"Strong,” Marie whispers. She dashes the back of her hand against her eyes. “Yeah. Okay. I can do this."

  She'd better. She has to.

  "Aurora, back away from the door, okay?” Once again, that quiet little voice is obeyed. The girl almost skips in her hurry to get out of the way as Roman slides his arms underneath Christopher, wincing for his pain, and lifts him up. Light as a feather on the scales of justice, he is. Bones, skin, veins and now sores, not much else left. He doesn't bother with clothes, just keeps the sheet draped across Christopher's genitals for decency's sake.

  When they reach the open area, the Talisman's rocking gently, to and fro. Christopher's eyes snap open and he stares at it, transfixed. Sarah glances at it, gives one little shudder, then shakes herself back into herself. “Put him on the ... couch?” she suggests.

  Roman complies, but not exactly. Easing himself down, he holds Christopher on his lap, long legs dangling off the side onto the soft cushions, bony arse on his thighs, neck and back supported by one arm. And all that time, the man's eyes never move from the malignant coin on the mantelpiece. It makes Roman burn, deep inside. This thing wants destroying, and it wants it now. He won't have it taking yet another piece of Christopher away from him.

  Aurora looks pale, and a little green. Guess she's never seen Christopher without protective clothes, sheet and blanket before; suppose she didn't realize just how bad it had gotten. “Pet,” Roman says gently, “You sure? You can leave, any time. Won't think less of you for not staying."

  She looks to be wavering, then shakes her head. “I'm here. And I'm staying.” As if to prove it, she lifts a heavy rucksack from the floor. “I can help."

  Sarah takes it from her. From the waxy clunking inside, and the smell of beeswax, Roman guesses that it's brimful of candles. “Sweetie, Christopher's going to be hungry when he wakes up,” she says quietly. “You could help most by fixing some things he could try and eat when he's ready."

  "Really?” Her eyes shift from one to another. “You're not just trying to get rid of me again?"

  "It's not fucking about you, Aurora!"

  "Rory, just go,” Marie pleads. “It's gonna be ugly in here."

  But it's to Sarah that the young woman looks for the final say. On her nod, she retreats. After a moment, they hear cabinets opening then the clank of pots and pans. That's her taken care of, then.

  And a good thing, too. Gentle as she can, Sarah tugs at the sheet covering Christopher. “It's best if he's naked for this,” she says. “Nothing artificial."

  "Do I count?"

  They summon up tired smiles for that. “I'll lay the candles out,” she says. “Once the circle's down, you can't break it, okay?"

  "Know a little more about magic than that. I'll—we'll stay inside."

  He watches, rocking Christopher gently as she begins to move about the room. He's seen her lay down a circle before, and it amazes him each time, the way she can do it so perfect without measuring or aught.

  Then it occurs to him: this isn't a circle. She's putting one here and one there, with neither rhyme nor reason behind it. Until he looks at the bigger picture, and begins to see ... “Sarah!” he barks in warning. “What the hell do you think—"

  "Roman, no. I'll—Marie will explain.” The blonde witch turns to her partner, who's been standing there with clenched fists and wide eyes. “The marble. And the tongs. Okay?"

  "Explain what to me?” Roman growls as Marie jumps guiltily. “Start talking, witch, or I give you something you won't soon forget. She's drawing the Talisman around us!"

  "Oh, that, yeah.” Red-faced, Marie digs in a sack and pulls out a heavy pair of rubberized tongs and a slab of pure white marble. “Roman, I've ... whenever I've been over here I've looked at that thing and I know the design in my sleep by now and I just decided I'd do some research, you know, on how to break coin enchantments and design enchantments, there's a lot of Celtic magic dealing with it, and—"

  "Marie!"

  "I've been experimenting,” she whispers. “Making close replicas and destroying them. Don't be mad. That's the only reason I think I can beat this."

  "You've been...” Roman's eyes light with a righteous wrath. “If I find out that you—"

  "I'm sorry!” Her face is still teary as she looks up. “I'm so sorry. But I had to. If you didn't give in, Roman, I was going to do this anyway."

  "You had no fuckin’ right!"

  "He's my best friend.” Her voice is loud and startles them both. “I mean, you have him as your friend and lover, and I have Sarah, but it's not the same. I've known Christopher since he was born. Literally, okay? I had to do something. And I did."

