Shadow's Blade, page 5
An instant later, my situation grew far more serious. Even as I started to grow light-headed with blood loss, Namid hit me with a second casting, this one a fire spell. I was not only bleeding, I was burning, too. I didn’t know if the flames were real enough to threaten Billie’s house, but they were hot enough to sear my skin and to scorch my lungs every time I inhaled.
Panic gripped me. Which was the greater threat: flame or blood loss?
I couldn’t think of a single spell to combat both attacks, and so I went for the flames first. Me, the fire, and a dousing of water.
The flames sputtered and went out.
But another spell struck at my chest. It felt as though the blaze had rekindled inside my body, charring my heart, heating my blood to a rolling boil. This was all too familiar, though not because Namid had ever used the spell against me. Back in the spring, Etienne de Cahors had tortured me with a similar attack; he had very nearly killed me with it.
I tried to sheath my chest in a magical shield that would block the pain, but it didn’t work. I was growing dizzy and weak. The flow of blood from my wrists was slowing, not because I had done anything to heal the wounds, but because I was dying. I sat in a pool of my own blood. If Billie had come out into the dining room at that moment she would have screamed.
The blood.
I tried the spell again, but with a twist this time, and seven elements rather than three. Namid, me, my heart, his attack, the pain, a magical warding within my chest, and all that blood to fuel the casting. The room seemed to hum with power. Namid’s eyes widened. But the pain stopped. Relief flooded me, brought tears to my eyes. It was several seconds before I realized that the blood around me had vanished. I cast another spell. In recent months, Namid had taught me some healing magic, and I used it now to repair the arteries and close the gashes on my arms. When I finished I raised my gaze to meet Namid’s. His features seemed to have turned to glass.
“You cast with blood,” he said, an accusation in the words.
“Yes, I did. And I’d do it again if it meant saving my life, or Billie’s, or my dad’s. Or yours, for that matter.”
“That is dark magic, Ohanko.”
“Why? Because my intent was evil?”
He blinked. I couldn’t keep a small smile from my lips. It wasn’t often that I managed to render the runemyste speechless.
“I was protecting myself by using every magical tool at my disposal. Including my own blood. I didn’t take it from someone else; you know I would never commit a murder to strengthen my magic. I didn’t even have to cut myself. The blood was there, a consequence of your attack on me. How can my use of it be dark?”
“Because it is,” he said. He had recovered from his surprise at my initial question. “Blood magic is dark magic. This has always been true.”
“But—”
He held up a finger, stopping me. “I cannot argue with what you have said. Neither your intent nor your means of harvesting the blood was evil in any way. And I will even admit that as an act of desperation a blood spell might be forgiven. But the fact remains that blood magic has always been the province of the dark ones.”
“I used blood to fight Saorla and her weremancers. That day when we fought them on my father’s land.”
“I remember.”
I stared hard at him, trying to read the thoughts lurking behind that impassive clear face.
“This is why you cut my wrists. That wasn’t some random choice. You were trying to tempt me with all that blood and those other attacks.”
“We should have spoken of this long ago,” he said. An admission. “Weremystes who use blood for spells soon find themselves relying on blood. It strengthens their runecrafting, and so spells cast without blood begin to feel weak. With time it becomes like a drug, something they cannot do without.”
“An addiction,” I said, my voice low.
“Just so.”
I started to say that I hadn’t used blood to strengthen a spell since that evening out in Wofford, when my father and I, joined by Jacinto Amaya and his men, fought Saorla and a number of her dark sorcerers. But I stopped myself because I had used blood in a spell only a few hours ago, when I fought the weremancers outside the Casa del Oro motel.
“You have used blood to cast recently,” Namid said, perhaps sensing my hesitation or reading the doubt in my eyes.
I considered denying it, but I knew about addiction. In addition to being well on his way to madness by the time I was fifteen, my dad was also an alcoholic. These things were genetic. I’d been halfway to becoming a drunk myself before Namid came into my life and took responsibility for my training. And I had the sense that addiction to drugs or booze couldn’t have been so different from an addiction to blood magic. More to the point, I knew that lying about problems like these made matters worse.
“Yes,” I said. “I did earlier today. I could tell you that this was the first time since our fight with Saorla, but I don’t know if that’s true. To be honest, I can’t remember if I’ve done it other times or not.”
“It is good that you did not lie to me.”
“I guess I’m not that far gone down the path to hell. Not yet at least.”
Namid frowned.
“Blood spells are more powerful,” I went on. “They allow me to do things my magic might not otherwise do.”
“Then you must continue to train, and thus refine your runecrafting. A true runecrafter does not require blood to cast. He knows that power resides in all things. Blood is a crude source.”
I thought of what Kona had said at the restaurant, about the mom drawing power from the building’s electricity. “When you say power resides in everything—”
“I mean precisely that. For a long time now, I have wanted you to cast without reciting elements, without having to put your purpose to words. When you cast by instinct, you are more apt to draw upon the energy around us, and, as a result, less apt to rely on other sources of power for your runecrafting.”
