Dreams of Shreds and Tatters Part 14

Which didn't excuse the fact that he'd acted an a.s.s. Even if he was right.

Being right was a hollow sort of consolation if this was the straw that broke their relationship. Liz forgave him any number of faults: his acerbic temper, sn.o.bbery, pedantry, and probably others he was less aware of. But the one thing she couldn't forgive was a lack of compa.s.sion. Of care. And the fact that he cared for her so much it hurt would never be enough.

His last two relationships had been with people who thought only of themselves. The difference wasn't as amusing as it might have been.

But he didn't get up to apologize and Liz didn't come to bed. In the morning, he decided, he would swallow his pride. For now he could savor the bitter taste of being right, even if it soured his stomach.

When he had memorized the shadowed hotel ceiling, he opened the doors of his memory palace. Sleep might be fickle, but the ars memoriae always answered.

The doors swung inward-heavy polished teak, studded with bra.s.s and framed in floriated pillars, topped by an intricate lintel. One of dozens of architectural styles that had struck his fancy enough to incorporate into the locus. They opened into a long hallway lined with doors and niches. He'd begun the palace at thirteen, and the early wings were crude. The hall resembled something from primary school, and smelled of chalk and floor polish no matter how he added on.

The niches held books and recitations; he'd since added a library to house his university textbooks and lesson plans. He moved that way now. Perhaps Summa contra Gentiles would finally send him to sleep.

He paused at a branching corridor. Of all the rooms and halls in the burgeoning labyrinth, it alone was dark. The breeze that wafted out was cold and dusty. All his memories from Boston, the focus of which had been Samantha's study. He was almost feeling m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic enough to pick at those scabs.

Before he could decide, a door slammed in the distance, scattering echoes down the hall. A hot wind gusted, reeking of brine and chemicals and the cloying sweetness of funeral roses.

The memory palace crumbled like a sand castle and Alex jerked upright in bed. The same draft whipped through the hotel room and a strange red light filled the doorway. He stumbled up, groping for his gla.s.ses on the nightstand.

The balcony doors stood open, rattling on their hinges, curtains flapping. On the ledge, a blanket puddled at her feet, stood Liz. But the view beyond her wasn't Vancouver.

She stood silhouetted against a crimson sky-b.l.o.o.d.y light and clouds dark as scabs, and twisting alien towers beyond. She leaned against the railing, hands upraised as if to ward off a blow. Against that bleeding sky, the wrought iron barrier seemed fragile as blown gla.s.s.

She let out a breathless scream and fell.

Alex lunged with a prayer and saw it answered; she fell back and not forward, crumpling onto the narrow concrete ledge, trapping the blanket beneath her before the wind could claim it.

The red light vanished as he reached her. Alex pulled Liz into his arms, scanning the sky for anything to explain what he'd seen. But there was only the winter night and city lights like a web of stars. The shearing wind smelled only of rain and cold and the bitter blend of exhaust and ocean and wet concrete.

Liz moaned as he dragged her onto his lap, her head lolling. Her skin was scarcely warmer than the air. Moisture dripped warm onto his arm, chilling quickly; her nose was bleeding. Adrenaline spiked and he lifted her, dragging the blanket with them. The room was dark-the lamp's bulb had blown.

Alex made it to the bed before his strength gave out and retractions squeezed his ribs. His hands shook so badly he could barely get the inhaler to his mouth. He counted to sixty and sucked in another dose.

Liz moaned again. Blood trickled down her cheek, staining her hair and the sheets. Alex fumbled for a tissue and pressed it under her nose.

Was this the door the maenad had wanted open?

Her eyes fluttered, black beneath damp lashes, and she murmured something.

"You were sleepwalking," he lied. "Go back to sleep." He wiped away more blood and stroked her tangled hair until she lay still.

No chance of rest now. Adrenaline and albuterol stretched his nerves taut as piano wire, played a jangling jazz progression up and down his spine. Alex sat with his back to the creaking headboard and held Liz's hand until dawn crept cold and blue into the room.

