His Father's Eyes - eARC (19 page)

“So the runes don’t spell out a word?” I said, my voice low.

“Not as you think of words, no. It is common for modern mystes and those who pretend to be crafters to treat runic patterns as one might an alphabet. But runes are more. Each is imbued with meaning and power, and they can be used in different ways by different runecrafters. This particular use of runes, in a triad, is one with which I am familiar. They are placed in this way so that each will fulfill a certain role in the casting. In this case, the first rune invites.” As Namid said this, he made the shape of the first rune in the air with his finger, leaving a trace of silvery blue light before him. “The second establishes purpose.” He drew the second rune as he had the first, so that both now hovered between us. “And the third binds.” He drew the single vertical beside the other two. When this one was complete, the three letters changed color, darkening from silver to smoke grey and then to black, before vanishing completely.

“So they would have trapped you?” I asked.

“If you had summoned me as they instructed, and the casting was completed with those runes drawn in blood, then yes, I would have been imprisoned in whatever vessel they chose for me.”

My stomach did a slow, unnerving somersault. “Vessel,” I repeated. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I have said, Ohanko. The two women sought to imprison me, and would have needed a vessel to do so.”

“Crap.” I breathed the word. “I know how they killed your fellow runemyste in Northern Virginia. I know how they were going to kill you.”

Namid didn’t appear surprised; no doubt he had reasoned it out for himself. He knew a lot more about this stuff than I did. But he said, “Tell me.”

“I was to be the vessel. The runes were drawn on me. I’m guessing that you would have been trapped inside me. And when they killed me, they would have taken both our lives.”

“I fear that you are right, although I do not believe that they would have killed us. That final act they would have left to the necromancer who is instructing them in the ways of dark magic.”

Something in the way he said this . . . “Why do I get the feeling that you know who this necromancer is?”

“I know nothing for certain,” he said, an admission of a sort. “But yes, I have an idea of who this might be. Germanic runes and those of Old English are similar; these three are identical in the two traditions. But I believe this casting belongs to a Celt. A woman.”

“A female druid?”

“A priestess. What some today would call a witch, though the term is crude at best.”

“Tell me about her.”

“I shall, but not this night. You have need of sleep, and I must speak with my kind. I will tell you more tomorrow.”

I felt my cheeks color, and I took a sip of water from the carafe my nurse had left for me, hoping to mask my discomfort. I had assumed that Namid would stay here while I slept. I was in danger still; we both knew it. And I couldn’t defend myself and rest at the same time.

The runemyste, though, knew me pretty well. “I can communicate with other runemystes and remain by your side. You have nothing to fear from the dark ones tonight.”

“Thank you,” I said, embarrassed but also relieved. As soon as I lay back against my pillows and closed my eyes, I felt sleep tug at my mind. I hadn’t realized how exhausted I was. “At least tell me her name,” I said, my voice already sounding thick with slumber.

“What did you say?”

I forced my eyes open. “The priestess. What was her name?”

He said the name twice, and still he had to spell it out for me before I caught it. Saorla of Brewood, she was called. He pronounced her name as SARE-la.

“Now sleep,” the myste rumbled, reminding me of a tumbling river. “We will speak of her at greater length in the morning.”

As it happened, I didn’t have to wait that long to learn more about her. I couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few moments when I found myself in a dream that felt nothing like those I usually have. At first I thought it must be the painkillers, and the after effects of the anesthesia. But even allowing for all the crap in my bloodstream, this vision felt different.

It was utterly bizarre, and yet it struck me as more real, more visceral than any dream I’d ever had.

I was alone on an open grassy plain.
It is a moor
, a voice in my head corrected. A woman’s voice.
The
woman’s voice: low, gravelly, accented with what I now knew to be an Irish lilt. It was the voice I’d heard in Solana’s after the explosion. I turned a quick circle, searching for her, but I saw no one. The grasses bowed and danced in a swirling wind, and far in the distance to the west, the setting sun reflected off a broad expanse of open water. Nearer, in the opposite direction, low hills cast rounded shadows across the moor.