“Like blood.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve never suggested that blood spells can replace training,” I said. “I even understand what you’re asking of me, what you want for me to do. I’d like to be able to cast that way. But I’m not there yet. And if I’m up against a dark sorcerer, and he’s my equal in terms of skill and power, he’ll beat me every time, because he’s willing to use blood in his castings, and I’m supposed to resist the temptation.”
The runemyste considered this. At length he lifted his liquid shoulders in a small shrug. “I cannot argue with this logic. I do not believe you will often find yourself in a battle with a conjurer who is your exact equal in ability, but if you do, then yes, until you learn to harness other sources of power, you will be at a disadvantage. That is the price of adhering to the laws of the Runeclave.”
“And you don’t see a problem with that?”
“The problem is irrelevant,” Namid said. “When you served on the police force you were bound by a set of regulations and laws, were you not?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice flat. I knew where he was going with this. I really hated arguing with Namid when he was right, which was most of the time.
“Breaking those laws might have helped you catch the criminals you sought, but still you did not break them. Why?”
“Because to break the law in pursuit of criminals makes me no better than they are,” I said, as dutiful as a school boy.
“This is no different.”
“All right.”
Of all the things I had said this afternoon, this seemed to surprise him most.
“That is all? You do not intend to argue further?”
“Would I have any chance of changing your mind?”
“No.”
“Then if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to lose this argument and get on with my evening.”
“Very well. I will leave you. You trained well today. Each day, I see the improvement in your runecrafting.”
“Thanks, Namid.”
He inclined his head and faded from view.
I climbed to my feet, my back and chest and legs aching, from my fall, from my confrontation with the fashion models, and from sitting for too long. I noticed that there was no sign of blood or burn marks on Billie’s floor. Moreover, my arms were completely healed; there weren’t even any scars. No one who saw them would ever guess that I had nearly bled to death a short time before. If I had. Either Namid had healed me and repaired the damage to the floor before leaving, or the magic he had used on me had been nothing more than an illusion. I couldn’t decide which option I found more reassuring.
I stumbled into Billie’s kitchen, my stomach making enough noise to rouse the dead. I was famished, and whatever she was making smelled great.
Billie stood at the stove stirring a pot of deliciousness. “You’re done?” she said, glancing my way.
“For today. Sorry you wound up doing the cooking.”
She shook her head. “It was my turn. You’ve cooked all week.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m all right,” she said. But she wouldn’t meet my gaze.
Billie had recovered from the worst of the injuries she suffered when Saorla blew up our favorite restaurant. The compound fracture of her arm had healed, though she was still going to physical therapy, trying to work back to full mobility. And the symptoms of the concussion had vanished for the most part, though she still had occasional headaches and brief bouts of dizziness. The rest of her bruises and cuts were nothing but a memory. But memories were the hardest part of what remained.
We had both been watching for signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, and we’d seen a few. She wasn’t sleeping well. When she did sleep, she had terrible dreams, many of them of the explosion itself. And we hadn’t eaten out since the attack. We’d gotten food to go, but she admitted to me that she felt vulnerable in restaurants. At my urging, she had started talking to a therapist, but she was struggling still.
I was, too, but in a different way. The explosion wasn’t my fault. I knew that. Saorla had used it as a warning, as intimidation. She wanted me to help her kill Namid, and she was willing to resort to threats and torture in order to bend me to her will.
But even knowing this, I blamed myself for Billie’s injuries. If she hadn’t been with me, she wouldn’t have gotten hurt. Plain and simple. The logic of it was as immutable as anything Namid had ever said to me. I had been selfish. She was funny and smart and beautiful and I wanted her in my life. The problem was, my life was dangerous, and for someone like Billie, who didn’t possess magic, spending time with me could well prove fatal.
I probably should have told her as much and ended our relationship. Doing so would have broken my heart, but it would have been the best thing for her. Problem was, I loved her. Talk about addictions. I’m not sure I could have given up Billie Castle even if someone developed a twelve-step plan for me.
I crossed to where she stood, took the spoon from her hand and rested it on the edge of the pot, and took her in my arms. “How are you feeling?” I asked again.
She answered with a self-conscious smile and put her head on my shoulder. “It’s been a hard day,” she said, her voice low. “There was a loud boom earlier—I don’t know what it was. And then a few minutes later I heard a bunch of sirens as the fire trucks drove by over on Southern. I haven’t been able to do much of anything since. I couldn’t work, I couldn’t read. I didn’t want to leave the house.” She pulled back to look me in the eye. “That’s why I started cooking. It was the only thing I could do with myself. It was either cook, or curl up in a ball and hide under the covers.”
“I’m—”
She held up a hand, silencing me.
