Magic Burns (20 page)

The woman next to her was barely older than Julie. She reclined on a small Roman-style sofa. Black silk streamed from her in folds and curves, so much of it that the fabric threatened to drown her. Sallow, almost translucent against that silk, she rested her head on her bent arm. Her cheekbones stood out. Her neck was barely thicker than my wrist. By contrast her blond hair fell from her head in twin braids, luxurious and thick.

The last woman sat in a rocking chair, knitting an unidentifiable garment from brownish yarn. She looked like she had sucked up all of the flesh the other two lacked. Plump, healthy, with her thick brown hair braided, she watched her knitting with a knowing half smile.

Maiden, mother, and crone. How classic. Double, double, toil and trouble?

I looked above them, to where a large mural darkened the wall. A tall woman towered above the platform, drawn in a simple but sharp style, the kind a genius child artist might employ. Three arms rose from her body: the first held a knife, the second a torch, and the third a chalice with a tiny snake winding about it. To the left of her sat a black cat and a toad. To the right lay a key and a broom.

Before the woman sat a huge cauldron, positioned on the intersection of three roads. Black hounds ran across the walls in both directions, all facing the cauldron.

The Oracle worshipped Hekate, the Queen of the Night, the Mother of all Witches. Although known by her Greek name, she was much older. Her worship stretched through two millennia, its roots buried in the fertile folkloric soil of Turkey and Asia. The Greeks had too much respect to ignore her ancient heritage and her seductive power. They made her the only Titan Zeus had permitted into his pantheon, partially because he had fallen in love with her. She was the goddess of choice, of victory and defeat, of knowledge magical and medicinal, the guardian of the boundary between spiritual and mundane, and the witness to all crimes against women and children.

Underestimating her Oracle would prove extremely unwise.

I felt Derek behind me, waiting. The vampire had left the pool and crouched on its rim. I bowed.

Page 110

The crone spoke. “Approach.”

Slowly I crossed the water. My feet found stone steps and I emerged onto the floor.

“Closer,” the crone said.

I took another step and felt the edges of a spell lying in wait. I put my foot down. Derek stopped too, but the vampire advanced past me, oblivious.

The crone thrust her hand at us, fingers rigid like claws. Chalk lines slid from under the stones as if blown by errant wind, and I found myself locked in a circle of glyphs. Ahead the vampire fell, caught in an identical trap. Derek growled and I didn’t have to look to know he was captured, as well.

The crone smirked.

I probed the spell. Strong, but breakable. Should I stay in the circle out of respect or should I break out? Staying in would be a polite thing to do. Breaking out would likely provoke them, but would they deal with me if they could keep me pinned?

“Release me,” Ghastek’s voice echoed through the dome. “I’ve come here in good faith.”

The crone stabbed her hand to the right. The circle slid, dragging the vampire within it and crashed into the wall with a harsh thud. The crone’s eyes lit up with arrogant satisfaction. Well, that settled it.

“This is an outrage.” The vampire sprung to its feet.

“Silence, abomination.”

The circle slid to the left. Ghastek tried to run, anticipating the direction but the chalk tripped him and pulled him across the stones. She was enjoying herself way too much. She didn’t chant, so it had to be a preexisting spell. If I could have sensed at least the type of magic she was using, I might have gotten some idea where to look for the spell, but locked within the glyphs, I couldn’t feel a thing outside the circle.

Derek sat down, cross-legged, and settled to wait it all out.

I reached into my belt, pulled the cork off a plastic tube, and tossed a pinch of powder onto the spell.

Wormwood, alder, and rowan, ground to fine dust, and iron shavings flittered to the floor in a fine cloud, tiny iron particles glistening as they caught light. The chalk lines dimmed and I stepped out and bowed.

The crone bared her teeth and thrust both hands at me, crushing the air in her gnarled fists.

A wave of chalk slid across the stones to clutch at me. A triple ring. Earth based, too. Iron and wood wouldn’t work. Going all out.

“Break that, why don’t you!” The crone leaned back, triumphant.

I raised my sword and thrust into the ring, gathering as much of my magic as I could and feeding it into the blade. The enchanted saber perspired. Gossamer smoke slithered from the metal. The magic squeezed the blade.

