Enormous thanks to the lovely people who commented on the last part - thank you Dwayberry and Meg.
Lyrics taken from the deliciously spooky Goodnight Moon by Shivaree (Album: I Oughtta Give You A Shot In The Head for Making Me Live In THis Dump. Yes. It really is called that.)
Shimmer Part Seven
There's a shark in the pool and a witch in the tree
There's a crazy old neighbour and he's been watching me
And there's footsteps loud and strong coming down the hall
Something's under the bed - now it's out in the hedge
There's a big black crow sitting on my window ledge
And I hear something scratching through the wall
Watching Iry Lupine secure his home was an education. First came the locks on the door – five of them, a gleaming array of metal. Then came the shutters on the windows, thicker than one might expect in a normal home and fitted with yet more formidable locks. As he moved around the house, they heard the clicks and clanks of other bolts.
The house itself was worn and cosy, like a pair of old slippers. Everything was in earthy colours, browns and bronzes and muted greens. Wooden shelves filled with dust-crowned books lined one side of the living room,.
On the opposite wall, he'd affixed weapons: a heavy notched sword, an old rifle, and blades made of wood and what looked to be iron. They could be easily lifted from their brackets, she noted, and all were clean, as if they were well-tended.
Chatoya had to wonder what the werewolf was so afraid of.
He came back in with the air of a man waiting out a siege. "Well, the old place is locked down tight as I can. That'll buy us a bit of time if they find us."
"How much?" said Jepar, sounding nervous.
Iry shrugged. "Not a lot. But it might make the difference. There's a tunnel in my cellar that leads back into the woods. I've called a couple of my friends, asked 'em to check the way out's clear. I get the go-ahead, you scarper."
"You said the Furies might be after us." Chatoya pronounced the word carefully, not sure she'd heard him right. "Who are they?"
Those grey eyes met hers, startled. "You ain't heard of the Furies?"
"They're Greek legends, aren't they?" she said, though she had the feeling that wasn't what he meant.
"Well, yeah, that's where the name came from. Vengeance gods. But when you or me say the Furies, we're talkin' about Nightfire, K'Shaia and Pursang."
She looked at him blankly.
"You've never..." He shook his head. "You've led a quiet life."
The words should have stung, perhaps. But she only said, "Until recently."
"They're mercenary organisations, darlin'," he said. "And every member is an assassin. No one outside knows too much about 'em an' they like it that way. They train to kill from when they're kids an' all the mercy an' all the softness is beaten out of 'em by the time they're ready. They're very, very expensive because they're the best in the Nightworld. Or the worst, dependin' on how you look at it."
"They don't just kill," said Jepar, his voice low. When she glanced over his face was taut. "They're trained to get information too. My dad...my dad once had a woman come to him. Her husband had been tortured by them and she wanted his help. He went with her, but he came back that night. Said there was nothing he could do." Anguish flared in his eyes. "I saw him on the porch later with my mom. He cried. He said that what they'd done...how they'd left that man..." He took a deep breath. "They made my dad helpless. I didn't know anyone could do that."
And they wanted her. They thought she knew where the spell was, when she knew nothing at all.
"You need to get out of Ryars Valley," said Iry, solemn.
"And then what?" she demanded. "Run forever?"
He only looked back, his eyes sad.
"I have to fight them, don't I?" she mumbled. "I have to fight them and I have to win. People must have stopped them before."
"It's happened," said Iry, his tone holding a certain amount of scepticism. "But not often. An' not recently. The Furies'd need a very good reason to stop huntin' you."
She met his eyes, as cold and implacable as winter. "Then I'd better find one, hadn't I?"
oOo
Jepar was trying to control his rising panic. He was trying to banish the memory of his father's distraught face. If there was one thing he knew, it was not to mess with the Furies.
Even Iry Lupine, a born survivor, could give them no better advice than to run.
Worse, Cougar had vanished from their conversation without so much as a word. That was unlike him.
So, anxious, he reached out through the valley to try and find the vampire.
Cougar?
