Charlie Madigan: Shadows Before The Sun Part 11

"I know you care enough for him to risk your life, but that's not what I'm asking. The last time I read you there was quite a bit of baggage mixed with your feelings for Hank. A lot of desire, too. And struggle. And hurt. Do you love him? Romantically?"

That was a subject I wasn't ready to think on, but her question stuck anyway. Did I love him? Yes, without question. Romantically? We hadn't got that far. The newer, more potent feelings I was developing for Hank were tangled up in the feelings I already had for him, for our friendship, the loyalty we had to each other, the trust . . . But all that didn't equate to romantic love and it certainly didn't mean those feelings would develop into love, either. For me or for him. But knowing all that, there was an indefinable aura about this thing between us, like it was something bigger, more significant than simple l.u.s.t and friendship.

"Charlie?"

I blinked.

"The question. Do you love him?"

"No." Not yet. "There is something, though . . . I don't know . . . But I want the chance to find out, whatever it is." And to explain it all to Sandra would take forever and make me feel like a wishy-washy idiot, so I left it at that.

She considered my response. "You are so certain he lives."

"I know he does." I hadn't told her about my run-in with Leander and now was as good a time as any to see what she thought about that. "What do you know about the NecroNaMoria?"

Her eyes grew wide and she straightened her posture. "How do you know of this?"

"Well, I don't know much, but I know it's happening to Hank . . . that the Circe are torturing him with it."

She just stared at me for a long moment before sinking back into the cushions. "Torture is too mild a term. I think I need a drink." She went to the side table to pour a gla.s.s of wine, then leaned against the table and gulped down three long swallows. "G.o.ds, Charlie . . . I know of it. But first tell me why you think this is happening to your siren."

I watched her carefully. "Leander told me."

Her face went white. The gla.s.s slipped from her fingers and crashed onto the floor. And still she didn't move. Her stunned expression finally shifted into one of intense thought. "When? When did you see him? Is he here in the city?"

"He was. I don't think he stuck around. Why?"

"Because if he was"-her eyes turned cold-"I would kill him." I went to speak, to question her, but she cut me off. "It's none of your business, Charlie. Don't make the mistake of thinking we're friends, that we share. I don't share my past with anyone."

With that she stepped over the spilled wine and stormed out the door and into the hallway.

"Well, that didn't exactly go as planned, did it?" I said to the empty room.

And, d.a.m.n it, I never got my answer to the NecroNaMoria.

I was standing on the balcony, leaning against the stone wall that separated me from the cliffs below, when I heard Sandra return. The short clip of her heels on the stone told me she was still p.i.s.sed, or at the very least intent.

The sound came through the main room and right up behind me, where it stopped. I supposed she wanted me to turn around, but I continued to watch the stars in the night sky and listen to the sea. "You know, all that negativity you're throwing around is kind of ruining a perfectly good moment here." I glanced over my shoulder.

Her eyes rolled. "Pot, meet kettle." She took up a spot next to me and watched the stars for a long beat. "I'm not exactly good with people."

I smiled. "And now you're preaching to the choir."

"Yes, that is true. Your people skills are exceptionally bad. Far worse than mine."

"Thanks," I said dryly.

We watched the sky for a while before she spoke again. "About what I said before . . . the friend thing . . . You see, it's . . . well . . ."

"Don't sweat it, Sandra," I said with the bizarre realization that she and I were actually similar in a lot of ways-except when she was like Rex. "If you can't let off a little steam with friends, then when can you, right?"

A soft sigh went out of her that sounded suspiciously like relief, but she joked, "Since when are we friends? I don't even like you."

"Yeah, well, right back atcha."

"Good. I'm glad that's settled," she said with humor in her voice. We settled into a companionable silence. And it was nice. Until she said, "So you want to know about the NecroNaMoria."

I turned away from the view, let my hip rest against the stone, and crossed my arms over my chest. As much as I knew I wouldn't like what she said, I had to know. I drew in a readying breath. "Yeah, I need to know what he's going through."