Page 111

The first line of glyphs fell apart.

Sweat broke at my hairline.

The second line of glyphs wavered. My hands shook from the pressure. I leaned forward, channeling more power into the sword.

The second circle broke and I nearly fell.

The crone surged to her feet. Her hands clawed the air. Chalk blew at my feet. Three more rings. Shit.

I could use a power word to release myself, but that would mean announcing to Ghastek that I had one.

The circle didn’t dull his hearing, only his magic senses.

I drew the sword back, blocking the vampire’s view of me with my back, and pricked my index finger.

A tiny drop of red swelled. I crouched and drew a line right through the four rings. The ward cracked open like a shattered glass.

The crone drew back.

I stepped out and bowed and stayed that way. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the crone raise her hand, after a momentary hesitation. I read reluctance in her eyes. She wasn’t sure she could hold me.

She had locked me three times, and three times I had broken out. Three was a number sacred to witches. I didn’t want to show Ghastek more power.

The crone’s fingers curled.

“Maria, please…” The maiden-witch had spoken. Her voice was weak and wilting, yet it echoed through the dome.

The crone lowered her hand with a sneer. “I spare you because she asks. For now.”

I straightened and sheathed Slayer.

“I know you.” The mother looked at me, her hands continuing to draw yarn with faint clicking. “Voron’s child.Po russki to govorish? ”

I shifted into Russian. “Yes, I speak Russian.”

The witch clicked her tongue. “Accent you have. Don’t speak Russian every day, no?”

“Don’t have anybody to practice with.”

“And whose failing is that?”

There was no good answer to that one so I backpedaled into English. “I’ve come for information.”

“Ask,” the maiden said.

Page 112

I’d only get one shot at this. “Two days ago an amateur coven called the Sisters of the Crow disappeared. One of the witches, Jessica Olsen, has a daughter, Julie. Julie is only thirteen. She has no other family. Her mother means the world to her.”

They said nothing. I plowed on.

“I know Morrigan is involved. I know there is a bottomless pit at the Sisters’ gathering place and a smaller one in their head witch Esmeralda’s trailer. I know Esmeralda was power hungry and was performing old druidic rites, but I don’t know why. Now the Fomorians are running around the city, led by Bolgor the Shepherd. They want Julie. She’s just a child, and although her mother was in an amateur coven, she was still a witch, just like you. Please help me understand what’s going on. Help me fit it all together.”

My breath caught in my throat. Either they would deal with me or send me packing. Once the covens said no, they meant it.

The mother-witch pursed her lips. “Morrigan,” she said with slight distaste, as if discussing a neighbor who failed to wash her windows. “She always has a hound with her.”

I frowned. “A dog?”

“No. A man. A scoundrel. A thief and a brigand.”

I almost snapped my fingers. “Tall, dark, carries a bow, disappears into mist, can’t keep his hands to himself?”

The mother nodded to me with a smile. “Yes.”

“I’ve seen him.”

She smiled wider. “I gathered.”

When you want to impress the other party with your intellect, state the obvious. Brilliant. I was simply brilliant.

The maiden’s voice whispered, intimate, almost as if she were breathing in my ear instead of reclining on the couch sixteen feet away. “For the knowledge you want, we would ask a boon of you…”

The crone leaned back. Her hands rose, spread wide. Magic flared about her like dark wings.

The floor quaked. A long gash split the tiles between me and Derek, and a wave of musky scent wafted forth. A sleek pink liquid spilled from the floor and streamed away from me to Derek and the vampire.

Derek ripped off his clothes. His back arched and the skin along his chest split. For the briefest of moments I saw bare bones shifting and flowing like molten wax, and then muscle slivered over it, fur burst, flaring into lupine hackles, and a werewolf stood within the circle. Six and a half feet tall, with clawed hands large enough to enclose my head and jaws that could crack my skull like an egg. Half-man, half-beast, all nightmare. The shapeshifter warrior form.

I didn’t recall drawing Slayer but it was in my hand.

Page 113

“No harm will come to them,” the maiden’s wilting voice assured me.

The red wave washed against Derek’s ward. Derek raised his deformed jaws. His fangs bit the air. A long eerie howl broke from his lips, a forlorn lament, a song of hunt, and chase, and hot blood on the tongue. It sent my heart fluttering. I gripped my saber.

