Shadow Blade (10 page)

“Mostly.”
His smile sobered. “I’m sorry you had to find me that way.”

She shuddered, her mind immediately flashing back to the alley.
“Me too.”

“I wish I could talk freely with you, Kira,” Bernie said. “There’s so much that I wish I could share, especially with what you now face.”

Which meant even here, in this in-between place, she couldn’t let down her guard.
He apparently didn’t want Gilead to know about the dagger.
Why?
“You accepted my extrasense so quickly and completely that I didn’t think to question it. Now I understand why.”

“I’ve known others with some sort of ability, but not as sharp or reliable as yours. I was amazed by your gift, Kira, and pleased to help you exercise it.”

She asked the only question she dared, the only question she could. “Why didn’t you tell me Gilead had made you my handler?”

Concern washed over his features. “They didn’t
make
me do anything, Kira. I wasn’t forced. When Balm approached me and asked me to watch over you, I didn’t have to think twice. You were my student, a protégé, but I also felt as if you were the daughter I never had. Of course I’d protect you to the best of my ability. It was my choice to conceal that I was your handler, at least for a while.”

“Why?”

His smile dimmed.
“Selfishness, mostly.
You trusted me, even looked up to me at times. Even though you didn’t fully confide in me, I could see your anger and your loneliness because of Gilead and what happened in Venice. You would have shut me out if you’d known I was your handler. You’d have considered me one of them, and I didn’t want that. I valued our friendship too much to let that happen.”

Regrets and recriminations welled inside her. His
reasons for not telling her he was her handler was
the same reason she’d never told him about being a Shadowchaser. Before Wynne and Zoo, he’d been the only Normal in her life.

The anguish tightened as she thought about the access she’d given to her friends. “Are Wynne and
Zoo .
 . . ?”

“No. They are exactly what you think they are: dear friends who care for you very much. They have no connection to the Gilead Commission.”

She closed her eyes, relief sweeping through her. She didn’t know what she’d do if her friends were something else, something other than normal humans. “Thank you.”

“Kira, you must listen to me.” Bernie stepped closer to her, his expression sharpening with concern. “You must not hold on to—to material things. There are those who will help, if you let them. The last thing I want is for you to become a target.”

She nodded to show she understood his code. This wasn’t her dreamwalk, but she could still manipulate it enough to exchange the dress and corset for her more usual Shadowchasing gear. “I already am, Bernie. A seeker demon tracked you from England to the States. I think they can find me without trying very hard.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He looked away briefly, his jaw working silently before he turned back to her. “I’m sorry, so sorry for keeping the truth from you—”

“Bernie.” She held up her hands, an effort to ward off the emotional deluge. “Please, don’t.”

He gathered himself.
“All right.
On to more practical matters.
You should know that I’ve left everything I own to you. My solicitor will probably contact you as soon as he realizes that I’m—no longer here. It’s there—the London flat, the country cottage, my entire collection—when you’re ready for it. I’d like for you to take my ashes back to England, but I also want you to know that you have a home there. Whenever you need it, it will be there for you.”

She was conscious of Balm still sitting in the pavilion. Even in death, Bernie looked out for her, trying to give her a way out of Shadowchasing. Problem was, the time to walk away had been before she’d ever set foot in Gilead.

He coughed. “Well then. Now that there’s no longer any danger of my eyebrows burning off, I’d like a hug from my surrogate daughter.” He held out his arms. “Oblige an old man?”

She gave him a jerky nod then stepped into his embrace, holding tightly as she buried her face into his shoulder. He felt blessedly solid to her, and she wanted to hold him forever. With no knowledge of her birth parents and fuzzy memories of her adoptive caregivers, she’d always considered Bernie Comstock her father in all but blood. “You’d better save a place for
me.
”

“Of course.”
He stepped back slightly, framing her face in his hands. “But you have to promise me that you’ll live a long, happy life first. Don’t think I won’t drop in on you now and again to make sure.”

“You’d better.”