“Where are you?” I called, my voice swallowed by the rush of wind and the vast landscape.

A fire burned in a small ring of stone a few paces from where I stood. I hadn’t noticed it until that moment. Or perhaps it hadn’t been there. A cooking spit stood over the ring with what might have been a skinned rabbit roasting in the flames.

“Perhaps you are hungry. Supper will be ready shortly.”

“This is a dream. I can’t eat in a dream.”

“You can in this one. You can drink as well. Would you like wine?”

Two ceramic goblets rested on the ground beside the fire, a bottle made of translucent glass between them. I was sure they hadn’t been there a moment before.

“Show yourself,” I said, turning once more. “Let me see you.”

And she did, appearing as suddenly as had the food and drink. She stood with her back to the hills, the dying sunlight illuminating her face.

She wore a simple green dress of coarse cotton, and a gray shawl hung about her shoulders, anchored against the wind by a slender but powerful hand. I couldn’t have guessed her age. Her brown hair was streaked with silver, and it danced around her face, whipped to a frenzy by the gale. Her eyes, a clear, pale blue, seemed both ancient and youthful. There was wisdom there, and wit, and a hard, uncompromising intelligence. Her face was oval and very pretty—“winsome,” I thought, though I didn’t know why. I don’t think I had ever used the word before. But that’s what she was, despite the tiny lines around her mouth, at the corners of her eyes, on her brow.

I wanted to ask her name, though I thought I knew it, and I would have liked to know why she had brought me here.

But before I could speak she said, “You have your father’s eyes.”

Her words shocked me silent; judging from her inscrutable smile, I guessed that she had known they would.

“Yes, I have seen him. I have looked into his eyes as I am looking into yours. I have sounded the depths of his moon sickness, explored his passions, his loves, his fears, the most precious memories he holds, and also the most daunting. I know him more intimately than you ever will.”

“You’ve tortured him,” I managed to say.

“I have tested him.”

“Well, you’d better stay the hell away from him from now on.”

“I have also saved your life, spared you when I did not spare others. You should show me some courtesy.” This last she said in a tone that made my breath catch in my throat. I wondered if Namid could protect me here, wherever “here” was.

But even wondering this, I didn’t back down. I’d always been kind of stupid that way. “You also hurt my friend.”

“The woman.”

“Yeah, her. Do that again, and if I have to I’ll rip you apart with my bare hands.”

“You have fire in you, which I can admire. But you lack discipline; you are ruled by your emotions. I could crush you where you stand, and would be justified in doing so. No one speaks to me as you have.” She considered me for another moment before appearing to come to a decision. “But I think I will not. You are angry, hurt, frightened. I will even admit that you have cause—that I have given you cause. And so, you have nothing to fear from me on this night. Not because Namid’skemu protects you, but because I choose to keep you safe.”

I felt like I should thank her, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak the words. Instead, I said, “You’re Saorla.”

“I am. And you are Justis Fearsson.”

“That’s right.”

She walked toward me and past me to the cooking fire, her hips swaying provocatively. “Come and sup with me, Justis Fearsson.”

I hesitated, catching the briefest scent of something sickly as she passed. But before I could name it, it was gone, swept away by another gust of wind. A memory stirred, deep in the recesses of my slumbering mind.
The stench of decay clings to them still . . .

“The meat is not poisoned. But it is real and will offer sustenance. You have been wounded and must heal. Food will help.”

I followed her to the fire, but remained standing, even as she sat.

She picked up one of the goblets and held it out to me. I took it from her, taking care not to allow my fingers to so much as brush hers. Another smile curved her lips.

“You are cautious. That is probably wise.”

She sipped from the other goblet. I glanced down into mine.

“The wine is not poisoned either,” she said, sounding impatient. “Caution is one thing. Such mistrust is rude.”

I drank. It was honeyed and strong. With the first sip, I felt a small rush of dizziness.

“Food will help.”

“Why are you being so kind to me?” I asked. “You had intended to kill me tonight.”

“Yes. And I will want you well the next time I try. Your death will serve me better if you are hale and strong.”

