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Nate and Ryleigh went through a series of plans, discarding each one as unworkable, impractical, or too high risk.
Finally, Ryleigh rubbed her forehead and sighed. "I am out of ideas, and none of the ones we've talked about are going to work long term."
"Same," Nate said. "We got to find a way to keep everyone safe without giving the countess what she wants."
A rasping crackle came from Ryleigh's handbag, and she pulled the strap over her head, holding the purse out in front of her. A snake, small at first, but growing rapidly, spilled out. Scaled in black and silver, the reptile's head was like that of a dragon, long scales sweeping back from the eyes, curving around two horns before blending into the shorter, oval-shaped neck scales. A long, narrow snout and thin, tooth-edged mouth ridge, complete with a pair of long incisors overhanging the lower jaw, suggested the creature was venomous. Even if it wasn't, a bite from that mouth could definitely kill.
Scrambling backward, Ryleigh and Nate quickly fetched up against the far wall. Dust rained over them, filling the air in a choking haze.
The snake didn't move, merely watched them with what might have been curiosity or hunger. There was no way to tell which predominated.
Reaching for the ley lines, Ryleigh prepared herself for battle. She much preferred the gentler magick of spells and potions, but neither operated fast enough to be of use in a fight, and she had nothing martial with her. She glanced at Nate. She wouldn't let him be hurt if she could help it.
Pushing to her feet, she palmed a ball of red and green fire, the normal blue-green color tinged with her aura. The serpent turned its head, tracking the light as she moved, balancing on the balls of her feet for a quick jump if it should strike.
Though magickal and far larger than any snake she'd ever heard of, Ryleigh was counting on it being similar to other snakes in most aspects, including their notoriously poor eyesight.
"You can go anytime you like," she said to it. "We won't keep you."
The giant head bobbed slightly and a sibilant, warbling hiss issued from its mouth. Is the damn thing laughing?
"Could we?" it asked. "And what do you suppose the citizens of Belfast would do should they find a snake with an obsidian necklace about its neck slithering down the street?"
Ryleigh blinked. In her fear, she hadn't noticed, but the serpent was indeed wearing a silver collar around its neck, just under the jaw. What was holding it up, she couldn't tell, but a dagger shaped pendant hung from it, a round, faceted black jewel embedded in the top.
She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. "If you shrank back down, they might not even notice."
"My dear, there hasn't been a wild snake in Ireland since the fifth century. I assure you; people would notice. And then there would be a great deal of screaming and stomping and swinging of clubs. No, thank you."
"Stay the size ya are, then. Head for the sea. A beastie your size could swim to the islands in a day or too, I'm betting," Nate said.
Ryleigh glanced down at him, wishing he'd keep his mouth shut. If he stayed quiet, there was a chance the size of a gnat's ass that the snake would forget about him. The serpent made another of those hissing, warbling sounds, and she sighed. The thing was laughing at them. She just knew it.
"The Irish Sea is colder than Circe's breasts in a brass brassiere. I would soon succumb to cold-induced hibernation and Caraigama would be stuck on the ocean floor. Please try again."
Nate opened his mouth and Rachel took a step forward, cutting him off with her best school-teacher scowl. "We've offered two ideas that you didn't like. What do you suggest? And if you are hungry, I warn you, we..." She paused and gestured to Nate and herself with the energy orb. "Are not on the menu."
The serpent reared back, black eyes glinting. "Whatever you may have heard, I do not eat humans. Neither do I consume demons nor witches, nor meat of any kind, in fact." Ignoring the magick fire in Ryleigh's palm, the snake loomed closer until they were almost nose to snout. "I am Ouroboros, eater of time itself, and I need no other sustenance."
The orb flickered and went out. Ryleigh’s knees buckled as she felt its energy roll through her, sucked into her skin and then through her body back to the ley line from which she'd channeled it.
Ouroboros pulled back, rising above them again, and flicked his tongue out like a man licking his lips after a particularly excellent meal. "That was delicious."
Ryleigh stared at her empty hand. "What did you do?"
"I reversed the time continuum for your little bit of ley line sparkle. Sent it back whence it came." He did the hiss-warble thing again, apparently finding the situation highly amusing.
"You can do that?" Nate asked in awed tones.
The giant head swung to face him. "I just did. So, yes."
"What did you eat?" Ryleigh asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. The snake swung her way.