THAT NIGHT, RAINER sat cross-legged on the cold floor of the loft, books scattered on the boards around him. Unwarded, the power contained in their pages crawled over his skin, crackled like static at every touch. They whispered in his head, ugly, seductive secrets. Men had killed for the knowledge they contained; the Brotherhood had tried hard enough to kill him after their theft.

None of their incantations could help him find Blake. He shut his burning eyes. The pa.s.sages carved themselves into his brain, Greek and Latin characters leaving simmering tracers long after he looked away. Alien energy seethed under his skin, like and unlike the power of the King. He couldn't use it to recall a lost soul-safely, at least-but he could put it to more practical use.

Stretching out his awareness, he channeled the excess power into the gallery's wards. Sigils on doors and windows flared with dull otherwise light as new strength flooded them. Enough to keep the shadow beasts at bay, he hoped.

The nape of his neck p.r.i.c.kled as the last magic bled away. Fatigue came in its wake, aching to his bones. He needed rest, but the thought galled.

How could the angel expect him to go on as if nothing had happened? Go back to selling drugs to children, teaching them parlor tricks, turning their thoughts to the King. He had buried a friend today, and tomorrow he would host a party like nothing had happened, would coddle and cajole his backers into parting with more money, woo them with free food and wine. It left a sour taste in his mouth.

Blake was worth more than that.

Rainer had known all the ways it could go wrong, of course- the drug and the oath. He'd seen the disasters in Berlin. Acolytes who burned their minds out with visions until their bodies died of shock. But the alchemy was strong enough to keep soul bound to flesh even after death, to keep the sh.e.l.l animate.

His joints popped as he straightened; a book slid off his lap with a spark and scuff of leather. He'd seen all the horrible things, all the accidents and abuses, but he'd been so certain he could avoid the Brotherhood's mistakes. He was better, after all-the one the King had chosen out of all of them, the first Morgenstern in generations to mean the vows he swore.

He snorted at his own foolishness. He'd repeated all the mistakes and made more of his own. Now Robert and Gemma and Alain were dead, and Blake was lost somewhere beyond his reach. Antja had grown distant and unhappy, and the rest of his allies were turning away out of fear or greed.

He had to put things right-with Antja, with the others. He had to bring Blake back. He was sworn to serve, but sometimes the best service was given by ignoring orders.

The floorboards chilled his feet as he unlocked the door and left the loft; the concrete steps in the stairwell were even colder. Gooseb.u.mps roughened his bare chest. The emergency exits were locked when the gallery was closed, but the door responded to his hand and will as if to a key. A witchlight floated over his head, bathing the gallery in eerie yellow light. Shadows crawled across the floor and paintings writhed on the walls. His padding steps carried through the silence as he followed the winding part.i.tions toward the center of the labyrinth.

The painting had changed. He had suspected it on the night of the opening, but now he was certain. The door opened wider. Just a fraction of an inch, enough to make him doubt his eyes. But when Blake had first painted it, only a hint of the farther world had been visible, only a suggestion of shape and shadow. Now the outline of a tower was clear, and the black horizon beyond.

Blake had slipped through that door and now he was with the King. Rainer was Chosen-shouldn't the door open for him as well?

The globe of witchlight lowered, spinning in front of his eyes. Bright tendrils lashed out, until a sigil of golden flame hung before him like a misshapen triskelion.

It wasn't, as his uncle thought, a forgotten rune, an alchemical relic. It was a name. The true name of the King, perhaps, that Rainer couldn't yet understand.

Something stirred in his blood in response to the burning sign. A chill uncoiled in the pit of his stomach, crawling through his limbs. This power had nothing to do with his own magecraft; this was the King's gift.

His heart slowed, and his blood thickened and chilled. He closed his eyes as the veins in his hands blackened. The sight still turned his stomach after all these years.

He opened his eyes and fixed them on the door. Blake had pa.s.sed through-he had to follow. He held Blake's face in his mind, wrapped the thought of him around himself like armor. The door filled his vision, carvings writhing across the marble. Rainer gathered all his power, all the alien strength inside him, and pushed.

The door opened.

