Bloodring (15 page)

“The thing you saw,” I persisted, “may have been a daywalker.”

She shrugged again, her eyes turned into the dark, and I felt the cold seep up through my bones. “Ciana, a daywalker is dangerous. Have you seen it again?” When she didn't answer at once, I knew. She had seen the creature again.

 
The thing finished with him, pulling its teeth from his flesh with a pain like acid and steel, dropping his wrist again. He heard the sound of it spitting his blood into a container. Why didn't it just drink it? Wasn't that what Darkness did? Drink human blood?

Exhausted, too drained of blood and life to fight, Lucas lay in the dark watching where the thing that carried his blood scampered and disappeared. The cavern seemed less dark now and he saw a brighter rectangle nearby. Slowly, he sat up. It was a doorway. A doorway into a larger hall, indicated by a dark, dull glow.

He scooted across the cavern floor to the pale red glow and put out a hand. Cold burned him. He jerked back fast, sticking blistered fingers into his mouth. His fingers screamed with pain, and he gasped. Only now did he see the bars. Demon-iron, spelled and rimmed with ice, barred his way. He remembered the sound of mauls as they locked him in. An echo of iron on iron still rang in the distance, Darkness working metal.

Out there, something moved. He heard the splash and knew the sound was his blood being poured out. A soft gurgle of something swallowing followed.

They were using his blood for something, he knew that. Something different from the usual slaking of spawn lust and hunger. But for what?

“
C
iana. Talk to me, please. Has that thing appeared to you again?”

“He said you'd know.”

My toes were ice and agony, but I stopped on the frozen walk, gripped Ciana's shoulders, and turned her to me. “Tell me everything. Please.”

“He said I could take you there, where he meets me.” Finally, her eyes lifted to mine. Something swam in their depths, something hidden and fearsome.

A secret.
Saints' balls.
Ciana had a secret about a daywalker.

“It's behind the shop.” With a little tug on my hand she pulled me back the way we had come, then sharply to the left, into a little alley between two buildings. The cloud-shrouded dusk dimmed even more and shadows closed in on us tightly.

The dark held secrets more fearful than the ones in Ciana's eyes, and my own past roared up, memory clamoring for attention. Pain lanced through my old scars, a wrenching fear. Skimming, I swept behind and ahead at the alley opening and overhead at the rooftops, flexed the fingers of my free hand around the bloodstone walking-stick hilt, longing to pull the blade. But the path ahead was clear. Clouds were breaking above us and a star peeked through. I forced the memory of my own childhood shadows away. We cleared the alley and stepped up the hill at the foot of the Trine.

Little stables and outbuildings were scattered along the flat area, hip deep in snow. I scented horses, mules, and domestic fowl in the deep dusk. As though she could see in the dark, Ciana pulled me beyond the stables, higher up the hillside, into the edge of the woods. A single footpath led through the trees, across what had once been Walnut Avenue, up the base of the Trine, as if it had been well and recently trod, though snow had fallen this morning. My breath sped up; I gripped Ciana's hand more firmly. If attacked, I would throw her behind me, pulling my blades at the same instant.
Glory and infamy.

I opened my senses and sent out a hard skim, not trying for silence. If a daywalker or an early-rising spawn was here, it already knew we were too. But there was nothing, only the well-worn path and the cold and the sound of night creatures waking. A bird called, a single owl hoot, lonely and longing.

Ciana led me west and north. She stopped at a circle of large rocks piled nearly waist high, sticking out of the snow, as if brushed clean. Water tinkled. We were at my spring.

From a copper pipe between two stones water gushed into a stoneware and plastic cistern. I had spoken words of power over the system, charging the fired clay and plastic to resist cracking as temperatures changed with the seasons, then released a rune of obscurity over it to shield it from human notice, passing warriors, or the rare, unexpected seraph. The spring and cistern had worked flawlessly for years.

“This is where he meets me.” The words had a tone of confession to them. “Meets me” meant more than once. Ciana knew she shouldn't have come here.

“Did it kiss you? Taste you with its tongue?”

“No. Not exactly.”

“Then what
exactly
did it do?”