A kiss to her forehead, then he moved back completely.
“Time for me to go.
I have more adventures ahead, and so do you. Thank you for your prayers to Ma’at on my behalf.”

Not yet.
She stretched a hand toward him. “Bernie, wait.”

“Think of me, but don’t mourn for me. I’ve had a full and happy life and I can’t regret one moment of it, especially the moments spent with you. Not a one.” He slowly faded, his shape blending, then disappearing into the sunlight.

Kira awakened to the sound of her own crying
,
her pillow clutched to her chest, knowing it would never be enough.

Chapter 7

T
he Dagger of Kheferatum.

The longer Kira stared at the blade, the surer she became. Carefully coded searches through Gilead’s online database had yielded little useful information. She hadn’t dared to do a thorough online search outside of the Chasers network in case it triggered the notice of Gilead or the Fallen. Instead she’d plowed through her stacks of ancient books and ran a couple of query strings on her personal arcane server, and come back with the same result: the Dagger of Kheferatum.

Khefer,
a bastardization of
Keper,
or the Egyptian-Greek hybrid
Xeper,
meaning
“I have come into being.”
Symbolized by the scarab.
Atum, also known as Temu, the primal creator god of gods.

No wonder the dagger was nearly sentient and coveted by mystics the way alchemists hungered for the philosopher’s stone. It had been named and imbued with the power of creation. According to some of the ancient texts, the dagger was rumored to not only physically take life, but magically destroy it as well. One nick, one jab, and the blade would claim the soul. Did that mean that the dagger could transfer souls? Was that how it “created” life?

She looked down at her notes. She’d taken as much care as possible cataloging the blade, using archival gloves and sterilized equipment to measure and weigh it before taking photos. Even through the gloves, she could feel the dagger’s power. If the dagger could give and take life, she had even more reason to keep it locked away. Just keep it, period. Even through the display screen of her digital camera, the blade’s beauty and pristine condition shone through. So ancient and so deadly, its very existence was a miracle that needed to be protected at all costs.

Of course, the best way to protect it would be to keep it with her, to carry it always. It called to her, whispering at her, coaxing her to wield it
. Only I can vanquish your enemies, only I can take the blood of the one who’d harmed you. Ma’at will bless
you,
make you the embodiment of justice. Together we will bring Order to Chaos—

“No!”

She blinked, startled to discover she’d set the camera down and stripped off her gloves, her hand centimeters from grasping the blade. Quickly she jerked on her everyday gloves, slammed down the lid, fumbled the lock closed, then stepped back. Her body swayed toward the dagger and she stepped back again, acid churning in her stomach as she shook the sensation out of her hands.

She wanted the blade. Worse than that—she
craved
the dagger, wanted to hold it and feel its power with the intense gut-wrenching need of a junkie jonesing for another high. If just holding it for mere moments or being near it caused that sort of reaction, she couldn’t trust herself to actually try to draw on its magic.

The dagger was one of the most dangerous artifacts she’d come across in a long time. No wonder one of the Fallen coveted it. Wielding that sort of power would do more than upset the Universal Balance: it could obliterate it.

Fighting for calm, she put the chest back into the wall safe, then drew her Lightblade.
Feeling the weight of it in her hands chased back the pull of the ancient dagger.
She’d earned her dagger after five hardscrabble years of training and then surviving a final exam that required every bit of mental, magical, and physical strength she possessed. At that time, limping into the Acceptance Hall, she’d only had eyes for the silver blade lying on a pale silk cloth and bathed in blue-white light.

Awe had filled her the first time she’d seen her blade. The top of the pommel bore radiating lines carved into the silver, to symbolize Light coming to the world to chase away Shadow. The grip was specially cured leather, dyed black and braided with silver wire, light piercing Dark. Silverwork continued in the guard, twin curves symbolizing the protecting embrace of order. The notched ricasso was engraved with Ma’at’s feather on one side and an ankh on the other, personal totems she’d added after claiming the dagger. The blade itself swept another nine inches on a slight curve and was etched in a flowing pattern resembling sunlight rippling on water.