"Time, my dear. The minutes had to go somewhere, did they not? And I was hungry, so I ate them." He rose up again. "Now, back to the matter at hand. We have a proposition for you. A temporary alliance, if you will."
"As long as it doesn't involve your teeth slicing into our chests, I might be open to a deal," Nate said.
Ryleigh scowled at him, but didn't interrupt as Ouroboros explained.
DRAKAT SAT BACK IN the red, crushed-velvet upholstery of her favorite chaise and nibbled on a grape. The soft silk of her palazzo pants caressed her skin soothingly, while the flaring overskirt of silk brocade, slit up the front to allow freedom of movement, added a touch of elegance. A matching vest over a white shirt completed the outfit, giving her an air of moneyed comfort.
The room was furnished in British nobility's version of shabby chic. An emerald green roll-armed couch paired with a matching chaise lounge to form an L, with a Queen Anne coffee and end tables in walnut providing richness as well as comfort. A book entitled, The Seven Stones: Myth, Magick, and the Truth, lay open on the table closest to the chaise.
A fireplace large enough to roast a pig in took up an entire wall. Built-in bookshelves held tomes on every subject from romance to torture on the opposite side of the room. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, its crystals shaped like stars and half-moons.
Drakat popped another grape into her mouth. The only sign of her impatience was the twitch afflicting her left eye. Her servant, a lesser demon, kept watch on the twitch and the nearest window as he filled her glass for the fourth time in less than thirty minutes. So long as the affliction didn't spread, he was safe.
If the other eye started twitching, he was headed for that window, and never mind the glass. He'd lived through worse falls. He'd never survive another of Drakat's rages.
"Marg, where is our little Grag, do you suppose?" Drakat murmured, her voice slow and even, almost melodic.
"I d-d-don't know, ma'am," Marg stammered. He wasn't fooled. She'd been very quiet the last time she'd beat him. He'd been a hair's breadth from dying when she stopped, proclaiming that she'd rather not train another server.
Dropping the grapes on the bronze tray, she rose gracefully. Marg sidled toward the window.
"I'm feeling restless," Drakat said. "I believe I'll go find him." She turned her goat eyes on Marg. "But first..." She pulled her foot back slowly as her servant cowered.
The door burst open and two burly lesser demons hurried in. Dressed in wife-beater tank tops, leather vests and dungarees, their feet encased in jack-boots, the two might as well have had 'thug' stenciled on their forehead. They carried Grag between them, his feet dangling several inches off the stone floor. "Found him creeping down the alley behind the Cracked Cauldron, Countess," one of the demons said. "Brought him to you straight away, just like you said."
Drakat sniffed. "Did you catch him before, or after you enjoyed a pint inside?" Her lip curled, revealing a pair of yellow fangs. "All three of you smell of ale and sweat."
The guards flushed, looking down at their scuffed boots. Slowly, they lowered Grag until his feet brushed the floor.
"Not there, idiots," Drakat snapped. "Put him on the couch. Marg, put a blanket down first. We can burn it later, but I don't want his stink on my furniture."
Marg hurried to obey and, at a gesture from Drakat, scuttled out.
"You two." Drakat pointed at the lesser demons. "Out. But don't go far. This is a private conversation, but I may need you afterward for..." She trailed off, a seductive smile curving her lips as she glanced from them to Grag, her eyes alight with malice. "Trash detail."
The demons scurried from the room, leaving Grag alone with his mistress.
The imp pressed back into the cushions, raising his hands pleadingly. "They wasn't there, mistress. I looked for my pack, but it wasn't there neither. I did my best, I swear it."
"Not good enough," she said, her tone gentle, but rage burned in her eyes and Grag pushed further into the cushions.
"Wait!" he shrieked as Drakat reached for him, her sharp talons glinting under the chandelier. "I didn't come back empty handed. She's here."
A flicker of interest made Drakat lower her hand an inch. "Who is here?"
"I didn't catch the name, but I recognized her. The witch who destroyed Blackwell's house and killed him."
Relaxing, Drakat scooped up her wine glass and sipped. "Where did you see her?"
"At Trócaire House while I was searching for my backpack. She knows about the stone."
Drakat moved so fast, Grag didn't have time to flinch. One instant, he was hunched on the couch, the next he was flying through the air. He slammed into the stone wall and slid to the floor, groaning.
