Spiral Path (Night Calls Series Book 3) (26 page)

Something splashed. I set the goblet down, the athame still
in it, grabbed the front and back of my long skirt and tied the two between my
legs, my response not very lady-like as I bared my wool stockings from the
knees down, but I’d take the reprimand later. I remembered all too well losing
half my skirt while riding to that Twelfth Night delivery. I stuffed my braid
down the back of my shirt for luck, and then seized the goblet to finish the
inner circle.

If I was going to get grabbed, I wasn’t going to be easy
pickings.

Somehow I was still in the dome room, because echoes made it
hard to tell what direction sounds came from. Or was this a cave? Halfway
around the inner circle, the fire still building nicely . . . I fumbled for a fat log
and slid it into the burning pile of wood. Who knew how long this was going to
take? I needed light!

Circle complete. For a moment I could not remember which way
was East, and panic froze me. Then I remembered, and sprang over to the eastern
side, to slice Raphael’s sigil into the space between the lines. The archangel
who is the great healer first, who holds the trumpet of the Apocalypse, Raphael’s
name was one I knew as well as my own. Then the warrior general Michael for the
south—

Something pale and green flashed. I leapt away from it,
careful to remain in the circle. Dropping the athame into the goblet, I grabbed
one of the longest logs, whirled and slashed at the dripping, glowing thing—arm.
The blow connected with a satisfying, terrifying thud and crunch.

Oh, Lady, it’s real,
it’s real, it’s real—

The arm recoiled in a swinging arc, clearly broken from my
blow. Light sparkled as drops of water fell from the wet thing. I watched to
make sure the circle was not disturbed by it as I continued to move, ready to
draw or fight—

I spun to the West, ruled by Gabriel, the prophet angel and
the first whom God will tell when the end of Time is come. Harder to draw,
longer than his name in English, but I know that one, I’ve used it more than a
few times—

It was a cold, slimy thing that touched my ankle, soaking my
stocking with icy water. I’d set down the log to keep writing, and I scrabbled
for it, but something small and translucent, mere moonlight, its huge eyes
swollen like a frog or dragonfly, had hold of the log and played a tug of war
with me. I won back the log, and smacked the thing out of the circle like an
errant ball at a child’s game.

Of course balls didn’t have a mess of arms and legs.

The goblet was still upright. A quick check—I was alone in
the circle. I grabbed the goblet and darted to the North, where Uriel, the
flame of God and guardian of Paradise, holds forth. But I didn’t have that
sigil memorized yet, so I needed his name.
I
can spell this, a U instead of Gab, come on, Allie
—

Multiple small hands grabbed at my stockings and skirt, as
if trying to pull me away from the fire. I slashed the first cross between
angel names or sigils, gave back two long steps and drew the second cross—

A well-placed kick behind me drew a high-pitched scream from
whatever it was, and I had the log again and swung it like a scythe, clearing
my path to the place between the sigils still begging for a cross, and only one
more—

Looking around wildly, I lunged between Raphael and Michael,
carving that final wet cross into the sand, and as I did so, screaming erupted
from the creatures swarming at my legs. I wasn’t finished, but already these
things didn’t like what I was doing.

“Time to leave!” I told them, smacking one holding onto my
knee and elbowing another out of the circle. It lunged back—splat! It was as if
it had run into a pane of glass. I didn’t want to touch any of them, but I wasn’t
sure I could get rid of them fast enough.

Tobacco. I needed tobacco to finish the invitation. I ground
the goblet into the sand by the now-roaring fire, hitting one of the creatures
so hard that it soared over the firepit, its trailing tentacles flaming before
it hit the water with a crack and a sizzle. My pouch flap lifted, and it was as
if the tobacco rushed to my need. I whacked the two remaining things hard,
their continuous squeal hurting my ears, and as they released me, I dropped the
log, pulled a pinch of tobacco from my inner soft pouch, and tossed it into the
flames.