"The NecroNaMoria is the blackest, vilest kind of crafting. Only a few exist who have the knowledge and power to defy the very nature of the soul. It's a spell that tethers a soul to its body even if that body dies. With a siren, able to heal from his wounds, the spell becomes a cycle that is beyond comprehension."

"In what way?" I prompted.

"The body dies and the soul is released. Peace in the Afterlife is at hand. But the tether prevents it from entering that resting place. The soul is pulled back into the body. Imagine that kind of freedom and then being forced back into a dark, damaged, foul container, a prison where every ache and pain is felt a trillion times more intensely, as if for the very first time. The worst thing about the NecroNaMoria is that this can be done indefinitely, over and over again, until the spell is released."

"And once it's released. What happens to the victim?"

"It depends on when the spell is ended. If it's while the soul is out of the body, the person is finally granted death and the soul continues on to the Afterlife. If it happens when the soul is within the body, the person heals eventually, but . . ."

"But what?"

"The toll on the psyche is often irreparable. It is difficult to come back from that, Charlie. Maybe if it's done once or twice, but to experience this over and over again . . . I'm sorry," Sandra said softly.

A wall went up inside of me. "It's not the end, Sandra. There is always a way to fix things, always a loophole . . ." Which sounded lame even to my ears, but on I forged. "If there are people who know things like the NecroNaMoria then there are those who know how to heal from it. I'm not sure how much, but Leander knows something about it. Light.w.a.ter might know about it, too."

"Well, I can tell you Leander wouldn't help you even if he could." Her green eyes narrowed on me. "He doesn't offer information for free. He wouldn't just show up and tell you this about Hank; that wouldn't even approach his level of interest." Her arms crossed over her chest, and she lifted her brow. "So out with it. What's his angle? What did he ask in return for this information?"

My first reaction was not to say anything, but it wasn't like I had anything to lose by confiding in her. Despite what she'd like me to believe, Sandra was good, that much I could tell from the short time we'd already spent together. She cared about right and wrong. And she was a fount of information. If I shared with her, she'd be more comfortable sharing things with me. "He wants me to retrieve a stone tablet from the Circe, one he said was priceless enough to start a war. I think he wants the same thing the sirens stole from the Adonai all those years ago. Makes sense based on what you told me about the theft and the war that followed."

She gave a bitter laugh. "For all his power, he is unerringly predictable. Tell him I said that if you see him again. The tablet was stolen by the siren in retaliation for the suspected theft of the Source Words. Neither side will claim responsibility in either theft. Neither side knows how to use what they stole, but each has been trying to regain what they lost for ages."

"The Source Words went missing way before the tablet was stolen, though, right? Why would the sirens wait that long to retaliate?"

"They simply weren't powerful enough. There were a couple thousand years between the two thefts. The early sirens always suspected the Adonai of coming in and stealing their most powerful words while the sirens were still in their civilization's infancy. This sentiment grew and grew, pa.s.sing from one generation to the next. When the opportunity arose to steal the tablet, the sirens couldn't resist. And, thus, the war began. Did Leander tell you what the tablet does?"

"It tells about the Disciples. Apparently they were guardians of the First Ones; Archons, as he called them."

"I always wondered what made the tablet so valuable." Her shoulders slumped. A vulnerable, weary look overtook her features. "Some things are coming to pa.s.s, then."

"He has the cure for ash," I explained, trying to a.s.suage my own guilty conscience-because what if I turned the tablet over to someone who'd cause more damage than ash ever could? But my sister Amanda, the others . . . ash was slowly killing them; the drug was designed to make their will step aside, to make them weak, shadows of themselves so Grigori Tennin's cult had vessels to control. Withdrawal meant death-once ash was in your system, you took it forever or you died. If Leander really did have the cure . . .

"As you say, 'don't sweat it,' Charlie. The tablet in Leander's care is the safest place for it. He is, as much as I despise saying it with every breath in my body, on the right side for once."

"The right side being?" Adonai? Siren? Human?

"The side of life."

The ominous reply was spoken with such sadness that it sent a flare of unease through me. "Do you know what's coming, why Leander is preparing?"