Laughter reached him through the void. A woman's laugh, soft and mocking. He smelled leather and musk and bitter cloves, the viney green scent of sap. "A brave little bird to fly so far. But this isn't your place, not yet. And if you've come for your offering, don't worry-I'll take good care of him. Go home, Chosen, and wait for us."

The taste of bitter almonds filled his mouth. Then a wave of darkness poured through the open door, and crushed him beneath its weight.

12.

Bat Country

RAE WOKE TO sunlight and warm sheets. And bound hands.

Steel cuffs circled her wrists, holding them above her head; a chain sc.r.a.ped the headboard as she moved. The metal was warm from her skin, from the watery sunshine spilling across the bed. The flesh beneath the cuffs was tender, as though she'd struggled. She had no memory of it if she had. Beneath the rumpled sheet, she was naked except for her underwear.

Rae tugged against the restraints and gasped as dull fire blazed through her shoulders. Wiggling her fingers brought them from numbness to stinging pins and needles. Her left calf cramped and the pain made her eyes water. Her stomach was empty, her bladder too full.

"Is this how you usually treat guests?" she asked, because it was better than crying.

Lailah stirred, unfolding from a chair at the foot of the bed. Her palm left a red crease across her cheek. Her dark eyes were shadowed and her hair fell in coffee-colored tangles around her face. "Guests who won't quit thrashing, yes. You nearly ripped your st.i.tches out. Not to mention my face." She turned her head to show the angry pink scratches down her other cheek.

Rae remembered the night before in flashes: the alley; the dizzying drive north; a cold, silent house. Light splintering off a needle as Lailah st.i.tched the slash in her side.

Lailah stood and rolled her neck with a crackle of vertebrae. Muscles bunched and uncoiled in her shoulders as she stretched. "How do you feel?"

"Like s.h.i.t."

"Hold still," the woman said, leaning over her to unlock the cuffs. Rae held her breath against the pain as her arms fell against the pillow, heavy and useless as dead meat. Lailah stepped back and Rae saw the black gun holstered at the small of her back.

"How long have I been out?" She worked a dry tongue against the roof of her mouth. From the light she guessed it was already afternoon.

"Twelve hours, give or take." Lailah sank back into her chair. "You were raving in your sleep. About the twins, the king."

"I don't remember." It was nearly true. Only fragments lingered, flashes of dark-eyed women and writhing dancers. Rae propped herself up and glanced around the room: plain and nearly bare, as devoid of personality as a hotel. Outside the window, bare branches swayed against a cold white sky. "Bathroom?" she asked when she could move her fingers and toes again.

"Down the hall."

Her legs trembled as she slipped out of bed, and she clung to the frame until she was sure they'd hold her. She paused as she pa.s.sed the window. Winter seeped through the gla.s.s, sending gooseb.u.mps rippling down her limbs and tightening her b.r.e.a.s.t.s until they ached.

Outside, water glittered mirror-bright, framed by trees and distant mountains. Thin, striated clouds streaked the sky, stained orange in the west. Snow lay in drifts beneath the trees, milk blue and untouched by feet or tires.

"Where are we?" Rae asked. Her breath fogged the gla.s.s.

"Carroll Cove. Where your friend drowned." Lailah's eyes tightened. "You really don't know, do you?"

"No!" Irritation overcame her fear. "I don't know anything! Not why Alain drowned, or why Blake is in the hospital, or why monsters are following me. And I don't know who you are or what you want." Her tone softened. Shouting in her underwear seemed more ridiculous than righteously angry. "Why? Why bring me here?"

"It's out of the way, in case there's trouble."

"In case you need to shoot anyone, you mean?"

"That's part of it, yes. And there's a certain balance in coming back to the scene of the crime."

"What crime? What happened that night?"

"I don't know," Lailah admitted. "And I think we need to figure that out before we can stop it."

Rae wondered who she meant by we. She was about to ask, when movement caught her eye through the window. A shadow fluttered outside, a sc.r.a.p of darkness at the treeline. Lithe, winged darkness. "Oh." She raised a hand to the gla.s.s, half in wonder and half in fear. "Is that... something from beneath the skin of the world?"