I opened my mouth to speak the opening words, and was
stopped by the realization that I needed to identify myself in the ritual—and I
sure didn’t want to use any of my ritual names in front of this man, whatever
his motive for this little game.

Well, in this one ritual, I had an advantage.

Death had given me another name, one I was not afraid to
use, not when it was from such a giver. And I knew that in an emergency, Death
was not expecting a lot of flowery language.

“
I,
Alfreda Golden-tongue, call upon Azrael, greatest of healers and teachers, for
I have a question that needs answering!” I shouted. “Come to me, solitary
angel, for my need is great!”
A question,
dear Lord and Lady, I needed a question
.

The screeching increased—and then it stopped. My ears rang
as if a mess of church bells was chiming, but there were no more yelping
critters, or shiny eyes looking at me.

On the other side of the fire, the smoke formed into the
tall, slender man I’d last seen in the depths of winter, in the remains of the
compound at Hudson-on-the-Bend. This time Death did not look quite so much like
an older Shaw Kristinsson. The dark hair was still there, the black outline of
a beard along his jaw, the moustache full and smooth. But his skin was darker
this time, the color of cinnamon, not the pale ivory of Shaw’s. And his eyes
were not the gray Shaw bore; they were dark enough to watch stars die within
them.

Swelling, expanding, exploding stars.

Stars were also born within them, I saw, meeting his gaze.
Maybe tradition is wrong. Maybe Gabriel is not the angel of time.

Azrael’s emotionless face relaxed, as if the angel was
thinking about smiling, but didn’t want to do so. Death looked to his right,
and said softly: “Be careful.” Glancing back at me, he twisted fully to his
right, the merest crook of a smile on his lips. “Be very careful.”

Then he turned back to me, gave me a hint of a nod of
greeting, and vanished.

Just that suddenly, daylight filled the room again, pale
winter at the windows. The water and its slimy denizens were gone as if they
had never existed. I was left with a damp circle and a roaring bonfire.

“
Interesting,”
Professor Tonneman said. He was standing at the rim of the bowl, near his huge
slate board, his hands upraised, wand in his left hand.

Straightening from my half-crouch, I said the first thing
that came into my head. “You’re not afraid of him.”

Tonneman turned slightly. “Death? His presence? No.
Metaphorically, of course, Death gives me pause. I am no more ready to leave
than the next man of my years. But Death retrieves souls, Death does not kill
things.”

Death is a hunter, too
,
I could say, but didn’t. I did
not want to explain to this man a lot of things I knew . . . things
that might contradict teachings he shared with others. I suspected that
eventually I would have to tell Professor Tonneman about a few of my gifts. It
would be difficult to hide that I knew another way to do magic.

But there was no sense in rushing through woods on a winding
deer trail. I did not know this new country; there could be a ravine on the
other side, or a huge river.

I wasn’t leaving tomorrow, I knew now. I had time to take his
measure, and see if he could be trusted with deeper secrets than even his black
book might hold.

“
Your
book has a sophisticated spell upon it,” Tonneman said without preamble.

Was he reading my mind?

I checked my personal wards.

No,
they were good.

“
It hides from you spells that are beyond your ability to
cast. Do you have a wand yet?” He was walking toward me as he spoke.

I
tugged my skirt free from its bound up state so I could reach the pocket with
my wand in it. “Yes. I just got it before I settled in here.” That was
basically the truth.

“
Bring it when Professor Livingston assigns you to a class.
You will do fine in the beginner class. Work hard on your Latin vocabulary,
Miss Sorensson. I suspect you will not enjoy using Latin rituals you do not
understand.”

In
that, he was correct. I’ve never cared for using words I didn’t fully
understand. That has never changed. I’d bring the Latin dictionary with me,
too, so I could look up words I didn’t know.

Surely
I wasn’t the only one who needed Latin assistance.

“
What were they?” I asked abruptly.

He
did not pretend to misunderstand me. “Nursery boggies . . . hags.
Grindylow, Jenny Greenteeth, Black Annis—that ilk.”