  Sarah's circling them ‘round, now, candles forming their irregular pattern behind his back. “I swear I wouldn't hurt him on purpose,” Marie whispers. “Believe me?"

  "Doesn't matter now, does it?” Roman says cruelly. He pulls Christopher a little closer, careful of the wounds, the stigmata of the Talisman. “Just get on with it. But you remember this—you end up hurting him worse than he already is, and I may not be able to rip out your throat myself but I know plenty that'll be willing to do it for me. And Sarah's ... not always with you. Understand me?"

  "I'm trying. Believe me?"

  "Try harder,” Roman growls.

  "Okay.” She swallows. Lays the marble down on the coffee table. “Hold him tight now. I don't know what's gonna happen when I do this."

  "Do what—oh, you bloody bint, you—"

  But it's too late; she's seized the Talisman in the grip of her tongs, and Christopher rears back stiff as a board, choking and gasping for breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Roman swears as he pounds on the rigid back, massages the taut chest. “Breathe!"

  The Talisman touches down on the white marble. It flares up blue-hot, and Christopher makes an awful choking, rattling sound that sends shock waves of terror racing through him—

  Then it stills. The light dies down. Christopher sags in Roman's arms, limp as a discarded doll. Anxiously, Roman checks him over, but there's no new sores, no more bleeding save for what got smeared on his own clothes during the fit.

  Behind them, Sarah finishes the circle, laying the last candle down with a quiet “So mote it be.” One by one they light themselves, ringing the small group about with irregular light. They can feel the power ripple through the air, and Roman knows that there'll be no stepping out of this circle until Christopher's well or dead.

  Roman kisses Christopher on the forehead. “S'gonna work,” he swears. “You'll see. They'll bind it. Take it down. Make you strong again."

  Marie's pulling clay jars and glass bottles out of yet another knapsack. Oils, unguents, powders. Stinking and sweet, a dozen if there's one. Sage. Salt. Incense. Herbs? Roman stares at the clutter, then at Sarah in bewilderment.

  She sinks to one knee beside him, staring at him earnestly. “We don't know what the Talisman is. I don't think we'll ever know. But it's something that's way beyond us. So we're going after it with the simple magics. The ones I know best. The home magic that Marie's been working at, night after night. She can do this. I know it. Just trust us. Please?"

  Graceful, she slides up to sit on the couch next to them and strokes the sweaty hair back from Christopher's forehead. “We're going to test it first. I think within this circle I can make it so he doesn't feel anything. He can sleep."

  "A pill?"

  "No.” She bends to kiss Christopher's cheek. “A song. And this.” She picks up a tub of ointment, sweet, clove-scented and white, and dabs it on his temples. Softly, almost under her breath, she begins to croon something he vaguely recognizes as Appalachian.

  "Words don't matter?"

  She shakes her head, not breaking tune. “Down in the valley, valley so low...” her sweet, mournful voice keens as she rubs in the ointment. “Hang your head over, hear the wind blow..."

  Already, he can feel Christopher relaxing in his arms. The constant tension from the pain is ebbing out of him soft and sweet as the tide. “Can I...?” Roman asks quietly, nodding at the jar.

  Sarah dips her head.

  He thrusts two fingers into the tub, startled by the waxy, flaky feel of the stuff. Though he's not sure where, or why, he starts by rubbing it in over Christopher's heart. That gets him a smile, so he keeps going. Throat, wrists, groin, thighs; as each part of his body tastes the medicine, Christopher eases a little further. All-unknowing, Roman joins in on the choruses, then as he picks up on it, the verses of Sarah's song, until they're half-murmuring, half-singing in harmony.

  Finally, Christopher's limp as a rag doll, snuggled up in Roman's arms and sleeping more peacefully than he has since this whole affair began. Roman's almost boneless with relief, himself. As Sarah's last sweet notes die away, he puts out a hand and touches her arm. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

  She gives him that smile of hers and says nothing.

  Marie's been watching them the whole while. And now that they're done, she takes in a deep breath. “My turn now.” She closes her eyes. “Goddess, let this work."

