Bloodstone (40 page)

Myrddin seemed annoyed to see me. “Aren’t you dead yet?” he asked irritably.

“Not yet.” I pulled my pistol and shot a bronze bullet. Myrddin ducked. But I wasn’t aiming at him. The jar containing Norden’s life force shattered.

A blue-tinted vapor spiraled upward from the fragments.

“No!”
Myrddin batted the vapor toward Pryce with his hands. But the spiraling stream didn’t waver. It rose up and out of sight.

“Bring her here!” Myrddin shouted. “The ritual must be completed tonight. I’ll use her life force to finish it.”

The knot of Old Ones to my right stirred. Keeping an eye on them, I stuck my gun in my belt and reached down to retrieve the silver throwing knife from the one I’d killed. I touched the ice-cold body; my fingers groped for the knife.

Pain slashed through my palm.

The Old One wasn’t dead. He’d pulled the knife from his throat and used it to slice a deep cut into my hand. Now he grasped my wrist and pulled me to my knees.

I wrenched my arm away. Ignoring the pain, I got my gun in my right hand. It was slippery from the blood. I pressed the gun against his forehead and put a bullet between his eyes. Bronze, but at this range it should do some damage.

It didn’t. The Old One’s skull spit the bullet back out at me. The hole closed at once. The Old One sneered and knocked the gun from my hand.

All right. Silver didn’t work, a close-range pistol shot didn’t work. Let’s see how he liked fire.

I swiped the flaming sword at his neck. Blade cut into flesh, but then it stopped. The Old One’s flesh pushed out the blade. The wound filled itself in.

The creature felt the sting of fire, though. It screamed and scooted backward, away from the touch of the flames. Its flesh sizzled and blackened. Unlike the cuts, the burn didn’t heal. It sizzled and bubbled and blistered. The smell of burned, rotten flesh filled the room.

I waved my sword at the other Old Ones. They cringed and stayed where they were. Then, as if one of their psychic signals had passed among them, they parted like a curtain, taking a few steps to the left or right.

Behind them, Juliet was pinned to the wall. A dozen silver spikes held her in place: through her neck, her arms, her hands, her torso, her legs. A silver plate covered her mouth, rendering her silent. Her eyes were wide with terror and pain.

What the hell were they doing to her?

I roared and charged the Old Ones, slashing my sword. Maybe I couldn’t kill them, but I could make them hurt.
You want to be gods? Eat fire, assholes.

They scattered, and I went to Juliet. Keeping them at bay with my sword, I pulled the spike from her throat.

An Old One flew at me, and I set its robe on fire. It screamed and dropped to the floor, rolling to put out the flames. I hoped the fire barbecued its yellow hide.

I removed the spike from Juliet’s left hand. The Old Ones gnashed their fangs at me but stayed back.

“Victory”—Myrddin’s voice cut across the room—“cannot win.” He giggled at his little pun.

I looked across the room at him. Mab’s bloodstone dangled from his hand.

He laid it on the table where the jar had stood. And then he lifted a hammer above it.

“Do you know what will happen if I smash this bloodstone?”

“Don’t—”

“Your aunt’s life force shatters into little pieces, as well. She dies. Instantly.” He tapped the stone lightly with the hammer. Each tap was a blow to my heart. “I think I can gather enough life force from the shards to finish the job with Pryce. Would you like that, to have part of Mab’s soul trapped within my son?”

“Don’t do it, Myrddin.”

“All right. Then I’ll need your life force instead. You or Mab. It’s one or the other.” He stopped tapping and raised the hammer again. “Hurry up. I don’t have much time. If you won’t decide, I’ll decide for you.”

“Let Juliet go. If you promise not to hurt her or Mab, I’ll cooperate.”

“What Colwyn and his corpses do with that vampire is none of my concern. My offer extends only to your aunt.”

I hesitated.

The hammer descended.

“No! Stop!” I screamed. “Don’t kill her.”

An inch above the stone, he stopped. He glared at me from under his brows. “Extinguish your sword.”

I let the flames die. One of the Old Ones—Colwyn, I think—snatched the sword and tossed it aside. Cold hands wrapped around my limbs like shackles of ice. The Old Ones hoisted me and carried me toward Myrddin.