JJ! That familiar voice sounded drained. Go away! He's looking for you, get the hell away-
And someone new cut in – a soft, vicious whisper that had the ring of triumph.
Too late. Looks like curiosity may not kill the cat, but it's certainly an accessory
The connection was chopped off. Jepar was jolted back to the living room, his heart wild and pounding.
"They know where we are," he gasped.
One look at him and Iry's face hardened. "Don't tell me you were dumb enough to have a stroll on the astral plane while armed bastards are chasin' you!"
"I didn't think..."
"Yeah, that's obvious. Right. No time to waste – you two need to get down to the cellar. Come on!" Iry was out the door in a flash – they followed him into the kitchen where he moved a cabinet to reveal a hatch in the floor, as covered in locks as every other way into the house.
He crouched down to slide the first bolt – and they heard it.
oOo
Rat-a-tat-tat.
It echoed off the tiles, a hollow, sinister sound. And it came from the trapdoor.
Iry froze. His lips skinned back to bare a wolf's sharp teeth. With a twist of his wrist, he slammed the bolt shut again. And in its wake came the knocking, faster, more desperate.
Rat-a-tat-tat.
"They've found us, haven't they?" Chatoya said, the pressure on her temples like pincers. She breathed through the pain, ignoring it. Pain was better than panic.
"Looks like. Guess we fight." Iry's eyes were gleaming red. He brushed by them, back into the living room. "Knew there was a reason I kept them weapons sharp."
"You don't have to do this," said Jepar, his voice hesitant. "You could hand us over."
Part of her cursed him for his softness as Iry stopped, back rigid. Yes, of course he could: of course he probably should. But if they had to face down the Furies, she would rather do it with a werewolf at her side.
"Only if he wants to explain why he did it," she said into the uneasy silence that followed. "Lisa will ask."
"Enough." The one word was a bark. "Leave the guilt trip, darlin'. I'll fight with you because I choose to, because it's right, no hamhanded manipulatin' needed."
"She's not-" began Jepar.
Iry cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Not important now. Arm up, children. It's about to get interestin'."
Arm up. She wanted to laugh. She'd never held a weapon in her life. But she drew down a wooden knife from the wall. It felt odd in her hand, too heavy, the hilt worn smooth from use. From the kitchen, the knocking continued until her nerves were on edge from it, waiting for whatever must come.
Rat-a-tat-
Iry slammed the door on shut on the noise. With no great surprise, she saw that this too was barricaded just as thoroughly as everything else. Once he'd secured it, the werewolf took down a couple of guns and that big, scary sword.
Jepar looked as nervous as her, but he checked over the gun he'd taken as if he knew what he was doing.
"Right. You kids watch the front. I'll handle whatever's goin' to come through the kitchen." Iry faced the door, light on his feet.
There wasn't anything else to do but obey. She wished she knew better spells, fiercer ones. What little battle magic she'd learned had been for scraps and duels, not for this. Not for life or death.
An almighty crash boomed through the kitchen. She flinched, half-turning before she remembered that wasn't what she was supposed to do.
"There goes the hatch," muttered Iry.
Then another noise broke past her harsh breath. Grating metal, then a click.
Her eyes fixed on the door. One by one, the bolts were undoing themselves. "Jepar..." she whispered.
"I see it." He was there in a trice, tugging at them. "They won't close!"
"Get back," she bit out, seeing with sudden clarity the door bursting open, throwing him across the room. "We have to be ready!"
Something hit the other door as Jepar retreated, his face white as milk. Iry swore.
The last bolt slid back.
The door swung open, letting in a dazzling lance of sunlight. She blinked, trying to clear her vision-
And she saw him.
His hair was what she noticed first. It had to be; short, spiky and a shade of blue that stood out like a flame, it was lurid against his white skin. He was as pale as if he'd never seen the sunlight, as if his whole world was shadows and nightfall.
And then she met his eyes.
They were a stark, luminous blue: as cold and bright as dawn over the North Pole, and empty of compassion. And she was suddenly free of pain, free of everything, because there was something dizzying in his stare, like looking down over a chasm and wondering what was in the darkness beneath, what she'd see if she fell...
