags. The book leapt from my hand, landing against a pillow, the tinfoil showing between the loops of scarf.

  “Calm down,” I said. Everything was more—amplified. I took a deep breath, watching the book. It throbbed, almost as if there was a heart beating under the tinfoil. I carefully pulled aside the scarf, and using one edge of it, unwrapped the tinfoil. The book pulsed with energy I could see with Gram in my hand: sometimes green, sometimes purple. It was at war with itself, I suddenly understood. Two owners, two factions, two masters. This wasn't Katie’s book after all. Was
it her mother’s?

  I thought about the possibility that touching the book would kill me, but I had to try something.

  The cover was dull leather underneath the strobing glow. There were cuts and burns on the surface, and the three sides away from the spine edge were ragged, like it was trying to grow together, like a healing wound.

  I reached out and placed my hand onto the cover.

  Screaming filled my head. Between one breath and the next the world exploded into a cacophony of anger and fear.

  I didn’t die. That was a bonus. But I’m fairly sure if I hadn’t had Gram held in one hand, I would have.

  As it was, power surged from the book, through me and into the blade. The runes that ran down the blade faded, the usual red, like burning coals, were overcome by throbbing purple and green light. Eventually, as I sat there, stunned by the amount of energy flooding through me, the flames began to rise along the fuller, pushing back the invading colors until once again the warm glow of the forge emanated from Gram.

  Alone the book would’ve killed me. That much was clear. As a team, however, Gram and I together could take the full measure of what the book had to offer. At least for now.

  The edges of the book were clean once again, the ragged wounds had been burned away in the energy pulse. I flipped the cover over and glanced down at the first page.

  The page was blank. I flipped through several more pages, each blank.

  I rifled through the whole book, looking for any mark, any drawing all to no avail. Every page was pale cream parchment without as much as a smudge or a doodle.

  That was rather anti-climactic.

  “Well, aren’t you a disappointment?” I said to the book, setting it down on my lap and flipping back to the front cover. Nothing there either.

  I closed my eyes, rubbing them with my free hand while I kept a death-grip on Gram. The book was open and taunting me.

  What a total waste. For this, Katie was struck down? It was so damned unfair.

  Maybe I was looking at this all wrong. Maybe this book was darker than I’d thought. I thought to the shield, the one I’d used to slay the dragon Duchamp, the one the necromancer had butchered the dragon on and infused the metal with my blood, his blood, and the blood of a dragon.

  It was dark, that shield; powerful. I set the book down on the couch and went back into the bedroom. I checked the mirror, just to make sure Gletts wasn’t watching for me, but the mirror remained empty. I opened the closet door and looked down at the shield. I’d debated taking it out to Black Briar to store in their underground bunker, but it felt right to keep it here, where I could reach it.

  Qindra had wanted to study it, and I’d agreed. I just hadn’t said when, and she wasn’t currently pushing me.

  I picked up the shield, the leather strap across the back was stiff with old blood. As I walked by the mirror, Gram in one hand, the shield in the other, I looked pretty damn scary. A force to be reckoned with. Even in my Death Pixies T-shirt and my hair longer than it had been since before I went away to college.

  I was a badass.

  The book hadn’t moved, which was good. I lay the shield on the floor, backside up and knelt beside it, Gram firmly gripped in my left hand. I’d seen the necromancer do something in my vision the first time I touched this shield that may have some bearing on this.

  I sat on my heels, leaned forward and ran my thumb over Gram’s edge. A scarlet line appeared quick and clean. Blood was powerful, that much I’d learned. We’d seen the effects of blood magic when we fought the necromancer before Christmas. Crazy powerful and dangerous as hell. Just what the doctor ordered, I figured.

  I smeared my thumb across the back of the shield, painting an arc of red across the blackened wood. There was a flash of smoke and the stench of burning meat then the shield vibrated against the floor, dancing about for the briefest of moments before settling down to a quiet hum.

  Then I lay the book inside the curved shield, just above the leather strap and flipped it open to the first page. Here I smeared my bloody thumb across the page and sat back.

  For a moment nothing happened. The bloody smear looked as you’d expect. Then it began to move, to be absorbed into the book.

  Aha! Victory. The book required blood. Either it was hungry, which suddenly scared the heck out of me, or it needed a sacrifice of some sort to work.

  The book throbbed, an insistent pulse like it had done near Katie. I pulled the book into my lap, keeping a death grip on Gram and grabbed the edge of the shield. “Open sesame,” I whispered.

  My mind exploded in a flash of magic. For the briefest of moments, the only things in the world were me, the book, Gram and the shield.

  Then I was falling sideways.