A howl sounded. It started low and rose in pitch, full of anger and desperation. The Old Ones carrying me halted as it reverberated, filling the room.

“Kane!” I screamed, twisting toward the entrance. “In here! Go through the—”

An Old One stuck his hand in my mouth. I choked on long-dead flesh. Pushing aside revulsion, I bit down hard, but it didn’t faze the Old One. I couldn’t hurt it.

“Get her over here, now!” Myrddin said, his voice low but brimming with menace. The Old Ones carried me, bucking and struggling, to the table.

“Hold her down,” Myrddin said. “So I can finish this.”

Four Old Ones restrained me, pressing my arms and legs hard against the table. At my head, Colwyn covered my mouth, holding my upper arm with his other hand. I fought to breathe. Each hard-won inhalation reeked with the smell of the grave.

Myrddin bent over me. He’d hung the bloodstone around his own neck again. The pendant dangled from its chain, the bloodstone still small and dull. “No time for fun and games tonight, my girl,” he said. “No slowing down the chi and maximizing the pain. A pity, but it’s time to bring my son back.” He carved the eihwaz rune into my chest. Then he plunged the metal probe into my heart.

The pain convulsed me. My head strained against the Old One’s hand as I tried to scream. My right arm broke free; my grasping hand fastened on the bloodstone.

It pulsed.

The stone grew warm as blood from my slashed palm seeped into it.

I yanked, snapping the chain that held the stone around Myrddin’s neck.

The bloodstone vibrated in my hand, drinking in my blood. A silvery light glowed from between my fingers. The light spread, running up my arm, lighting up the rune cut into my skin. It seeped into my heart, spreading warmth through my chest.

With a mighty heave, my heart rejected the probe, expelling it from my body.

From the entrance, a roar pierced the room. The heads of all four Old Ones whipped toward it. I looked, too.

Kane towered there, still a hybrid of man and wolf. He stood at his full height, powerful, his shoulders broad. But his head had wolfish features and his fingers sprouted wicked-looking claws. He wore clothes he’d taken from one of the dead vampires, but somehow that made him even more terrifying.

He roared again, and the Old Ones scattered like cockroaches. They scuttled deeper into the room. Kane howled and ran after them.

Myrddin drew back his arm to hurl energy at Kane. I kicked him, knocking off his aim. His fireball missed, exploding against the wall. I rolled off the table, away from Myrddin, and crouched, ready to dodge his next fireball, gauging the distance to my sword.

But Myrddin didn’t throw another fireball. His mouth dropped open as he stared at the light emanating from the bloodstone.

I opened my fingers a little to let the light stream out. A beam shot upward and spread into a nimbus. Its center glowed with an intensity that almost hurt to look at. The light pulsed. It fractured, spun, and came back together in an image. In the center of the nimbus stood a young woman, clothed in a white gown, a silver circlet crowning her flowing hair.

“Viviane,” whispered Myrddin.

“Betrayer,” she spat. She lifted an elegant hand. Her finger pointed at him, and a torrent of energy shot out. It picked Myrddin up and hurled him against the wall. When he hit, his skin split open and his demon form emerged. It twisted out of his body, like some scaly reptile emerging from an egg, growing by feet each second. Myrddin’s human form disappeared.

Now. I had to act now, while Wyllt, Myrddin’s demon form, was forced to materialize in the human plane. I ran for my sword, shouting the invocation. Flames licked the blade. Holding the bloodstone high with my right hand, I snatched up the sword with my left. I charged the demon.

Viviane directed the stream of energy with laserlike precision. Wyllt glowed, held here somehow by the beam. The demon crouched, too big for this low room. I drove the Sword of Saint Michael through its hide and into its stomach. Flames burned demon flesh; sulfurous smoke billowed. I withdrew the sword and thrust it in again, moving it around to slice up as much of the demon’s innards as I could.

Wyllt doubled over, clutching its abdomen. Black, stinking bile gushed from the wound. Demon flesh melted. Smoke surged. I kept striking and slashing. The demon’s body wavered. It softened and grew spongy, then melted into a waterfall of black blood and liquefied flesh. The remains of the demon puddled on the concrete floor.

From the puddle, a form took shape. Myrddin, his demon half gone, reemerged. He lay slumped against the wall, his body broken, his eyes closed. I checked for a pulse and found none.

