Illusion (25 page)

Maya stepped into the shop, Resh and Esmonda on her heels. Reams of textured paper sat on wooden shelves. Maya breathed in the smell of oils and scanned shelves piled with boxes of colored pastels.

A beaded curtain tinkled and the stout woman wearing an apron reappeared. She spoke to them in a strange tongue.

Resh responded and handed her some coin. “She wants to close up,” he said. “Choose what you need.”

Esmonda leaned one hip against a glass counter, arms crossed.

Maya could feel the sorceress’s eyes staring at the top of her head. She ground her molars together and walked toward colored boxes on a shelf.

Maya selected a pastel. The smell of ozone filled her nose.

Several things happened at once. There was a loud
crack
followed by a crash, and she turned. Esmonda was standing over a large white crystal lying in fragments on the stone floor. Resh’s voice was an apologetic murmur as he spoke to the shopkeeper. He lifted his hand and gestured. A flash of light sparked from his fingers and the shards rattled, dragging together.

“Hello again, Maya McAdam,” a voice whispered.

“Huh?” Maya jolted and looked down. She’d been rubbing crayon into small concentric circles on the wooden shelf with her thumb.

“Remember me?” the voice whispered again, louder this time.

“What?” Maya glanced to the others. The artisan stared back, her eyebrows drawn together in a frown. She marked a sign of protection in the air and dematerialized. The silver beads rattled slightly and opened as if someone passed through.

Resh lifted his hand to the hilt of his sword and started toward Maya, but it seemed like he strode against a thick tide of mud.

“It’s Vivienne.” There was a soft chuckle, and Maya stared at the cobalt blue lines on the shelf. Damp wind brushed her face and a strange discombobulating flash of realities hit fast, as if she fell from a great height.

“I found a child’s drawing years ago,” Vivienne said, distracting her. “One of yours. A small portal, allowing us to take from these premises. You must return to Earth. Horus and Anu are at war. We need you.”

Panic turned her brain to mush and she tried hard to think. Besmelo would kill her for breaking further sanctions. She’d had no idea any of her pictures remained—had thought them all lost when her apartment was destroyed.

Resh made a gesture in midair with one hand and the air rippled. He pointed with his other hand to the shelf, the muscles in his neck taut.

She glanced down at her hand, which seemed to have a mind of its own. Her thumb was rubbing lines and forming a sketch of the
alchemagical
shop. She forced her hand open and the pastel dropped to the shelf and rolled back and forth.

The picture quivered, the lines running together and forming a crater. The wood contorted, opening around a cavity. The smell of ozone overlaid with smoke leaked out.

A long-fingered hand pushed through the shaft and grasped Maya’s wrist. “You’ve got blood on your hands,” Vivienne said in satisfaction. “The purist warlocks have turned their backs on you.”

The wind picked up, whipping Maya’s hair around her face. Resh intoned words in Latin.

“Help us get rid of the Khereb,” Maya said quickly. “We need a Circle of Eight to force Molokh back behind Mithra.”

Resh materialized next to her, his hand gripping her arm tight, but Maya resisted, waiting for a response.

“Why would we help Balkaithites?” Vivienne said. “Molokh will only blame us. But I’ll pass the message to Magister Oxyhiayal.”

Maya peeled the mage’s fingers off her wrist, flooded by dark emotions—anger and resentment—with those who wouldn’t help. She was sick of living in fear. The warlocks and magi were the same. Even if they hated one another, they embraced a similar self-serving ideology about order and petty politics.

The walls of the shop warped, fracturing into double images of different realities and it seemed that a blind had lifted from her eyes. Resh was an indistinct outline by her side.

The air thickened in her lungs and the world wavered in and out of focus, a sharp pain above her ear competing with images flashing across her vision. Her senses expanded and the hole grew larger with each pulse in her arteries. She could even smell the metallic scent of her own blood. Her brain tickled, itching as if a wire was short-circuiting.

Power called to her and she leaned forward, consciously seeking more. What had she done in this life to deserve Besmelo’s brand of retribution? Nothing. She’d clung to some warped sense of justice when in reality, no one would ever forgive her for what she’d done millennia ago. If she was dark, well, maybe it was something she should embrace?