  Thirty-two

  Qindra waited in her rooms, watching for the danger to her and her wards. Why was everything with Beauhall reckless and dangerous? If Nidhogg reacted, she knew it would be Beauhall’s doing. But it would be Qindra who was at fault for not stopping the Mistress’s new Fist.

  Zi Xiu gathered the little ones in the kitchen having them help roll out dough for dumplings. The head of the household had never questioned Qindra, just set about rearranging the kitchen schedule to make things flow smoothly. She was a wonderfully efficient servant.

  The new Eyes was in with Nidhogg reading to her from one of the ancient tomes they had in the great library. Only the foot servants were in the room with them. It was all that Qindra dared alter without raising too much suspicion. Nidhogg would allow no fewer servants to be nearby.

  Qindra was sure Nidhogg suspected something, but the trust there was irrefutable. If Qindra thought things needed to be altered, within reason, the great mother was amenable to the change.

  Now, if things would just progress. Waiting was worse than dealing with the aftermath. Any minute now something was going to happen.

  And so it came. Near on to five in the evening, Qindra’s baubles and trinkets began to glow with a warning as something passed over the house. This wave was small compared to the previous ones. Nothing broke, no vessel was overfilled with energy and exploded.

  Was this the end? The final blow or was this the first drawing down before the tsunami?

  She cast down into the shallow basin where the lights of the thralls could be seen if one knew where and how to look. While it did not encompass all of Nidhogg’s territory with any kind of detail, it allowed her to keep an eye on specific powerful agents. She touched the surface of the water with her wand and whispered Sarah’s name. A cluster of lights swam in the water, one shining brighter than all the others. Many other lights moved among the greater blur of their demesne, but none rivaled that of Sarah’s. Not unless she looked inward toward Nidhogg, or south toward Frederick Sawyer.

  Suddenly, next to Sarah’s will-o’-wisp a second glow pulsed, black as a bruise, sucking in the light. It flitted for a moment, nearly blotting out Sarah’s own light, then it faded into nothing. The contrast was so stark, it took her a moment to realize that Sarah’s light had gone out as well. It hadn’t faded, like when one dies. It had just ceased to exist.

  Thirty-three

  I stood on a hill overlooking a great battle scene. The dead lay across the horizon in any direction I looked. The night sky bore down on me from above, the thick mantle of stars like so many accusing eyes. In the distance buildings burned, the great fires sending mounds of smoke into the air. I brought my gaze back to my immediate surroundings. The ground at me feet was covered with the broken bodies of creatures that at once reminded me of Bub, but not. He was a creature of fire and flame. Those at my feet were ice and frost. They were similar in form, but they bore no semblance of higher thinking—animals—wild things. Most had attacked with claws and teeth, but there were a few among them fallen who had borne rough shields and clubs.

  There was no one living as far as I could see. Below the hill, toward the rising moon, there was a building of some sort. I began to pick my way through the dead, trying not to lose my
balance in the patches of ice and snow. I stumbled once, catching myself on my outstretched arm, realizing that I held the shield in my right hand. Gram was in my left.

  Halfway to the building, I made out a glow coming from within a smoking building—a glow that pulsed between green and purple, subtle colors like old bruises and decay. I thought for a moment that maybe I was dreaming, but I knew I wasn’t. Not for any concrete reason, other than I was still wearing my Death Pixies T-shirt, jeans, and my Docs. I had no armor, no helmet and amazingly enough, no wounds.

  The building was low, a single story built from rough-hewn logs and a thatched roof. It was a long house, like those the Vikings built. The door was torn asunder and bodies of young men and women littered the ground before it. They’d died defending what rested inside, the glowing light.

  I stepped over the young bodies, no more than teenagers, with rent limbs and horror stricken faces. Death had not been kind to any of the fallen—the ugly, the beautiful, the weak, or the strong. Once the fatal blow fell, the body collapsed into a misshapen pile of meat.

  The stench of the dead was not so overwhelming due to the cold. But inside, a dying fire burned in a hearth large enough to drive a team of oxen within. This was the house of a great chieftain, a leader of many men. The great long tables within had been pushed against doors and windows, and yet the bodies within, old men and women, and babes too small to take up arms, all lay broken before the great hearth.

  “Who did this?” I asked the dead.

  None answered, thank the gods.

  Near the hearth, propped in the corner closest to the dying fire, an old woman sat crumpled on her side, the green and purple glow pulsing from beneath her slashed and battered form.

  I set Gram into her sheath over my shoulder, slung the shield around my back and knelt at her side. There was no blood in the building, I realized. None of the fallen here had slashing or bashing wounds.