“He put his head here.” She held her hand near her neck. “And he sniffed a lot. He said I smelled good.”

Yeah. Like a slab of raw meat, dinner, or worse—a virgin. I gripped my walking stick. My eyes swept the surrounding trees as my mage-senses scoured the hillside. Nothing. Nothing there at all. “But it didn't lick you?”

“No. He said you'd ask that. He said you knew about people like him.”

I did know, memories half forgotten, buried deep, only now beginning to unfurl in a deadly blossoming. “Did it sit? Where?” I asked when she nodded.

Ciana pointed to a stone, larger than the others. Pulling her with me, I walked around it and bent, pretending to look closely. There was no snow on the stone. It had been brushed to the ground. Drawing air in, I sniffed with nose and mage-sense, sending out a powerful skim, half challenge, defiant.

The fetid spoor of devil-spawn slammed into me and I rocked back, nauseated, remembering the scent of foulness from my childhood, from my time of terror. A fainter hint of something else, something unknown, lurked beneath the smell, perhaps the subtle stench of daywalker. Two species of Dark beings had been here. Recently. The spawn pack before dawn, the daywalker when the sun was high. Fear crawled up my arms and legs. Devil-spawn had found me. Again.

“He said you would be afraid, but that you didn't have to be.”

“It isn't a he. And it isn't a person; it's a beast.” Two kinds, spawn and something else. I threw my senses into the dusk, following the older spawn scent as it moved uphill before vanishing. The spawn pack had traveled north, up the center peak of the Trine, then angled west. “What did it ask you, this thing that sniffed you? What did you talk about?”

“He said you had been hurt when you were a little girl and that made you afraid of people like him.”

I swallowed hard. Only a very few knew of the attack when I was a child. Except for Lucas, all of them were at Enclave. “I was injured by devil-spawn when I was a little girl, smaller than you are now. I nearly died.” I stared up the hills, breathing deeply, remembering a deeper dark, the dark of underground where I had been taken, stuffed into a crevice, and left to die, left for my body to cure to the palates of a Major Darkness. Too young for mating, I had been a tasty morsel for a special event. Bleeding and cold and dying. So cold.

“I got away,” I whispered through a throat that didn't work right. “I got away” wasn't the full and complete truth, but I didn't remember my escape; it was all foggy, like a nightmare the morning after waking. “Have you told me everything?” I asked.

“Yep. Except his name.”

I jerked, almost drawing my blade. No Darkness willingly gave its name! And daywalkers were supposed to be far more intelligent than spawn. If one gave her its name—

“He said you'd know what to do with it. It's Malash—”

I slapped my free hand over Ciana's mouth as she spoke, cutting her off. Her shocked eyes met mine above my thumb. “Shhh. Never say it aloud. Promise.” Her head bobbed slowly. “To say its name is to call it. And devil-spawn are following it, tracking it. If you call it, a spawn pack may come too. And then the spawn would know its name and yours and have power over you both. I don't know what kind of strength a daywalker has, but I know for a fact that at night, the spawn would have their full strength. And they would be hungry. They're always hungry. Understand?”

Ciana pushed my hand from her mouth. “Your fingers are frozen. They feel like icicles. And I'm hungry.”

My throat working, I swallowed down my fear, an icy shaft stabbing as it went down.

Her hand still in mine, I led the way around the springhead, back down the hill. Words were still painful. “Let's go inside. I'll fix dinner and call Marla. Tell her you're staying with me tonight.”

“Cool. Can I play with your dolls?”

“Yes,” I said, scarcely hearing. “Anything you want.”

 
We ate onion soup and cheese, toasted olive loaf with herbed olive oil drizzled over it, and fried apples for supper. Two girlfriends on a sleepover, we munched while curled in comforters in front of the fire, talked about clothes, her friends, school, her father, horses—anything but daywalkers—played with my dolls, the ones given to me by my foster father, and strung beads to replace items sold over the winter.

We kept the old radio on the news channel for any word on Lucas. There was no new information, but Ciana wasn't perturbed or frightened at the lack. She was peaceful, resting in the assurance granted her by God the Victorious that her father would return. That
I'd
find him. I tried not to think about any of it, keeping my fingers busy with my work.