"You told her about the stone? You imbecile! No one is to know. If Luci—" She caught herself before saying the name aloud. Names had power, and in the case of demons, speaking one's name had a tendency to spark an unwanted appearance. "If the emperor hears that a soul stone is in play, you can bet he'll show up."
She stalked after Grag, reaching for him with malicious intent.
He cowered. "I didn't tell her," he lied. "She already knew. That's why she's here. Looking for it. Wants to take it for herself, doesn't she?"
Drakat pounced, gripping Grag's tattered shirt front and hoisting him off the floor. She flung him back on the blanket draped couch. "You're lying. If you found it as you said you did, how would she know you had it, or that it was even in Blackwell's possession?"
She flounced to the chaise and reclined, artfully arranging her brocade skirt before popping another grape into her mouth. Swallowing, she continued her musings. "If there's one thing I know about Blackwell, it's that he never gives up anything he doesn't have to, including information. No tells, that man. And he's always three steps ahead. Or was."
She eyed the imp speculatively. "I think it's time you give me a few more details about Blackwell's supposed death. You know you were not allowed to leave his service without my express permission so long as he lived, yes?"
Grag swallowed hard. "Of course, mistress. I wouldn't never be so disobedient. He was dead as coffin nails or I would never have returned to you."
Nodding like she believed him, Drakat asked, "did you actually see the body?"
Eyes darting as if looking for an escape route, Grag answered, and Drakat could smell the lie as it rolled off his tongue. "I erm... 'Course I did. Umm, all twisted up, he was, like from a black curse."
Drakat nodded wisely. "Did you check his pulse? For breathing? You know your contract included helping him if he was ill or in danger?"
"Wasn't needed, was it?" Grag whined guiltily. "He was dead, right enough. Nothing I could do for him. And I saw Bletch dead in the hallway. Then a giant serpent chased me, and after that, the harpy attacked me. If Blackwell was alive, his beasts wouldn't have stayed free, would they?"
"Poor Grag," Drakat said, her voice dripping false sympathy. "What a terrible time you had." She closed her eyes in thought, chewing on another grape.
The imp is lying, that much is certain, but why? Could it be that he murdered Blackwell? Who would have suspected Grag had the balls to kill his master without my permission? But if Grag killed Blackwell, then he owns the Caraigama by bloodright. He must. It wouldn't have worked for him otherwise. This does put a brighter spin on the situation, though. All I have to do is kill Grag, and the stone is mine. Best if I have Caraigama in my possession first, though. Grag can help with that.
Aware of Grag's nervous gaze, Drakat brought herself back to the conversation. "You make a decent point, but if you hadn't seen his corpse, I would say he could be imprisoned, rather than dead." She raised an inquiring brow, and Grag almost fell off the couch in his haste to reassure her.
"He's dead all right. The witch killed him stone cold with her magick."
"Which begs the question: who is this witch who you say managed to kill the most powerful dark mage in the U.S.?"
Stammering, Grag tried to respond, but Drakat waved a languid hand. "I know you don't know her name, Grag. You'd sell your soul, paltry as it is, to save yourself a moment's discomfort. You'd have given me her name if you had it. So, I need another way."
She rose, graceful as a willow, and moved to sit beside Grag on the couch. Leaning in, she sniffed deeply, grimacing at the stench. But when she sat back, there was a satisfied smile on her face. "You smell of ley line energy. Did she spell you during your little... conversation?"
Flushing darker green, Grag nodded sullenly. "Called up a binding, quick as you please. I broke it though," he said, his shoulders squaring with pride. "Found me some salt, didn't I? Got free of the binding and escaped through a window."
"Ooo, well done!" Drakat sat up and clapped her hands, smiling. Then the smile faded. "But you escaped without getting me what I need, didn't you?"
"It wasn't there," Grag whined. "I tried, didn't I? Couldn't find what wasn't there, could I?"
"I see. Did you at least find out who these people are? A name, perhaps? Or why they are here?"
"No, mistress. There wasn't time, and she was mad strong. I did my best, I swear it."
Sighing, Drakat rolled her eyes, all trace of amusement gone. "I'm sure you did, such as it was." She snapped her fingers and a dagger appeared in her hand, the blade curved as a serpent’s spine.
Gasping, the imp tried to run, but her other hand closed around his ankle, stopping him.
"Did the binding touch your skin anywhere?" Drakat asked in the same casual tone one might inquire as to the location of a tattoo.