A gun exploded next to her – she jumped, breaking the deadlock.
Then she saw him more clearly: a boy no older than her, his face as sculpted and sharply defined as marble, and every bit as empty of humanity. He hadn't flinched from the bullet buried in the doorframe.
"Leave us alone," said Jepar, his voice somewhere between a shout and snarl.
The boy leaned on the doorframe, casual, fearless. The arrogance in his voice reminded her of Cougar. "Hand her over and I will."
"What do you want from me?" she said.
His eyelids lowered, and there was a sinful purr to his voice. "Secrets, witch. All the secrets you don't want to tell me."
"I don't have any secrets," she said, her voice flat. The headache was vanishing every time she looked at him. That wasn't right: he wasn't right.
"Lie to yourself if you want." His mouth curved, the smile small and meaningless. "We'll find the truth if we have to peel it off your bones."
"Cute." Iry's voice came from behind her. "Just like you. Sure you kids are old enough to be out on your own?"
She saw then what he had noticed: the others behind the boy were young too, all of them no older than herself and Jepar. They couldn't be fully-trained assassins, surely?
The boy didn't take umbrage. "Old enough. Smart enough. And definitely dangerous enough." He straightened, and the knives he drew gleamed as bright as his smile. "Can't say the same for you, it seems. You were easy to find."
Those hungry eyes moved to her: she was caught again, pinned again, sinking under the emptiness of his stare.
When his voice sprang into her mind, she gasped. The words were soft, intimate, silky. Shame on you, Chatoya Irkil. A girl with power should know how to conceal it.
Power? She felt her lips move but no sound came out. Her head was spinning.
Power. It's in you, isn't it, and they wonder what they see, these fools and liars. They think it's vulnerability, or courage, or hope. None of them see what's really there.
She heard Jepar, as if from a great distance. "Toya!"
Nothing's there. I'm just a witch.
Very cunning. Your conviction is almost believable. But do you know what I see when I look at you?
She shook her head, quelled by the knowledge that swirled like riptides in his eyes. He had seen people die, watched them while he smiled his cold, perfect smile and spoke his cold, perfect words. This was not someone who lived, but who merely observed, who held all he saw in contempt.
Contempt is dangerous, she thought. It takes away the part of us that has any sort of compassion. And it leaves us like him.
He stepped forward: she couldn't move, helpless as a fly thrashing in a web. Then arms wrapped around her, dragged her back until she was pressed to Jepar. And he was real, warm, here. She drank in that strength, that fearless faith.
In the boy's blue eyes, worlds spun and dropped into darkness.
"A mirror," he whispered.
And she was afraid, because Chatoya understood then that she couldn't break the spell he held over, because he didn't hold her by fear or power. He held her by something she had never thought she would find in the eyes of an ice-blooded killer.
He held her by understanding.
He could see the part of her that had no compassion. The part that matched him, emptiness for emptiness, that was shadows and nightfall and chasms.
His lips parted-
And the door from the kitchen crashed open. Iry yowled and raised the sword – only to lower it as Cougar, Lisa and Sonj tumbled through, dirty and dishevelled.
Cougar dusted himself off and gave the room a fanged, angelic smile. "Little bro!" he said as it clicked just why the boy looked so familiar. Same sullen mouth, same chiselled face. And it looked like the attitude was a genetic hand-me-down too. "You have really upped your brand of creepy smack-talk in the last year. A mirror, huh. Good analogy. Seven out of ten. Not sure about the sidekicks though. And the black. It's a little bit, uh, ninja turtle."
The boy's expression was one of distaste. "Have you actually interrupted my massacre to offer fashion advice?"
Those gold eyes were fierce, but she noticed Cougar's hands were clenched behind his back and trembling. "Nah. I interrupted it to kick your ass."
"Another bad decision in a long line of them," said the boy acidly. "How delightful to see that your poor judgement is still getting people killed."
Those words made Cougar flinch, but he didn't back off. "Weird. Could have sworn that was you, Blue. Hear you're getting famous."
