Keys and Curses (Shadow Book 2) (3 page)

Flower smiled. So many creative souls, all happily inspired.

But then the smile faded. She stirred and shifted on the bed. There was one writer who frustrated her every effort. The girl had a mind like a volcano, but she would not sit down and write. She wouldn’t even open up enough to let Flower learn her name.

Flower paused over the space she knew this girl occupied. She curled her hand around her key and let the magic flow into the girl. She left the channel open and sank further into sleep. Even in dreams she worked. She stood behind the girl and observed her bright pink hair, the tension in her hands, the hockey stick that leaned against the tacky black vinyl covering her desk. She wondered if it would be any easier to get this girl writing if she could go to her world and shake the inspiration into her.

But that wasn’t allowed.

Flower reached out. “Let me in,” she said. “Let me help you write.”

The girl made an impatient gesture, seized her hockey stick and stormed out of the room, leaving a blank notepad sitting on the desk.

“You have to write sometime!” Flower yelled after her. “It’s people like you who tear holes between the worlds you know!”

Damn it. Yelling at them wasn’t allowed either.

CHAPTER THREE

The fire of a thousand suns burned his blood to ash.

Limbs shaking. Ice. Sweat. Limp strands of hair clung to his skin like seaweed.

He’d teetered on the edge of this precipice before, cheated death by falling back into the madness of vibe too many times.

This time was different. This time he knew when the sweats started even the vibe would not save him. He didn’t want it to. Not after what he’d done. Not if it meant reliving-

He jerked upright. Hardened hands pushed him down, yanked on his hair, pulled his head back. Flames spilled out of torches. The darkness jumped and flickered around a face etched with intricate silver dots. Thick, bitter liquid touched his lips. The taste made him gag. A hand slapped him across the face, then pinched his nose until he opened his mouth to gasp for breath.

More bitter liquid. He choked. Swallowed convulsively.

Silence. Bodies pressed in. Low voices, words he couldn’t understand. The restraining hands eased. He wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth. The liquid burned in his gut. Don’t eat or drink anything made by fairies. Ever. They taught that to muses almost before they could walk. Never trust a fairy. Ice spread from his gut to his bloodstream, cooling the fire burn by burn. He felt for the reassuring presence of the key, but his fingers found nothing. No. The key was gone, cast into the depths, so that he might never inflict his distorted inspiration on another artist. Nothing else mattered, not even what the king might do when he discovered Nikifor had cast away the most precious thing a muse owned.

The shaking lessened. He could almost control his hands. Voices came into sudden, sharp focus around him.

“...completely lost touch with reality.”

“What did he expect? Damn fool muse, messing around with vibe. You’d think they’d know better.”

“What now?”

“We’ve done what we can. He’ll either survive the night or he won’t.”

Footsteps retreated. A door slammed. The bolt shot home on the outside.

Nikifor closed his eyes. He didn’t want to know where he was, or if anybody had stayed with him. He should never have agreed to let Flower bring him here. He should have stayed in Shadow City and died. That was the only fit fate for a muse who had killed his artist with nightmares born from vibe.

His skin stayed slick, wet, clammy. The darkness had the dank chill of the underground. The flicker and jump of the single torch burning against the far wall hypnotised him.

A tall, thin shape lurked beyond the firelight. Nikifor’s skin crawled.

“Look at you now,” the Tormentor said.

Nikifor put his face in his hands. He rocked back and forth. “You’re not real. You’re not real.”

“Of course I’m real.” The voice, more familiar to him than his own hands, was cold, cold like the human Nikifor had killed in a fit of madness, cold like the nights he had spent in his dreams, waking beside the corpse, begging forgiveness from those lifeless eyes.

“You’re not real. Go away.”

“It doesn’t have to be like this.” The voice dropped, soothed, a spider strangling him in silken webs. “You could redeem yourself. You could be the Muse Champion again if you were not such a coward. You are strong. Undefeatable. Break down the doors. You are in the place where vibe was invented, all you need do is kill the Freakin Fairies and take what they have. The vibe will keep you alive. Strong. You need nothing else.”

“No.” His whispered was ragged. “I will never do that.”

“You dare defy me?” A hand reached out for him.

Nikifor rolled off the low bed and into a corner. He pressed his hands to his forehead, trying to squeeze the vision out of his brain. “You’re not real. You’re not real.”

“You’re a coward.” The Tormentor stalked him, the branding iron glowing white hot in his hand. “Weakness is disloyalty.”

Nikifor dived around him and scrambled to the other side of the room. “Go away!” His voice broke on his own terror. When he raised his hands to his face, he caught sight of the scar. Smoke rose from seared flesh.

The Tormentor stalked his retreat. Each footstep echoed like a heartbeat. “Worthless,” he said. “You who can slay a thousand vampires in a night, but hide inside, afraid of being killed.”

“It’s not–I’m not–” Nikifor edged along the wall away from the Tormentor.

“Not afraid of being killed? Then you may as well kill yourself. End it. End your miserable, cowardly existence.”