Eyes locked on the knife, Grag shook his head mutely.
"Liar," Drakat whispered. Jerking the imp close, she sniffed him until she found a spot of exposed skin just below his elbow. "Her magick touched you right here. I can smell it." Gripping his arm, she held him still and sliced off a quarter sized round of flesh. Grag screamed, kicking his legs. Drakat flung him back onto the couch, the disk of bloody skin balanced on her blade.
Ignoring the imp's sobs, she went to the bookshelves and pulled out a volume covered in brown leather, titled with gold lettering. She poked her hand into the space it left behind and pressed a button, then stepped back, the book still in her hand.
The case swung inward, revealing a spiral staircase beyond it. To the left was a hallway, with the stairs directly ahead, and Drakat put her foot on the first one. An instant later, she reversed course and poked her head through the secret entrance. "Marg?" she shouted.
The lesser demon hustled into the room through the main door. "Yes, ma'am?"
"Keep an eye on him. Don't let him leave, and don't let him touch anything. His fingers are sticky as marmalade and not nearly so sweet."
"Of course, ma'am."
Drakat disappeared through the secret exit, letting the shelves swing closed behind her. The stairs wound upward, and she took them two at a time to a room at the top, directly under the belfry.
The space she entered was a large, round room, rectangular windows spaced evenly around the wall. The door she'd come through was the only entrance, solid oak with a full length, oval mirror framed in matching wood next to it. Runes etched the mirror frame, archaic and suspicious. If you stared at them long enough, you'd swear they moved, but if you blinked, they went still once more.
A long, wooden table was the only freestanding furniture, and it took up the middle third of the room. The floor under it was stone, with an inverted pentagram engraved deep into the rock. A circle incised the center of the pentagram.
Bookcases fanned out in both directions from the door and mirror, stopping at the first window on either side. The opposite wall held a sink and glass-fronted cabinets. The table bore a second, upside down pentagram carved into its top, but no table cloth. A candle sat on each point, their spent wax adhering them to the surface. A gold chalice sat in the center, empty and waiting.
Setting the dagger carefully on the table outside the pentagram, Drakat opened the first cabinet and took out a decanter of dark liquid, pouring the cup full before putting the decanter back. Humming softly, she snapped her fingers over each candle, causing the wicks to burst into flame.
She slid the patch of skin down to the tip of the dagger with her nail and then lifted it carefully to dip the bloody flesh into the cup. Gray steam rose, and she dipped it again. The steam went black and Drakat dipped the skin a third time.
The steam brightened into a red orb streaked with orange and blue. The colors swirled and twisted as Drakat muttered in a language so dark it traced burn marks in the air.
Slowly, the swirling resolved into an image. A woman with long, white-blonde hair and an oval face looked back at her. Drakat couldn't see much of the woman's surroundings, but she noted the dimly illuminated space looked like a typical sitting room, with a door on one side and windows on the other.
"Who are you?" the woman asked, her brow furrowing.
"That isn't important," Drakat replied. "What I want to know is, who are you?"
The woman snorted. "I asked you first," she said.
Picking up the knife, Drakat pricked her finger and allowed a single drop of blood to fall into the chalice. The woman in the smoke flickered, her expression changing from mockery to pain in an instant.
"Who are you?" Drakat asked again. "Tell me, or—"
The flickering stopped, and the pain ebbed from the woman's expression. The orange streaks in the aura flared brighter as the red haze darkened to the reddish brown of dried blood. "Is that all you got, Drakat?"
Shock rippled through the demoness and she fought against taking a step back from her own spell. "You know my name. How?"
The woman shrugged. "I'm not giving you any information, and I'm a little busy, so I'm going to need you to release the summoning." Her gaze hardened. "Now."
Squeezing her finger over the chalice, Drakat allowed three more drops of blood to fall into the liquid.
The woman's face twisted in agony, and a cry broke free of her lips. The door behind her crashed open as a man rushed in, shouting. Bands of purple light surged through the image, fragmenting it. The smoke returned, white and ethereal, but empty.
Drakat's mouth hung open, and she closed it slowly. "What the hell was that?" she wondered in a soft voice. Reviewing the past few moments in her mind, she allowed herself a grin as she recalled the word the man had shouted.
Char. Her enemy's name was Char, with a soft ch rather than a hard one — so not char as in a burned stick, but probably a shortened version of a longer name.
Like Charlotte.