CHAPTER 19

I laughed at her candor, even as a chill ran through my body.

She produced a knife from within the folds of her dress and began to cut pieces of meat from the rabbit. “You think I jest?” she asked as she worked.

“I know you don’t.”

“And yet you laugh.”

She held out a strip of meat to me. I took it and bit into it without pause. It was succulent and smokey and delicious. Suddenly I was ravenous. I downed the rest of what she had given me in two bites and took another piece the moment she offered it.

“I laughed,” I said, chewing on yet another mouthful, “because it’s not often that someone is so up front about their intention to kill.”

“Do you fear death?” she asked, tipping her head to the side and regarding me through her lashes. She really was quite beautiful.

I thought there might be a right answer to this, but I didn’t know what it was. “Yes,” I said. “I don’t want to die. But I worked as a cop for a long time, and I’ve learned to manage that fear.”

“So, you prefer to live.” She stood and took a step toward me. Again, a hint of decay soured the air around us.

I fell back a step. “All things being equal, I’d prefer to live.”

“I can arrange that,” she said.

“At what cost?”

“To you? Nothing at all.”

There was no such thing as a free lunch—my dad had taught me that years ago. “What about to Namid?”

“He uses you, as the runemystes all use their weremystes. You are little more than slaves to them, doing their bidding and in return receiving ‘training’ so that you can continue to serve their cause. Surely you see this.”

“I’ve known Namid a long time. You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“You don’t know him at all.”

The wind died down, and once more that elusive odor reached me. “At least I know what he really looks like,” I said. It was a hunch, but I’d long since learned to trust my instincts.

Her smile this time was bitter, and it made her far less attractive.

“You believe you do,” she said, “but that, too, is an illusion. He appears to you as he thinks you would like him to.”

“You’ve done the same.”

“Yes, I have. Like me, he can take on any guise he wishes.”

“So, let me see the real you,” I said.

“The real me,” she repeated. “They are all the real me.” She gestured at herself. “This is as real as any form I might take. Once I appeared as you see me now. But I can be this.” The figure before me wavered, as if heat waves rose from the ground before her. An instant later, she was transformed into a great, dark-pelted deer. “Or this.” She morphed again, this time into a gray wolf, with bright yellow eyes and paws that were the size of my hand.

“I can be a woman.” Abruptly she was herself again. “Or a man.” As quickly as she had taken on that familiar form, she shifted once more, this time to a burly, bearded Scottish warrior in a plaid kilt and brown leather vest. “Or I can be someone I’ve never even met.” This time I stumbled back, appalled and fascinated by what I saw. She was Billie, naked to the waist, her eyes and hair as I knew them, but the expression on her face too cruel, too predatory.

“Stop that,” I said, my voice shaking. “After what you did to her, you have no right.”

She shifted back to her original appearance. “So, you like this one after all.”

“No. It’s a lie; I can tell. I can smell you from here. You stink of rot, of death. This isn’t how you look. I want to see the demon beneath that skin.”

Her expression went stony. “You are his creature through and through. You belong to him and you do not even know it.”

“I belong to no one. But Namid’s my friend, and I trust him with my life. Now, let me see you.”

She smiled, as thin as a blade. And when next she shifted it was to something hideous, ghoulish. Her flesh seemed to melt away, and with it her dress and shawl, leaving little more than an animated corpse, rotted, skeletal in places. Only her eyes remained even remotely the same. They gleamed in their desiccated sockets, white orbs, blue at the center. And she kept them fixed on me.

“Is this what you wanted to see?” she asked, her voice unchanged.

I could smell her now, the stench of decay so strong it made my eyes tear; it was all I could do to keep from gagging.

“Yes,” I said. “This is the first form you’ve taken that seems genuine.”

“Your precious Namid’skemu would look the same, if he were as honest with you as I am being now.”

“I don’t believe that,” I said. “I understand more than you think I do. He was granted eternal life by the Runeclave. And in giving him that, they also gave him the form I see when he appears to me. He’s a creature of magic, and that form is as elemental to him as his voice and his thoughts. But you and your kind—you took everything that you are now. It wasn’t a gift, it was . . . it was plunder. And so you stink of corruption, because you are, in fact, corrupt.”