“You injure him, you die.” That fucking crone wouldn’t stop me.

“No harm,” the maiden promised.

The red fluid circled the ward and surged up to the ceiling, enclosing the ward and Derek within it in a column of streaming fluid. Holy crap.

In a moment the second column encased the vampire.

“They can neither hear us, nor see us,” the maiden said.

“What is the boon?”

“The hound…” The maiden shifted a little within her folds of fabric.

“Bring us his blood,” the crone said.

“…and all your questions…” the mother added.

“…will be answered.” The maiden nodded.

A witch chorus. Lovely.

“Why do you need the blood?”

The crone sneered. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“Then you get nothing!”

Crap. I bowed. “Thank you for seeing me. Release my associates and I’ll go.”

“Why care?” the mother asked.

“Because I won’t fetch the blood of someone with that much magic unless I know how it will be used.”

For all I knew, they could use it to hex him or brew a city-wide plague. I knew they wouldn’t lie to me.

In the modern world of magic and tech, your rep meant everything.

“Is that your final word?” the mother asked.

It was wrong. Not even for Julie and her mother’s sake. Some things should not be done no matter how much you want the goal. “Yes.”

“Then leave!” the crone barked.

Page 114

I turned.

“Wait.” The maiden’s voice tugged on me with its magic. I faced her.

The hag glared at her. “No!”

“Yes,” the maiden whispered. “There is no other way.”

She pushed off her couch and pulled off her hair. Her head was bald. The folds of fabric slipped from her body. She stood nude, save for the panties.

The effort rocked her and for a second I thought she would fall.

You could play the xylophone on her ribs. She had no breasts. Her knees protruded, disproportional, too large compared to her matchstick-thin legs. A conglomeration of misshapen ugly bumps thrust over her left hip, creating a grotesque, dimpled bulge of flesh.

She raised her chin. Magic streamed from her. Her voice filled the dome, invaded my ears, penetrated my mind.

“We are the Oracle. We serve the covens. They rely on us for power, wisdom, and prophecy. We keep the peace. We keep them safe. Look to the walls. You will see our bodies there, buried, secure in the womb of the tortoise. Just as we turn to dust, we rise anew in young flesh, for when one of us Three dies, a child is born to take her place.”

Her gaze pierced me, her eyes radiant. Above her the three-armed Hekate towered, black on the gray wall. “We are the knife, the craft, and the torch that banishes the darkness.”

The crone was the knife, the knowledge had to be the mother-witch, and the torch stood in front of me.

The torch that banishes the darkness…She was the one with the prophetic gift.

“I foresaw that someone would come. I didn’t know who it would be, but I foresaw the coming.”

She took a deep breath. “I’m dying. My body is full of tumors and neither magic nor medicine helps. I’m not afraid to die. When I do, within three years another witch oracle will be born to take my place. But she will take several years to blossom into her power. I’m too ill and Maria is too old.”

Within the next few years, the Oracle could be down to one witch. And could stay that way for about a decade, until the next witches revealed themselves. I looked to the mother for confirmation. She had put her hand over her mouth and was watching the maiden. Grief distorted her face.

“We aren’t trying to turn back nature. We cannot reverse Maria’s age. But there’s a way to cure me.”

The maiden swayed. “There is a potion. My very last chance. The blood of Morrigan’s Hound heals all.

You want to save a young girl? Here is your chance to save one. Save me. Bring me the blood and I’ll tell all you wish to know.”

The maiden fell back onto her couch. The mother rose and swaddled the maiden’s fragile body into the robes. The black silk, luxurious before, now gained the dreadful air of a funeral shroud.

“How much blood?” I asked.

Page 115

The mother straightened, reached into her sleeve, and extracted a plastic blood collection tube. “This much. Press here and slide up. The needle will pop out. Once you draw blood, the needle will retract.

Put the cap on right here and bring the whole thing back to us.” She sighed. “You must meet him in the mist. In Morrigan’s place. That’s where his blood is most potent. And another thing: the blood can’t be taken or bought with money or traded for favors. It must be freely given or it will lose its magic.”