I’d made a habit of apologizing for her symptoms, which Billie found annoying and her therapist called inappropriate.
“I was going to say that I’m famished,” I told her, “and whatever you’re making smells great.”
That coaxed a smile. “Liar.”
I kissed her. “Best I could do on the spur of the moment. And whatever you’re making really does smell amazing.”
“I know. Enchilada suizas. They’ll be done soon, so make yourself useful and open a bottle of wine.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We ate a quiet meal: good food, nice white wine, candlelight. Billie didn’t have much to say about her day beyond what she had already told me, and so I wound up describing for her in some detail what I’d seen at the Casa del Oro and then later at the burger place. There had been a time when I tried to hide from her the more distasteful aspects of my job. Not anymore. She wanted to know about all of it, and the truth was, I enjoyed being able to talk about my work without fear of saying too much. We had placed only one condition on these conversations: unless we agreed explicitly that what I was telling her was fair game for her blog, all that we discussed remained off the record.
Billie had grown quiet when I mentioned Saorla and her minions, but now, after a lengthy silence, she asked, “Why would Saorla keep sending weremystes after you? She’s not allowed to hurt you; Namid is still protecting you, right?”
“She and Namid have an agreement. I don’t know exactly what he’d do to her if she went back on her word, but I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be gentle in whatever it was.”
“So then why?”
I hesitated. I had done my best to stop keeping secrets from her, but this was one I’d yet to reveal.
“Fearsson?”
“She’s convinced that Namid won’t always be so vigilant, and that eventually she’ll be able to have her revenge. And until then, I guess she likes to remind me that she’s out there and that I shouldn’t get too comfortable.”
I took a sip of my wine, watching her over the rim of my glass, wondering if this would satisfy her.
It didn’t.
“Does Namid know about these attacks?”
Not from me. “I’m not sure how much he knows. He senses a lot of what happens to me.”
“But you haven’t told him.”
I traced a finger along the stem of my glass. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t run to Namid every time some magical kid steals my lunch money.” Which was true, as far as it went. “He’s not supposed to intervene in our world. The only reason he was willing to step in with Saorla was that she has no more right to mess with us than he does. I can’t depend on him. I have to deal with her myself.”
“That’s not very convincing.”
“But it’s the truth.”
“It’s true, but it’s not everything,” she said, eyes flashing in the light of the candle. “And you know it.”
This was the problem with falling in love with someone as smart as Billie. She missed nothing, and she didn’t tolerate bull. More than that, she didn’t like it when I tried to protect her. She regarded me now, her cheeks bright red, but the rest of her face pale, her lips pressed thin.
I tried to hold her gaze, but I couldn’t for more than a few seconds.
“I think Saorla keeps sending her weremancers after me because she wants to make certain I don’t forget about . . . an arrangement that she and I have.”
“An arrangement? What the hell does that mean?”
“She would say that I owe her a boon.”
“A boon,” she repeated. “You mean you owe Saorla a favor of some sort?”
“Yes.”
She glared at me. “I don’t understand. Why would you promise her anything? She’s insane. She tried to kill you!”
“More than once. I was there, remember?”
“Then why—?”
She broke off, her eyes still fixed on me. I saw understanding wash over her. Blood drained from her cheeks and her anger sluiced away, leaving her wide-eyed with fear and guilt.
“You did it for me, didn’t you? That day she came to my hospital room.”
I reached across the table and took her hand. Her fingers were frigid.
Saorla had appeared in Billie’s room in Banner Desert Medical Center only a few days after the explosion at Solana’s Taqueria, and had threatened to kill Billie if I didn’t join her there. I managed to fight the necromancer to a stalemate, but the threat to Billie remained. I begged her to spare Billie’s life, and she agreed, but only after I promised that I would owe her a favor as payment for her mercy. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing I’d ever done, but at the time I didn’t see any other way to keep Billie safe.
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry, or to feel responsible.”
“What will you do?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe she’ll ask for something benign. Maybe she’ll want me to pick up her dry cleaning or something like that.”
She laughed. “You’re a clown, you know that?”
“So you’ve told me.”
“Seriously, Fearsson, what are you going to do when Saorla calls in her chit?”
“I’m going to find some way to fulfill my end of our bargain without doing anything illegal or immoral. And failing that . . .” I shrugged again. I had been planning to say, Failing that, I’ll refuse to do what she wants, but that would leave me back where I was during the summer, with Billie’s life hanging in the balance.
Fortunately, before I could say more, my cell phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket, expecting to see Kona’s name on the screen. Instead, there was only a number, though one that struck me as vaguely familiar.
I opened the phone and said, “Fearsson.”
“Jay.”
At the sound of the voice, my heart seemed to stop beating. The only thing worse would have been a call from Saorla.
“This is Jacinto Amaya.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, my mouth dry. “I recognized your voice.”
“Really? You don’t sound glad to hear from me.”
To which I had nothing to say at all.