“Bold words, weremyste. You dare speak them now because I have given you my word that no harm will come to you from this encounter. And despite what you think you know about me, I keep my oaths. Your runemyste is not as pure as you might like to believe, nor am I as evil as you judge. You are young and foolish and you see the world in black and white when all around you are shades of gray. You do not trust me; I understand why. But ask him, and perhaps you will glean a kernel of truth in what I am telling you.”

I faltered, not wanting to put any stock in her attacks on Namid, and yet unable to deny them with any credibility. The truth was, being a cop and an investigator had taught me long ago that there were no absolutes. As she put it, everything existed in gradations of gray. Except where Namid was concerned. I had always accepted that he was an agent of unalloyed good, the same way I now assumed that this putrescent creature before me was evil incarnate. I should have known better, which meant I needed to start questioning assumptions I’d lived with for far too long.

“You are thinking about it, I can tell. It may be there is more to you than I have credited thus far.” I heard surprise in her voice, and, I thought, a hint of respect as well. “Nevertheless,” she said, her voice hardening once more, “I offer no assurances as to your safety when next we meet. You and I are on opposite sides in this struggle. At our next encounter I will act accordingly.”

“And I’ll do the same. Count on it.”

She laughed, the effect in her current form chilling. “That is the third time you have threatened me,” she whispered.

In the blink of an eye she had covered the distance between us so that she stood inches from me. Her fetor seemed to poison the air. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. She raised a moldered hand, the skin dark and leathery, and she traced a line down the side of my face, her touch as gentle as that of a lover. Only then, having touched me as her true self, did she shift again, this time back to the form she had assumed when my dream first began.

“Three times, Justis Fearsson. We are enemies sworn now. The next time we meet you will have no choice but to fight me. And you will die. I assure you of that.”

I jerked away from her, able to move at last. And opening my eyes, I found myself back in my hospital bed. I searched the room for a clock and spotted one on the wall behind me. Twisting around enough to read it proved more difficult than I’d imagined. It was a few minutes shy of five o’clock. Despite the dream, I’d gotten a bit of sleep and felt better for it. I wondered if I’d really eaten, and if that had helped as well. Settling back down in the bed, I realized that Namid was still with me, watching my every move, his eyes brilliant in the dim light.

“You were dreaming,” he said.

“Of Saorla.”

“I gathered as much.”

“She fed me and gave me wine. Could that have been real?”

He frowned, but nodded. “You took a risk accepting food from her.”

I started to say that I was dreaming, though I knew he wouldn’t accept that as an excuse. But really, I had known it wasn’t a dream, just as I had known that I could trust her on this one occasion. “I don’t believe I did take a risk,” I told him. “She believes that you’re still keeping things from me, that you’re refusing to tell me everything I should know about your history and hers. Is she right?”

“It is not that I refuse, but yes, I have yet to tell you all. Ours is a long and complicated history. I could not possibly convey all of it to you at once.”

“I understand that,” I said, my patience strained. “But she says that you’re . . . telling me things that present your actions in the best light and hers in the worst.” I wasn’t explaining it well.

His waters were roiled. “She implies that I am misleading you, that if I told you all there is to tell, you might side with her.”

“Exactly.” I hesitated, unsure of whether I wanted to know the truth. “Is she right?”

“No, and yes.”

I scowled. “That’s helpful.”

“We were at war, Ohanko. I fought against other weremystes. Some I wounded, others I killed. I can justify all that I did. I believed that I was doing right. But obviously my foes disagreed and felt that my allies and I were at fault. I am sure Saorla could tell you tales—all of them true—that would make my deeds sound foul, even villainous. Such is the nature of war. I am not perfect, nor have I ever claimed to be. And as a young man I made terrible mistakes that I rue to this day. But I remain a loyal servant of the Runeclave, and I remain as well your friend.”

“Is that why you stayed here all night?”

A faint smile touched his face. “It is.”