  And uncorking a small bottle of blue powder, she begins to trace an antithetical design across the surface of the Talisman.

  Were it not for the burden in his arms, Roman would sit up sharp and slap the bottle out of Marie's hands. “What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  "Sssh.” Sarah lays a hand on his knee and squeezes. “She's trying to break the pattern."

  Roman subsides suspiciously. “This ever worked before?"

  Sarah's blue eyes can't tell a lie. “Sometimes. On other patterns."

  "Never on this one?"

  Shake of the head. “No. But she's never tried this one."

  "She's never—"

  "Roman, please!” Another squeeze of the hand. He looks up to see that Marie's face is set and white, that she's murmuring under her breath.

  He gets why Sarah's upset. Taking this chance is bad enough. If he distracts her and she fucks up ... but he can't resist a pleading look at her for explanations, answers. It's not in her to deny him something asked so earnestly, so she gives a tiny sigh and explains: “She didn't dare try it on the Talisman pattern in case it really did hurt Christopher. But she's sort of studied around it and learned what breaks ones that look like it. Until she thinks she knows how to do it now."

  Taking an awfully big chance, they are, and Roman doesn't like it. He spares a glare for Marie and a doubtful look to Sarah. “Better work."

  "Be quiet, and maybe it will."

  Well. When that one snarks, best to hush. Roman gathers his armful of limp Christopher a little tighter and rocks him, as he would a baby. Smoothing damp hair back from his wounded forehead. It'll be all right, he thinks the soothing lie at his lover. Marie's gonna fix it up, then. Sarah said. See? So you just hold on...

  The last of the blue powder trickles from the bottle onto the Talisman. They wait, eyes fixed on the thing.

  A slight puff of smoke. The coin rocks once, to and fro, as if someone flicked it with a finger. Rolling like a belly with laughter. And the powder—it turns black.

  Marie sags in disappointment, then sits up straight as Christopher lets out a moan. “Sarah?"

  The second witch lays a cool hand on Christopher's cheek. “Sleep,” she murmurs, “sleep. Be at peace."

  He subsides.

  Roman glares at the both of them. “Well, that was a load of worry for nothing, wasn't it?"

  Red glares right back. “You think I'm done after just one try?” She produces another bottle, this one filled with red sand. “Ever tried to pick a lock? It's the same deal, buster. I'm doing this to help, so sit still and shut up. Okay?"

  Against his will, Roman feels himself starting to grin. All right, then. As she blesses herself again, calling on the Goddess, he rocks Christopher, humming near-silently to him. Sarah nods in approval. So, they're doing all they can.

  Trouble is, he doesn't think it's enough. Red powder, white, golden and silver, nothing seems to work. The Talisman's covered in the stuff, but all it does is rock and laugh—yeah, laugh—at them. It knows it's above this hedgewitch crap, and it's just waitin’ for them to see the light.

  Marie's soon enough whiter than talcum and shaking, but she brushes Sarah's hand off in irritation when it comes out in a silent plea for her to rest. She'll beat this thing or work at it until she passes out, Roman knows. God help him, but he can't help but stand behind her on that call. If he has to prop her up and guide her hands, he bloody well will, should it help Christopher.

  Christopher, who's sweating now, great drops falling off him like blood. Roman's shirt grows first damp, and then soaked with the moisture. Sarah's had to sing Christopher back to sleep twice, three times now, when whatever pain he's in becomes too strong for her simple little spell. Roman adds his voice when he can, hoping that the love in it might make the magic stronger. Seems to help. If nothing else does.

  Sarah's dithering, trying to make up her mind about something. She doesn't dare interrupt Marie's silent murmurings and mutterings, but she manages to catch her girl's eye, and something passes between them. “Roman,” she whispers, “we're going to amplify the magic. Trust us, okay?"

  He gives a terse nod. What choice has he got?

  From a simple, white-woven bag at their feet, she draws out a handful of something powdered and green. Roman peers at it in interest. Marijuana, maybe? He knows it's been used in magic before ... but no, as the smell hits him, he realizes: sage. “You got salt in there, too?” he snorted.

  That gets him the first nasty look in ages from Sarah. “Don't make fun of it,” she bites. “Salt and sage are powerful tools."

  "They're bloody condiments!” Roman's losing patience fast. He rocks Christopher. “This isn't working."