By the time a Shadowchaser completed training, Balm and the Gilead Commissioners had a good idea of what style of blade best suited the Chaser. Each weapon was as individual as the person who wielded it, and the blooding ritual in the Acceptance Hall bonded blade to owner. For Kira, the silver in her Lightblade enabled her to channel her power to the weapon, even to the point of extending its reach. It was truly an extension of her body, as much a part of her as her limbs. She doubted she’d be able to function without her dagger.

She exhaled fully, inhaled deeply, grounding herself before pushing through the Veil.

It took longer to ward the ancient dagger than it had the perimeter of the entire warehouse, simply because the dagger didn’t like being contained, and it certainly didn’t like
her own
blade. Using her Lightblade enabled her to carve protective sigils into the air surrounding the chest, the safe, the room itself. Only after the final sigil’s glow had faded from the air into an invisible protective presence did she allow herself to relax.

The Dagger of Kheferatum would have to remain locked away until she could figure out what to do with it. Luckily she didn’t need the original to lure the Fallen out into the open. Not when she knew an expert metalworker who’d love the challenge of re-creating an ancient magical weapon.

All I have to do is avoid my Gilead coworkers, an ancient warrior, a seeker demon, and a Shadow Avatar until the dagger is ready.
All in a day’s work for a Shadowchaser.

Pushing fatigue away, Kira transferred a few electronic files to a flash drive then shut down her laptop. She gathered her documentation, camera, and a few supplies into a backpack, checked her wards, then left, riding her bike into the Little Five Points area of Atlanta.

Considered an in-town community, the eclectic area—two and a half miles east of downtown proper and the other Five Points—was a magnet for artists, musicians, neohippies, and young professionals. The bohemian mix appealed to her, made her feel like she actually fit in some place.

She pulled her bike into the parking lot sandwiched between the Vortex Bar & Grill and Junkman’s Daughter. The thought of massive amounts of Tater Tots piqued her appetite and almost had her opening the metal gate to the Vortex’s large skull entrance, but she had business to take care of first.

Her thoughts swirled as she headed on foot past the restaurant into the heart of Little Five. Despite the dreamwalk and her late morning research, she felt as if she had more questions than answers. The Dagger of Kheferatum had plenty of power and its seductive lure was dangerous in and of itself, but that still didn’t explain why one of the Fallen wanted it. Shadow Avatars and their kind had plenty of weapons in their destructive arsenal, some of which made atomic bombs look like hot air balloons. What was it about this particular dagger, Kira wondered, that had someone conjure a seeker demon, follow Bernie from London, and kill him to get it?

She turned the corner at
Findley
Plaza
then made a beeline for Charms and Arms, Zoo and Wynne Marlowe’s metaphysical gift shop. As she pushed open the door, she was immediately hit with a wall of energy from the multitude of crystals arrayed in front of the large picture window. Two customers were already in the shop, one in front by the crystals,
the
other at the jewelry counter being helped by Wynne’s midday assistant.

Once one’s senses got past the excitedly vibrating gems, the soft green of the walls combined with the scent of incense and the sound of a bubbling fountain wrapped visitors in a metaphysical blanket of peace and comfort. Open shelving held a plethora of books on magic, rituals, divination, and religion. One wall held a variety of natural and homeopathic products.

This was all for the fluffy-bunny neopagan clientele. More serious practitioners headed past the cases of jewelry and books on New Age and occult subjects to the back of the store. There, two rooms were set across from each other for divination sessions, flanking a doorway that led to another smaller showroom, where Wynne was likely to be. The area held more serious collections of athames and cups, scrying mirrors and gazing crystals, and upscale period-accurate weaponry Wynne made for Society for Creative Anachronism members.

With a nod to the salesclerk, Kira made her way to the back of the store. A shiver of awareness made her pause. Wynne wasn’t alone.