She glanced at me and gave a halfhearted attempt at a smile. "I have seen only the random scenes the Fates wish for me to see. It is difficult to put them into context at this time."

As frustrating as that answer was, I didn't press her because right then, the oracle looked like she had the weight of the worlds on her small shoulders.

I pushed away from the balcony's wall and headed for the main room. "Come on. I need a drink. All this talk about doom and gloom makes me want a stiff one."

Her heels clicked behind me. "So when you say 'stiff one' . . . does that refer to a drink or a di-" I spun around, mouth dropping open.

Sandra came up short. "What?"

"I can't believe you just said that."

"Well, technically, I didn't get to finish. I didn't peg you for a prude, Charlie Madigan. And I believe, and I'm not mistaken, that the gutter has come out of your mouth more times than anyone can count."

"Yes, but that's me," I said with a laugh as we continued inside. "Hearing the infamous oracle about to say the word d.i.c.k is . . . nothing short of spectacular in my book." And like Rex, I was starting to expect the unexpected when it came to Alessandra.

As she went to sit down, I made for the sideboard to fill two gla.s.ses of wine. What I wouldn't give for a cold beer right now . . .

"Still, you haven't answered the question," she said over the back of the couch. "So which is it?"

"Well," I answered, pouring the second gla.s.s. "Depends on the guy."

A wistful sigh blew from her lips. "I have several propositions to consider for tonight, so at least one of us will be getting lucky."

I lifted an eyebrow and gathered the gla.s.ses. "Oh, really?"

"Mmm. A few rather exceptional sirens from the banquet." She took a gla.s.s from me as I pa.s.sed her to sit down. "The sirens"-her eyes went starry-"as I'm sure you can imagine, are incredible lovers. They turn the whole talking during s.e.x thing into a religious experience. It's . . ."-she saluted me with her gla.s.s-"out of this world."

I'd just bet it was. I gave her a salute of my own, the Madigan salute, though I delivered it with a smile before downing a large gulp of wine. Sandra's laughter left me feeling a bit disgruntled that she was going to get lucky and I wasn't. And it wasn't really the s.e.x part; it was just being with someone, connecting, being wrapped up in strong arms and feeling safe enough to cast aside the constant guard and just relax.

Oddly enough, I did get a visit from a siren that night.

I slept hard and was deep into the usual Ahkneri dream when a burning in my lungs woke me.

Hand over my face. Large hand, cutting off my airway.

Immediately, adrenaline and panic poured into me. My pulse lurched and then began a loud, rapid pounding against my ribs and through my eardrums. I struggled, my legs tangling in the sheets.

A large shadow loomed over me, and as my vision adjusted to the dark, my senses also kicked in. Siren. And if he didn't release me soon I was going to pa.s.s out.

He leaned down. "Wh.o.r.e. Think you can hide." He removed his hand, grabbed me by the throat as I gasped for air, jerked me out of the bed, and then slammed me against the wall. My skull cracked against the stone.

Moonlight and darkness bled together as the room spun in a kaleidoscope of shapes and shades. A moment of stark fear swept through me, bitter and frigid and more painful than what the siren had just done to me. This could not be how it ended! We were so close. The Circe's ritual was in a few hours . . .

"Come here to save your traitor . . ." His fingers dug into my neck. His nose brushed mine as he leaned in. "You're too late. He's dead. And soon you will join him . . . Detective Madigan."

"Dang," I wheezed. "You found me out." Apparently, he didn't appreciate my sarcasm; he head-b.u.t.ted me in the face. Pain exploded in the front and the back of my head as it hit the wall from the force. He'd gotten me on the bridge of my nose. Hot pain pulsed out across my cheekbones. f.u.c.king h.e.l.l.

The siren released me, ripping the amulet from my neck as I slid down the wall, gasping for air and blinking back tears.

"K'a.n.a.lath."

The instant he spoke, my will took a backseat to his command. A cold sweat broke out on my skin as I fought against it. My body moved, getting to its knees in supplication. No.

"You wh.o.r.ed for a traitor. You can wh.o.r.e for me before you die."