“
Then
they were not real.” If they weren’t real, I was impressed at his ability to
create out of legend. The resistance, the
weight
of them had felt very real to me.

Tonneman gave me one of his sharp looks. “Not real? Oh, they
are very real, Miss Sorensson. People use hags and nursery boggies to frighten
children away from deep water—and as an excuse when they’ve drowned an elder
they can’t be bothered with. But they do exist, and if you enter their realm
without precaution or respect, you run the risk of becoming their prey.”

That knowledge made me feel a bit better. It had all
happened so fast, there had been little time to be afraid. But I had hated the
feel of those slimy, long-fingered hands.

I preferred fearing realities. It wasn’t necessary to make
up evils . . . the world had more than enough of the real thing.

“
Until
our next class,” he said, walking back toward his slate wall. A champion pacer,
was Professor Tonneman.

“
Sir,”
I said automatically, and flung the rest of my blood-tinged water into the
fire. I’d finish the closing before I left, if only silently.
I thank you, Azrael, for coming to face me
in this circle
.
Farewell, until we
meet again
.

There was only one other thing that might bear talking out,
but I wasn’t sure yet if the professor shared discussions with his students, or
only lectures.

Death’s words . . . was he talking to me, the
professor, or something else?

Or had he spoken to all of us?

o0o

I would just as soon forget our early supper that night. The
food was as good as always, a simple stew with bread and an apple, but there
were too many people around for my taste. I’d never thought of myself as
someone who preferred solitude, but turned out that the few students in my one
room school had been more than enough company for me.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t waiting for you in the hallway,” I began
as I reached Margaret and Catherin’s table. They were already spread out at one
of the drop leaf foursomes folded out near the wall. Miss Smith—and her
ghost—were also present.

“Professor Brown was there when our class let out,” Margaret
replied, pouring me a cup of tea. “She explained why you were not waiting.”

“I would not have argued with Professor Brown,” Catherin
said quickly. “She is a force of nature. Always get out of her way or you’ll be
trampled!”

“Did your day go well?” Miss Smith asked, turning and
smiling her shy half-smile, the right corner of her mouth quirking in.

I was momentarily distracted by the ghost also turning my
way.

“Yes, I think so,” I replied, sitting down. “I am glad the
day is over, though. I am tired!”

At least the ghost left me a seat.

“Not at all surprising,” Margaret said, and immediately
turned to ask Catherin about something from their earlier cultures class.

From this I guessed that they would hold their curiosity
about my day until we three were alone, so I applied myself to my dinner.

“Did you have rituals placement today?” Miss Smith asked,
leaning slightly in my direction.

“I did,” admitted.

“Ah. I thought so, since you are wearing a work dress.”
After a sip of tea, she continued, “I thought perhaps someone should warn
you . . . it might not occur to Miss Rutledge, as she has such exquisite taste and
good timing . . . .”

This sounded like a warning. I looked directly at Miss
Smith, letting her know that I was interested.

“There are students here who are quite . . . ” She stopped, and I
realized that Miss Smith was upset.

I did not interrupt her.

Finally Miss Smith blurted out what she wanted to say. “If
you do not wear at least a carriage dress for dinner, the Mayflower Compact
students will find fault.”

Catherin had mentioned those students, and not in a good
way. “Should I care if they find fault?” I asked.

Miss Smith gave me a blank-faced stare, and then concern
lowered her eyebrows slightly, the corners of her mouth deepening.

“You do not want them looking to find fault,” she replied,
looking down at the teacup in her hands.

“Well, I also didn’t want pond slime on a good dress,” I
said, setting down my bread. “How are these people members of the Mayflower
Compact? I thought that was signed in 1620 by the Separatists?”

“Oh, they are descendants of the original settlers,” Miss
Smith answered, pouring herself another cup of tea.

I hadn’t a clue if I was also a descendant of the
Separatists.

Not that it had ever mattered in my life.

“And that is important how?” I asked, applying myself to my
stew. It was thick with root vegetables, and showed Mrs. Gardener’s skill with
herbs.