  "We haven't tried everything yet.” She shakes her fistful of salt-and-sage at him. “If you'd be quiet, we could."

  "Oh, never mind me, then,” he snipes. “I'm just the bloke who's been watching over him day and night since this whole affair started. Never mind me for being a bit worried."

  "Roman..."

  Marie finishes with the silver sand and stares gloomily at it dissolving into dust. She glares at them. “Both of you, shut up!” She wipes her forehead. “There's too much on here now. I have to clean it off."

  "Oh, yeah? How're you planning to do that, then?” The Talisman's damned near buried. “Blow on it? You've not the breath left to fill up a balloon."

  "I have to try.” Red's jaw is set in hard lines—her “determination face", he's heard Christopher call it. “Sarah, use the salt and sage while I do this."

  Sarah looks at Roman. “Please?"

  He's so tempted to say no. To make them let it go, let them allow Christopher to rest in peace. Their magic's not gonna work, no matter how hard they try. And fuck, he hates it ... doesn't even want to think it ... but if nothing's ever going to do the trick, wouldn't it be best just to keep him in this sweet sleep until...

  Oh, hell, no.

  He nods jerkily. “Do it. But it better work."

  Sarah takes a deep breath and stands. Humming the old folk song that sent Christopher to sleep, she starts to move around the outskirts of the candle circle, drizzling handfuls of salt-and-sage in a pattern that's just different enough from the lines on the Talisman to irritate it. It jerks back and forth.

  "Sarah,” Marie whispers, staring at the thing. “Keep going..."

  A worried glance over, and the second witch obeys. Even dares to raise her sweet voice and sing out loud, tracing the anti-Talisman circle backwards. Roman grips Christopher tight and cranes his neck to watch, back and forth between her and the coin on the table, now rattling hard and loud and angry. Whatever's in there is pissed as fuck. Maybe, just maybe, that means—

  Shit!

  They don't see it coming in time to stop it. But with a clank as deafening as a steel bar dropping, the Talisman bangs itself against the table and then flies up into the air, aiming straight for Christopher. Marie's startled cry is Roman's only warning. He jerks his head up, sees it coming for them, automatically lifts his hand to deflect it—touches the bare metal of the thing—-and feels his eyes tugging backward in his head, rolling till there's nothing but white showing. He doesn't breathe, but the sudden sucking emptiness in his chest makes his stomach turn over and coil in vast knots. He's got the sense this is taking less than a second but it seems to be going on forever, and then—

  Blackness.

  * * * *

  He's lost in the darkness. The emptiness. Nothing around him, above him, below him, just emptiness and loneliness. And cold. God, it's fucking freezing here, wherever here is, but he's got no arms, he discovers, to wrap around himself.

  Is he falling? He thinks he might be.

  Oh, fuck!

  Dark. Cold—so cold! Water. Wet. No space for thought between there and here, and he's drowning.

  Icy black water closes over his head. His arms flail out and touch nothing at all; his feet kick wildly and touch nothing still. Turned upside down and around, he can't tell which way points up. Bottomless—limitless—

  Fingers cold as a wraith's close around the back of his neck. He yells, water flooding into his lungs. The hand shakes him once, twice, and again, then draws him up quick and easy as a puppy, not nearly six feet of full-grown, fighting man.

  As his head breaks the surface, his body spasms. An exquisite shock of pain squeezes each muscle and bone in a vice. The creature that holds him, its arms colder than the water, hangs on tight as he doubles over and retches up the foul black mess he's inhaled.

  He sucks in a draught of the coldest air he's ever felt—a cold deep and harsh enough to kill. His lungs want to reject the stuff as they had the water; he coughs, his chest burning, hands scrabbling in vain to stop it. His eyes fly open, and he stares in mute horror.

  Nothing—he can see nothing. Where's he been taken?

  A fresh chill raises the fine hairs on his body. Is this where Christopher bides, deep inside the Talisman's grip? That the place he's been taken to?

  The hands that held him steady have vanished when he wasn't thinking of them, and he feels their absence with a sudden alarm. “Oi, you!” he shouts as he pivots frantically in the water. “You still there? Come on, then! Christopher? Speak to me!"

 

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