The scent of rain preceding a winter storm struck her with such familiarity. Home. Each particle of the wood became distinct, the weave turning into sections of dilapidated buildings and cracked pavement. “Earth,” she said, but it sounded tinny and thin, captured by the tunnel.

Resh’s voice was a distant murmur of sound.

She could taste power, a mixture of copper and salt. Her heart rate sped up and blood flowed faster through her organs. A rush of magic hit her like a percussive thunderbolt. She rolled her shoulders as it flowed down her spine. She could gain so much strength from this—her power would grow every time she used it. Perhaps she could kill Molokh with a simple thought.

Her ears popped, trying to equalize the pressure as every inhalation sucked her closer to the edge of the chasm. She craved more. Her legs lifted off the floor. Her arm ripped away from Resh and he yelled in shock. At the last minute she slammed a hand onto rough wood, but the plank disappeared beneath her palm and there was nothing to stop her falling face-first into darkness. Her body slipped into the portal as easy as shedding clothes, cocooning her in a damp wash of magic. The portal closed with a pop of sound.

“So you came, after all.” Vivienne sounded surprised, her voice echoing in the low passage. “Join our House.” Her voice came from a flat, one-dimensional picture of the
alchemagical
shop several feet away.

Maya stumbled, light-headed. A fog drifted around her legs and a high wind rose, surging and backwashing.

She grasped the pentagram around her neck and something shifted, cold rationality hitting hard. She’d done it again, indulged in her attraction to magic. This was a mistake. She had no control around power, or places of magic for that matter. The djinni was tormenting her, putting her in situations when she was forced to confront the worst parts of herself.

“No,” she said, shaping her words in her throat and hurling them at Vivienne’s face.

She gathered all her anger and resentment in one surge of raw willpower and shoved her hands into the picture, resisting the crackling, spongy surface and pushing away. She fell back through the tunnel, her heart skipping a beat as she spun through a blur of damp air like a spring coiling back on itself, gathering more speed as she flew. The sound of a Latin litany grew closer until there was a tearing sound. Her body popped free of the portal and she smelled exotic spices before she hit the ground, rolling and landing with a thud against a hard surface. A loud explosion racked her ears.

‘“I didn’t mean it,” she wheezed, uncertain what she was apologizing for. She gasped, fighting to get air into her lungs. She opened her eyes, blinded by the bright Gothic buildings, choking and coughing in relief, soaking wet and shivering with cold. Balkaith. The bracelet twirled and clanged against her wrist as the djinni left her and a cramp hit her calf muscle, so severe she whimpered.

The tunnel had disappeared and she was on the street in front of a collapsed building, the shattered glass, single wall, and wooden struts poking up into the sky.

Nausea hit her stomach and her mouth filled with saliva. The constriction in her throat made it hard to swallow. Had she done that? A half-height wall crumbled, hitting the ground with a crash.

She pushed herself upright with a grunt, and the world wobbled, then straightened.

A hand gripped her shoulder. “You play with reality, dangerous one.” Esmonda’s voice quivered, but underneath was a hint of fear. The sorceress crouched next to her, covered in grime and powdered masonry, a small cut bleeding near her eye. “Creating a portal from nothing rewrites the laws of physics. It makes you a threat no one will tolerate.”

A pile of plaster and brick rose beside her and a body clawed its way out. Resh pushed through, his face streaked with white dust.

So, his raspy voice had called her back.

She took a deep breath that hurt her lungs and struggled to hide her anger and frustration. The familiar burn of shame heated her face. What sort of person was she to be so attracted to power and employ it with such ill effects?

Above Resh’s head a firework display of oranges and reds cracked the glass-like dome. Thunder boomed and black shapes flew in an ordered column, tossing fire bolts at the shield. Perfect timing—the Khereb were attacking.

*

Resh caught a glimpse of Maya’s pained face before she turned away. The dust streaking her cheeks made her eyes stand out like huge suns. He swallowed his alarm and the words he wanted to say. She held herself stiffly; her hair was matted with sweat and dirt. He held out a pain amulet, but she ignored him and plunged forward, tripping on the cobblestones and slouching against the Northern Gate.