“Leave me alone. You’re not real.”

“Oh I’m real, my boy.”

The shadow moved. A fist caught him in the temple and sent him sprawling across the stone floor. Nikifor hit his head when he went down. Something hot and wet crept down his face. He welcomed the darkness that followed.

“What you doing down there, Muse?”

Nikifor groaned into a stone floor. He was so cold every muscle ached. A cut on his temple stung.

“Hey, he’s alive!”

They hauled him to his feet. Nikifor swayed back and forth in a circle of supporting hands, all belonging to people half his size. He studied each swarthy face and tried to remember where he was.

“How come you look like someone punched you in the face?” asked a woman.

Nikifor stared in bemusement at the lines of silver dots traced from her eyes to her jaw. “Who are you?”

“Hey!” said a young man. He had two dreadlocks framing his face, each ending in a snake’s tooth dipped in silver. “It actually worked!”

“What worked?” Nikifor rubbed a lump on his head.

The woman chuckled. “The cure, Muse. We’ve had it for years, but since no muse ever came to us for help before, we never got to actually test it. For all we knew it could have burned up your skeleton inside you. Quick Strike Pin, go get Coalfire.”

“What cure?” Nikifor shivered in the cold air and tried to remember, well, anything at all. At least he remembered his name, that was a start.

The woman stood on her tip-toes, grabbed the ends of his long hair to drag him down to her level and peered into one eye, then the other. “Amnesia’s not too bad a side effect, I suppose,” she said. “Considering. You came to us for a cure, Muse, because you were addicted to vibe.”

“What’s vibe?”

She grinned. “Oh, this is going to be fun. Vibe, mister, is a perfectly harmless drink we partake of because it makes your voice go funny. Except if you happen to be a muse, in which case it sends you barking mad and then kills you if you stop drinking it. And if you keep drinking it.”

“Am I barking mad?” Nikifor considered this carefully. It was always possible, considering the company he apparently kept. Or maybe–his eyes widened. “Or am I dead?”

“Neither,” said a voice from the doorway.

The little people moved back to allow a man with white dreadlocks to come forward. He walked in a circle around Nikifor, all the while leaning heavily on a stick topped by a silver goat’s skull, then gave him a long, hard stare. “Well,” he finally said. “You survived. That was unexpected.” He poked Nikifor in the ribs. “No doubt your memory will come back sooner than you want it to.” He cleared his throat, scowled and tapped his stick on the ground a few times. “It’s not over yet. I expect you’ll need a good few weeks of being kept busy before we can let you loose on Shadow again.” He glanced at Strike Pin. “Put him to work in the mine.”

“Yes Coalfire.” Strike Pin jerked his head at the open door. “Come on you.”

Nikifor followed Strike Pin down three hundred and fifty six uneven stone steps, in a narrow passage where the walls oozed black moss and flaming torches placed in wrought silver brackets did nothing to beat back the cold. Whenever he was close enough to see the back of Strike Pin’s head, he stared, fascinated, at the snake-like silver wire wound around his dreadlocks.

Strike Pin talked the whole way. “We can’t bring gas lamps down here,” he said. “There’s always a risk the fumes from the quicksilver will rise up and react with the vapour. The quicksilver’s highly explosive, you see, but you can’t use flames to set it off, only other gases, because it’s about three quarters liquid gas and one quarter silver. Makes a killer fuel for those cars they like to use in Shadow City. The Guild’s always at us for more. They just don’t get we can only bring up so much at a time, and first we’ve got to have enough for our own needs.”

“What needs?” Nikifor ducked when the roof sloped down. When it levelled out, it was just high enough for Strike Pin to walk upright. Nikifor had to stoop the rest of the way.

“To make shiny things, of course.” Strike Pin sounded as though he thought Nikifor might be a simpleton. “What else would we use it for?”

At the base of the stairs, Strike Pin took a torch from a bracket and waved it three times over his head. An answering light came from somewhere in the darkness. “That’s the signal,” he explained, continuing down what turned out to be a narrower passage still. “Always make the signal when you come down to work, or the girls at the other end will shoot you down before you’re halfway along the passage. Here they are. Hi girls!”

The end of the passage was barred by a bolted double doorway and guarded by two women who wore identical intricate silver dots on their faces and were armed with crossbows at least half their size.

“Who’s this?” One of the girls looked Nikifor up and down.

“This is Nikifor. Nikifor, meet Tick Tick. And this is her twin sister, Tock Tock. They guard the mine in case any intruders try to come down here.”

“Intruders?” Nikifor positioned himself behind Strike Pin, because he didn’t like the way Tick Tick and Tock Tock looked at him.

“People who are not Freakin Fairies,” Tick Tick said, her eyes narrowing.

“Oh, don’t worry about him.” Strike Pin gave the girls a cheerful grin. “We’re curing him of vibe addiction. Coalfire said he’s to come down and work until he’s better.”

Tock Tock looked him up and down. “He’s not dressed right.”