The boy's smile gleamed, and it was all ice and spite. "Infamous. Whereas as you have what to your name, exactly?"
"My aim," said Cougar, and hurled something that whipped past in a shiny blur.
There was a sound, like a ball hitting a glove. Blue had caught the knife.
By the blade.
She stared, disbelieving.
"Very amusing," commented Blue. "And very stupid."
"Six of us," snapped Cougar. "Three of you."
"I can see I'm a little outnumbered here," Blue said. For a second, Chatoya thought she glimpsed surrender, capitulation in his stance. Then his glance swung to her again and she felt the force there pin her to the spot. "And I thought...so what?"
And then there was chaos.
oOo
There were only four of them, but they fought like demons. The air was a dervish of knives and fists and feet. She somehow blocked the first blow with the knife she held, and felt her stomach churn when blood splattered the air before the assassins slapped her so hard she spun in the side of a sofa.
The space was too small for the anarchy contained within it. Cougar and his brother were locked in a battle that seemed intensely personal, intensely vicious. It was snarling teeth, blows driven by hatred and memories, unending. Then Blue kicked out Cougar's feet from under him: he was on his back, and throat bared as Blue raised the knife for the final stroke-
Sonj grabbed his arm in a desperate dive and they tumbled away. Her elbow connected with his face: fire crackled from her fingers in silver light and he hit her into a wall. She staggered, gasping.
Chatoya thought she was dead then – and so did Cougar. "Sonj!"
There was anguish in that cry, need, emotion thick as blood.
And it made Blue pause. He looked at Sonj, thoughtful, as if she had suddenly become interesting. His fist connected with her jaw: she slumped, out cold, a heap of red hair and limp limbs.
Someone grabbed Chatoya – she reacted, magic blasting through her hands. It was enough to throw them back but nothing more. Then she saw the knife slicing down towards her.
She was no longer in Iry Lupine's house, but in a dark street, watching her twin die. Time became glutinous, the world sharpening around her to crystal clarity, and at its apex was the knife.
There was only this.
She could see every detail on the blade, every glint and scratch and notch.
Just light and lines.
In that instant, she understood how Blue had caught that knife. Only light and lines. Light and lines couldn't hurt her. It was so easy, just to reach out to that slowly falling blade, to clasp her hand around light and lines, which shouldn't, wouldn't, couldn't hurt her.
She blinked and suddenly she was back in the midst of the turmoil, holding a knife by the blade while a boy clad in black stared at her with obvious shock. All she could see of him were his eyes, a shade of dove-grey, and they were filled with fear.
He was afraid of her.
She mustn't lose the advantage. And Chatoya knew exactly what to do. She had watched a master of the art hold a roomful of people spellbound.
She let her mouth curve up in a small, secretive smile. Magic blossomed in her skin until she glowed with it, until unseen wind lifted her hair into a swirl of black.
Horror grew in his eyes. She was more than a girl then: she was alien and unfathomable. She was the death he had not considered, and for that brief moment, she owned him. In his eyes, the possibilities multiplied, each more grotesque than the last – fire, flaying, she could do anything...
Chatoya kicked him.
He went over with a scream that sounded more relieved than pained and she took the opportunity to kick him in the ribs, the neck and finally the head several times. It might not have been elegant, but it was efficient.
Metres away, she saw Jepar smile briefly as he threw someone over his shoulder with ease and moved to slam a very dishonourable punch at the next person in line. Lisa had his back, moving with the grace of a dancer.
"Very clever," she heard a voice say. It was her only warning before a relentless grip seized her - she was spun, staggering. Before she could recover, Blue had a knife at her throat, his back to the wall, her body a shield.
Paralysis washed over her like a waterfall. And it felt like fear, this coldness, this churning as she met his heartless eyes, but she wasn't sure it was.
What she saw made her want to die because even death was better than what she saw in his stare. She recognised it then: that clarity, that practicality, that emptiness.
It was what she saw in the mirror every morning.
Well, you're up so high
How can you save me?
When the dark comes in tonight to take me
Up to my front walk and into the bed
Where it kisses my face and eats my head…
oOo