He wanted to take back what had happened and tell her it would all be fine, but her unreadable expression told him to leave her alone.

He knew who she was, what she could do to herself and others. He knew he’d renounced his duty when he’d failed to execute her on Earth and brought her back to Balkaith instead. He knew he was helping a woman who could warp reality—and was attracted to the darkest aspects of magic—and he didn’t stand a chance of convincing the Tribune to take her in at any point in the future. He had a precarious stance with his own guild and stood on the precipice of becoming a rogue warlock fleeing his own people. He knew it all, yet still wanted to hold her tight and wait until it all passed over. Except that wasn’t possible. The ground trembled as hundreds of winged shapes flew in the sky, tossing massive fire bolts at the shield. Thin fissures of red were beginning to crack the surface, and buildings swayed beneath the explosions.

The Kherebs’ attack was the ideal distraction. In pure reflex response, he hadn’t waited to be discovered by the Tribune’s guards, but had dragged her to the tunnel entrance. Esmonda had stumbled behind. Alexandr was waiting for them at the Northern Gate.

Esmonda’s eyes reflected a fanatic’s gleam. She spoke in hard tones, calling Maya an abomination and begging Resheph to send her back to Earth. The sorceress must have realized she’d pushed him too far, because after one look at his face she said no more. But her dark eyes continued to flash with loathing.

He couldn’t wait for Maya to recover.

A metal shield bolted with huge studs blocked the tunnel entrance. Resheph nodded to the sentries standing next to a small booth and asked them to open the gate. The men wore the red-and-black uniform of the Tribune guards, with long spears at their sides and wards hidden in their black capes. His people believed travel inside the sacred mountain brought ill luck and so the gates were closely guarded. He forced his fists to relax, showing them the signed authority to leave Balkaith through the tunnels. The guard scanned the contents, then spoke to his companion for several long moments. The other guard finally flicked a mechanism behind the booth and nodded to them. The door disappeared into thin air, revealing a low, dark tunnel smelling of mold and fungi.

“Say good-bye to the sun for a while. It’s going to storm. Although we won’t see it,” Alexandr said to no one in particular. His voice seemed to press down on Resheph’s chest, shortening his breath and closing his vision to the fuzzy, indistinct shadows of the tunnel.

He stepped inside, closely followed by the others. The door closed, shutting out the pounding booms and cries.

* * * *

Resh jerked upright and scanned the campsite for the threat. His sweat dripped down his face.

Nothing.

He bit back a groan, and clawed at the bedding as the stitches tugged at the healing skin on his chest and hip. Wounds and nightmares he could deal with, but his appetite was something else again. His stomach growled, craving raw flesh. He’d packed strips of venison in his backpack, but at some point, he’d need to hunt for fresh food. The carnal image of tearing at red meat both aroused and dismayed him. If he was honest, the crude act mirrored his feelings for Maya.

Several bodies lay around the yellow glow released by Alexandr’s staff. It stored the sun’s rays, radiating warmth and light against the stygian darkness. They’d walked for hours in silence before resting for the night. He wanted to sleep more, but he knew it was only a matter of time before the Khereb materialized. They needed to keep moving.

She slept there, Molokh’s daughter. The sight of her huddled form filled him with despair and confusion. She was showing signs of Molokh’s corruption, the explosion in the shop divulging more than she realized. It marked her as a threat of the worst kind; even magi, witches, and warlocks could only harness magical mediums. She was starting to reach out and change the world to her will, manipulating reality. He suspected she gathered her emotions and used them to push through the barrier between dimensions. Perhaps he should let her walk away from him, back to her kind, and a life with the magi on Earth. He looked away, worried that if she left, he’d follow her instead of the map to Tau.

Their small troupe had been exhausted, troubled by the slippery track. Orienting through the curving, branching tunnels was difficult. The cave passages all looked the same. With no sun, moon, stars, or horizon, and only the light from Alexandr’s staff offering restricted directional cues, the texture of bodies and walls blurred. Faces became gray scale images in the three-dimensional space. The way out was up, so Resh had to orient both vertically and horizontally, as well as backward. Time was measured by the rhythms of the body—hunger, cold, and thirst. The combination of twisting passages and darkness distorted his ability to estimate distances.