I realized being under the lure of a siren didn't mean I lost my ability to think or reason because I was keenly aware of what I was doing. I just couldn't control my actions. From the sound of his voice, this wasn't about pleasure; this was all about punishing and demeaning me. My hands shook as I lifted them and reached for the b.u.t.ton on his pants. Don't do this, Charlie. Don't do this. My stomach turned when my fingers touched the flesh of his belly. I undid the first b.u.t.ton. G.o.dd.a.m.n it, stop! But I didn't stop. The first b.u.t.ton popped open and I moved to the second.

I had to use my power. It was the only thing left to me. Risking a physical fight to subdue this guy would be messy and loud-not that it mattered, since he had me enthralled, but even if I could fight him I knew it'd be a mistake. I couldn't risk bringing the guards. My power, however, was another story. Sachath or not, I didn't see much of a choice, and I desperately wanted to stop doing what I was doing and kick this guy's a.s.s into next week.

Having Death pay me a little visit would be worth it.

I was pretty sure the siren standing over me was the one who had made eye contact at the banquet, and the fact that he was here alone suggested that he hadn't told anyone else of his discovery. Yet. Guess he wanted that glory all to himself. His mistake.

His b.u.t.tons were undone. My hand dipped inside and curled around him. He was hard and warm, despite his aversion to me. The compulsion was there, urging my body to take him into my mouth.

I shook, trying with everything I had to stop. My heartbeat was frantic. I was sweating with the effort to stop, and every nerve was lit with energy.

No. This was not going to happen.

Okay, Sachath, rise and shine . . .

I withdrew inside of myself, concentrating on how my nerves felt, how the energy seemed to lick and snap like the flames of a raging fire. I imagined the floodgates opening and letting the powers I possessed pour into my center, the powers of both the Charbydon n.o.bles and the Elysian Adonai. Unlike before when these powers warred with each other, they now mingled and combined, fuel to my fire-my evolution at work, and something that drove me that much closer to being divine.

As the power built and filled me, it pushed the will of the siren from my body like it was nothing. I was back in control. And the siren was about to be in a world of hurt.

I squeezed hard, twisted, and stood up, spinning both of us around and shoving him into the wall as he had done to me. One hand choking him, the other squeezing the life out of his p.e.n.i.s. My amulet dropped from his hand, clattering to the floor.

The energy inside of me hummed so loud and consuming and angry I was lost in it, swept away. The symbols on my right arm began to glow. Vaguely I felt the siren struggling, heard him trying to speak, but he was immobile, unable to release any of his power against me. I was holding him and his power back.

The siren's blue gaze locked with mine and spoke of hatred and death. He said something, his lips moving, but I didn't hear a thing. The glowing symbols on my arm intensified and the same burn I'd felt holding Ahkneri's divine sword blazed down my arm, though this time it didn't hurt. But I wanted him to hurt. I wanted him to burn for what he'd tried to do to me. That was all that mattered.

Something changed in his expression. Fear replaced the hatred in his eyes. He struggled and kicked and pulled at my hand around his throat. I squeezed harder, with both hands, wanting to finish this. To make him go away. Make him go away. A surge of energy went through my right arm, down my hand, and into his now-soft p.e.n.i.s.

His eyes rolled into the back of his head.

And he burned up, from his d.i.c.k, to his groin, to his torso; he simply burned up like paper being eaten away by blue fire.

I stumbled back, wide-eyed and panting. The symbols on my arm and hand slowly dimmed and a familiar hot ache took over.

There was nothing left but ashes on the floor. Nothing left. I didn't know how long I stood there gaping at what should've been impossible, and trying to come to terms with what I'd done, what had come out of me.

Just like Llyran. Just like the sword that had cut him in two and burned him as it went. My eyes were dry and hot, stinging with unshed tears. What the f.u.c.k was-?

I was picked up and thrown across the room, landing out on the balcony on my back, the breath knocked out of me. Stars twinkled in the dark sky and the half-moon was large and bright. The smell and sound of the sea . . . it was . . . peaceful. I laughed at the ridiculousness of it as tears slipped from the corners of my eyes.