"Yes." Lailah joined her at the window, a line of warmth down her back. "Something that's slipped through the cracks from the dark places. Don't worry-they can't come in unless they're invited."

Rae's eyebrows twitched. "Like vampires?"

The taller woman chuckled. "Actually, it doesn't work on vampires. Only things that were never human."

Rae hugged herself tighter. "Good to know."

Lailah shrugged. "This is as safe a place as any." She reached out and tugged the curtain shut, leaving only a narrow stripe of light.

"What now?" Rae asked, her voice fading to a whisper.

"First, get cleaned up. I'll find you something to wear. Then you can tell me a story."

RAE'S BLOOD ITCHED.

She paced the living room of the cabin, this cottage by the sea with its bland, expensive furniture, so clean and unscuffed it could have been new. Borrowed clothes hung heavy on her limbs. Lailah's clothes-a black sweater that fell to her thighs, its sleeves rolled in fat coils above her wrists. The pants were too long as well, hems folded thick, and sagged off her hips. Everything clean, but Lailah's scent lingered, metallic and bittersweet in the folds.

Above the expanse of black water, snowlight paled the sky. Night had come on while she distracted herself with a shower and tea. It had taken even longer to get through her story. The bones of it, at least: her friendship with Alain and subsequent introduction to Rainer and the gallery; Rainer's magic; Jason's growing involvement with Stephen York; the shapes she glimpsed in shadows.

"You should rest," Lailah said as Rae reached the end of the room and started back. It was the first time she'd spoken since Rae finished talking. She leaned back on the sofa, legs outstretched. Lazy as a lounging panther, and just as dangerous.

"I've rested long enough. I feel better." She did, mostly. The wound on her side had bled a little after her shower, leaking red and sticky between the st.i.tches, but now it was only a line of warmth across her ribs. The warmest thing in the chilly, empty house.

What would it have said, Rae wondered, if the dead man had finished what he started?

Her circuit took her past the sliding gla.s.s patio door, and she paused to stare at the grey world beyond. The sky was the color of a mourning dove's belly, and fat flakes of snow spun past the edge of the porch light, turning the trees into spun-sugar fairy castles. How long had it been since she'd seen a sky unstained by streetlights? Since she'd tasted clean snow?

"Don't," Lailah said as Rae reached for the door.

"Why not?" The wind that whistled past the eaves sounded like starsong.

"An open door is an invitation."

"Oh." She peeled her hand off the cold metal handle. She saw nothing but snow and trees and water outside, but who knew what waited in the farther darkness.

"What's happened to me?" she asked, settling onto the far end of the couch. What was still happening? She lifted her left hand, studying the map of veins beneath the skin. Only blue lines now, that would run red if she opened them.

Lailah reached out and took her hand, callused fingers nestling cool against her pulse. Rae shivered. "I don't know," the other woman said. "But you're lucky. We've been keeping an eye on mania for a while now. This isn't the first place it's shown up. It used to be just another drug, not much worse than smack or meth. It might have let people see things they weren't meant to, but who believes a junkie?"

Rae bit back a reply. She didn't have much use for what she was and wasn't meant to do. "Used to be?" she asked instead.

Lailah shrugged and let go of Rae's hand. "At the beginning of the month something happened. Something changed. We felt ripples of it all through the city, weird shivers we didn't understand." She grimaced. "Magic is full of weird s.h.i.t I don't understand. But whatever it was, it affected the maniacs most of all. Drove them crazy. Drove them... wrong. Killed them, sometimes-sometimes it didn't."

"Like the man in the alley," Rae whispered.

"Yes. We'd seen those shadow things before-nightgaunts, some of my people call them-but now they're worse. They're hunting something. Maniacs, as far as I can tell." For an instant her dark eyes were soft with sympathy, before she drew on her cool mask again. "You're the one who's been taking this stuff. What do you think changed?"

"I don't know." Rae rubbed her arms. Lailah was right: something had happened at the beginning of December. That was when the stars had begun to call her. "There was... a door. A door opening."