Near nine, I put Ciana to bed in the middle of my huge mattress, covered by mounded down comforters wrapped in silk duvets. I turned down the flames, placed my walking stick, its hidden blade loosed, on the floor close to hand, and curled up beside her, spooning her with my body heat. Worried by the name Ciana had almost spoken, I didn't sleep well, rising at every little sound, checking the position of the blade in readiness. Agitated, I went twice to the narrow back windows flanking the stained-glass one to stare past the springhead. But devil-spawn never came, nor the daywalker whose name I could guess.
Malashe-el,
a name taken from a fallen seraph. Perhaps he hadn't heard her aborted call. Perhaps we would be safe a little longer.

 
Thursday morning dawned dark and cold, the sky hidden by heavy clouds. The weather was so bleak, even the roosters stayed in bed late. I helped Ciana dress, fed her fruit and bread with honey and milk, and kissed her forehead, promising to come for her if there was news of Lucas. Through the dim light, I pointed out Jacey across the street, taking her youngest to school, and scooted Ciana into the steady stream of mirthless, sullen, early-morning populace. I watched her trudge across to Jacey and take her hand.

Upstairs, I rushed through twenty minutes of savage-chi, took a skimpy, cold shower, and, because Ciana had eaten the last of the bread, lit the stove with a handy-dandy fire amulet that sparked a steady flame when I thumbed it. It was useful for starting a fire in wet wood while camping too. If I was ever stranded outdoors, I wouldn't go cold.

I cooked and ate a breakfast of oatmeal with honey while dressing in the outer clothes I had worn yesterday. Because of the snow, they had been seen only by my partners and the elders. To alter the look, I used an ocean green scarf and wore huge silver hoops and one of the necklaces I had made the night before. Over my sleeves I clamped wide, silver cuff bracelets studded with green—malachite, chrysoprase, and emerald.

The cuffs were ostentatious, but beneath each I wore blades strapped to my forearms. I had designed them myself, and they weren't for sale, though Thorn's Gems had similar ones on display. Flamboyant, but it all looked great when I was carrying a walking stick. Very stylish. It gave me three blades: one for throwing, two for wielding. With Darkness nearby, asking questions about me, I wasn't taking chances. I packed a small bag with necessities, specially loved items, and battle clothes and set it by the door, half hidden by my long, silk-lined, insulated leather cloak. The cloak, my battle boots, and gloves were mage-made, conjured against most minor weapons of Darkness. If I had to run, I could be ready in moments.

Lastly, I put away the handmade porcelain dolls, storing them in the armoire in the sitting area. I had seven: three adults in fancy outfits, and four babies with padded bodies and lacy christening gowns, all gifts from Uncle Lem. If I ran, I'd be leaving them behind, along with the life I had built in Mineral City. Ineffable sadness rose up in me, and I blinked back tears. I had been so lonely when I first came, the only mage in a thousand miles, hiding what I was even from my foster father. Uncle Lem had known me only as an orphan and had worked hard to fill the void of family in my life. Though I was fourteen, I had been small for my age, as all mages are, and he had begun the tradition of giving me dolls on special occasions. Four birthdays and three Christmases, until he died in my eighteenth year from a rare fast-acting cancer.

I held a baby doll in a long silk and lace gown close, and breathed deeply before putting her away and closing the door. I fancied I could still smell Uncle Lem's scent on her.

I lit the fire in the shop, heated water, and made coffee, preparing to open. At just after nine, as the last town bell announced the hour, the beginning of kirk, and the orthodoxes' morning prayers, I turned the key in the front door. I stood there, my face to the wan light, looking out at the ugly weather, watching the final stragglers dash into kirk or into work, smelling the coffee perking, wishing for spring.

From down the street Rupert came, appearing in a break in the last of the pedestrians, carrying a canvas bag of groceries with a long loaf of bread sticking out the top. My partner was wearing black: black denim, black boots, a black coat with wide tails flying out behind. Denim lapis stones in his ears, around his neck, and clipped to his black hat were the only spots of color. He looked spare, dark, and solemn, while I looked colorful and flamboyant. We'd clash. He'd hate that, which made me smile.