In the glowing light from the bloodstone, Viviane nodded, grim satisfaction on her face. Her image faded, along with the silvery light.

Screams echoed from somewhere deep in the underground network of rooms.

I ran over to Juliet and pulled out the spikes that impaled her. I worked as quickly as I could, but carefully. Too much of her weight on the wrong spike would cause more damage.

She was too weak to stand. I lowered her to the ground and removed the silver gag. She licked her lips. “I was the first one to survive the virus,” she said. “So they were trying to see if they could kill me.” Her eyes fluttered. “I think maybe they succeeded.”

The bloodstone pulsed. I opened my hand. Red with my blood, glowing, it was larger than before. The setting had cracked and fallen away in places, but the broken chain was still attached. I tied its ends in a clumsy knot, then lifted the chain over her head and positioned the pendant so the bloodstone hung over her heart. Then, without knowing why, I traced the eihwaz rune on her forehead like a blessing.

Juliet gasped. Her body went rigid, then shuddered. Her wounds shrank and closed. Her eyes flew open and she looked around the room.

“What’s that wizard doing?” she cried.

Myrddin wasn’t dead. He still slumped on the ground, but he held the metal probe with both hands. The probe protruded from his chest, where he’d stuck it deep into his own heart.

I raced over and tried to tug it out. He fought me with surprising strength, struggling to keep the probe in his own heart. I kicked him and tugged harder. Inch by inch, the probe gave.

Kane appeared at the back of the room, bruised and bloody, his clothes torn.

I looked at him. “Are you—?”

Myrddin wrenched the probe from my hands and drove it deeper into his heart.

Kane fell to his knees. On the table, Pryce convulsed.

Myrddin giggled. “I win, my girl. Tell Viviane I’ll see her in hell.” The giggle cut off abruptly as the triumphant light faded from his eyes.

“FATHER!” PRYCE GASPED AND SAT UP ON THE TABLE, LOOKING around, pulling needles from his body. His face twisted with hatred when he saw me.

“You,” he sneered. With amazing agility for someone who’d been comatose for a month, he jumped from the table. To his left, he saw Myrddin’s corpse. “What did you do to my father?”

I grasped the Sword of Saint Michael; its flames blazed to life as I raised it. “The same thing I’m about to do to you.” I raised my sword and charged, aiming to plunge the point into Pryce’s heart.

He dodged to the far side of the table. As he did he raised his hand, palm out, and pushed toward me. A rectangle of energy pulsed out. The Sword of Saint Michael passed through, but when the energy hit me it knocked me backward. My ass landed hard on the concrete floor.

I’d never seen Pryce do that before. But Myrddin had used the same gesture when Mab attacked him at Back Street.

Pryce looked as surprised as I was. He looked at the ceiling, then at the floor where Myrddin lay, then back at the ceiling again. “Father?”

I got to my feet.

Pryce laughed. The sound emerged as a giggle.

I charged again. And again, Pryce used magic to knock me back.

He hurled a fireball at me. I sliced it in two with my sword.

Throwing fireballs, Pryce edged toward the entryway. His aim was bad, but the strength and sheer number of his missiles kept me back.

Near the door, the fireball he tried to throw fizzled and extinguished in his hands. He turned and ran.

I ran after him.

“Vicky!” Juliet yelled behind me. “Kane needs your help!”

I stopped in my tracks and turned around. “There’s silver in him,” she said. “I can’t get it out. It’s killing him.”

Outside, cans bounced and rolled as Pryce found his way out the hidden door.

Behind me, Kane groaned, the sound weak and shot through with pain.

I let Pryce go and ran back to Kane.

 

 

KANE LAY UNMOVING ON THE FLOOR, HIS EYES SHUT, HIS skin ashen. His breath tore from his throat in ragged gasps. The flesh around the bullet wound had blackened and blistered, classic signs of silver burn. He felt hot all over, and his heart beat erratically, like it had lost its normal rhythm and couldn’t find it again.

Around his neck, he wore the bloodstone.

“He was having seizures,” Juliet said. “The pendant helped me; I thought it would help him, too. But he’s not getting better.”

At least the seizures had stopped. But we had to get the silver out. There must be a fragment of Norden’s bullet still inside him. I needed something to dig it out with.