He still hadn’t told me all. I knew that. But I knew as well that he had told me the truth as far as it went. More, now that I was awake and free of Saorla’s influence, I was able the name the difference between them: Namid might not have been as forthcoming with information as I would have liked, but he never threatened or cajoled. What he shared came unvarnished; I was free to do with it what I would. And that gift of freedom was an expression of friendship that Saorla couldn’t have understood.

“I must leave you for a time,” the myste said. “I believe you are safe, at least for now.”

“All right. Thanks for protecting me.”

“I did not. That would have been an act of interference. I merely remained by your side out of concern for your health.”

We both smiled. Then he raised a hand in farewell and vanished.

I closed my eyes and must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew a nurse I didn’t recognize was checking my vital signs, and a tray of scrambled eggs and toast had been set by my bed. The nurse’s tag read “Alicia.”

“You’re awake,” she said. “I heard you talking before; do you talk in your sleep?”

“Sometimes,” I said, fighting an urge to laugh.

“Well, if you feel up to it, someone’s here to see you.” She leaned closer to me. “And she’s very pretty.”

I tensed. Could it have been Patty? Witcombe wouldn’t have come herself.

“Come on in,” the nurse said, pulling the curtain open.

Margarite, Kona’s partner—of the domestic sort—walked to my bedside. I gave her a big smile, my pulse slowing.

“Hey, you! I’m surprised to see you here.”

She stooped to kiss my cheek, dark hair brushing my forehead. “How are you, Jay?”

“I’m good. I mean, as good as a guy in a hospital can be, you know?”

The nurse left us, although not before setting the table with the food tray on it right in front of me.

“I knew Kona would be working this morning. You didn’t have to come.”

Her smile tightened. “Actually, I did,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “You have to get out of here.”

“What?”

“Kona told me to tell you that she and Kevin will be coming here to arrest you this morning. They might be on their way already. She tried to keep them from charging you, but right now the evidence is weighted against you too much.”

I nodded, trying to fight off a surge of panic. I could hear my heart monitor beeping out a salsa beat, and I expected the nurse to come back at any moment to find out what the hell we were doing in here.

On cue, the curtain slid open again. “Mister Fearsson?” Alicia said, eyeing us both.

“I have to leave,” I said.

“I’m afraid I can’t—”

“I’ll sign whatever papers are necessary releasing the hospital from any responsibility for my well-being. But . . . my father. He’s taken ill. He might even have had a heart attack. He’s at another hospital and I need to get to him.”

As lies went, it seemed like a pretty good one.

I could tell Alicia wasn’t pleased, but after a few seconds, which felt like an eon, she said, “Yes, all right. I’ll start the paperwork right away.”

Margarite left, telling the nurse that she needed to hurry back to “our father’s” side. It took Alicia some time to gather the necessary documents, and she insisted on changing the bandage on my wrist before letting me go. My hand was still tender, despite Namid’s healing magic, and I winced several times as she worked on me, prompting a lengthy scolding during which she told me in no uncertain terms that I was making a terrible mistake.

I was out of there by seven-thirty. I guessed that Kona and Kevin had done their best to get stuck in traffic; Kona wouldn’t have sent Margarite to warn me if she then intended to rush over.

I had someone at the visitor’s desk call a cab for me, and went outside to wait for it. As soon as I cleared the building and set foot on the pavement, it hit me: the moon. It’s pull on my mind was magnetic; I could no more resist it than I could fight the passage of time. Somehow I had lost track of the days, but it came rushing back to me now. As the start of the phasing approached, the moon’s effect on my thoughts and mood grew ever stronger. But the difference in magnitude between the tug of the moon approaching full and its power as the phasing began was the difference between a sip of beer and a couple of shots of tequila. The phasing would begin tonight at sundown, and already I could feel it bending my mind, leaving me muddied and grasping for clarity. Other weremystes—Q, Luis, and Amaya, and also Patty, Witcombe, and Dimples—would be experiencing much the same thing. Like the laws of nature, the laws of magic brooked no exceptions. But I doubted that the weremancers would rest today in anticipation of this evening’s moonrise. If anything, they’d be working even harder in advance of it.