Chapter 10
"If you hadn't evaporated all of the water, I could have acted sooner."
Dalca just rolled his eyes and continued the climb out of the grotto.
He bore Mara's gloating and chastisements as the two made their way to the surface. It hadn't taken long to confirm every last remnant of Shyeth had been destroyed, and then Dalca had broken the circle and begun the climb, all while the water vâlvă touted her own virtues and lamented his failures.
"You should have realized the chimeras were carving a circle around you," Mara continued.
"I was a little preoccupied," Dalca replied.
"Helpless without me," she repeated.
Dalca shook his head, but let her haver her moment. As the two emerged from the grotto, it was to find a terrified Jean Wilson waiting with the Luger and sword in hand. Jean fired the pistol before Dalca had cleared the path through the roots. The enchanted round struck him in the chest as he was still climbing out.
No pretty fireball erupted as it hit. No pyrotechnics accompanied the bullet. The spell simply unleashed a storm of kinetic energy that had been stored within the round.
Dalca grunted as raw power ripped across his chest. With his power restored, Dalca's body reacted reflexively to protect him. Every inch of his skin hardened into the reptilian hide as the spell whipped about in a violent whirlwind. But despite the protective form saving him from the worst of it, the explosive force was enough to fling him back down the hole.
He brought a hand up as he slammed into the exposed roots, anticipating the next attack before he'd regained his balance. Power thrummed out from his palm as Jean completed her advance on the submerged entrance.
Just as the girl began to pull the trigger a second time, a dark dome of black light sprung into existence between them. The shimmering wall of obsidian was enshrouded with the same ultrascarlet nimbus as the unraveling spells, for it was simply another manifestation of the same thing.
The unraveling shield was costly in terms of power, but it could stop almost everything. Even enchanted blades struggled with it. The second round struck the wall and went no further, exploding on the surface and reflecting the kinetic storm back at the shooter.
Luckily for the girl, the unraveling nature of the spell destroyed most of the enchantments on the projectile. The force that ricocheted back at her was little more than a violent wind, which sent Jean sprawling even as Dalca leapt from the hole with unnatural speed, the shield spell snapping out of existence as he passed through it.
The girl was shaken by the blow, but recovered quickly. Her hand rose as Dalca did, the Luger pointed at his head.
And then her wrist exploded in a curtain of blood as Mara flickered into sight, her claws and tail shredding the girl's flesh.
Jean screamed as her grip on the gun failed, and the weapon tumbled to the ground. She fell to her knees in the snow, but maintained enough clarity to keep hold of the sword. Her wounded arm was cradled against her belly as she tried lifting the blade, but the weight of it was too much for her to manage.
She knelt there as Dalca strode forward, her tear-streaked face defiant as she awaited her fate.
Dalca glanced to one side, where he saw the brew kit he'd salvaged sitting on a bare spot of turf. "See, I told you I left it in the tunnel. She must have come down to retrieve it. I'm not going crazy." Mara just rolled her eyes.
"I was going to help you!" the girl screamed. "I felt bad for letting you go face that… that demon alone! Only you're one, too!"
Dalca looked at the pitiful wretch huddling in the snow. She'd had a rough few days, and now the hero she thought that'd come to save her had revealed himself to be just another villain.
"You saw that, did you?" he asked softly.
"Of course I saw it!" she screamed, her eyes furious. "I saw all of it! I saw what you are!"
Dalca doubted she'd seen everything. If she had, she would have been long gone. Or maybe she thought running was futile. He'd had her blood, after all. Maybe she thought the only chance she had was killing him as he emerged.
Not an unsound strategy. But ultimately futile.
He sighed. "That's… unfortunate. But unavoidable, I suppose."
The girl screamed as he went for her.
Just before dawn, a quickly outmatched White River Fire Department had to respond to three raging fires that erupted simultaneously across the small town.
Their first priorities were the police station and motel. The former was vacant save for Night Officer Tremblay, who was missing when they finally declared the place safe enough to enter. The latter was evacuated quickly, the few occupants being hastily sent to the second motel down the road while they battled the blazes from the office and one guest room. There was no sign of the office clerk that had been working the night shift.
The last fire to be extinguished was the one at the Wilson residence. Isolated at the end of the road, only the one neighboring house was in any danger. But the ever-present snow made sure to extinguish any arrant cinders that drifted from the inferno until the firemen managed to smother the blaze.
The police added the Wilson's neighbor Mr. Morris to the list of missing persons. When the feds arrived later that morning, they met the locals at a small secondary building, where every officer and volunteer had gathered to begin the futile search.
The video surveillance tapes at the precinct had been destroyed in the fire, so they had no idea what might have happened to Tremblay. The computer was similarly lost, and the technician was unable to recover any data from the hard-drive. Without it, they had no way of knowing what the missing officer had been up to prior to his disappearance.
Reports of a mild earthquake eventually led investigators to a hillside west of town. Perplexed by the sudden appearance of a sinkhole, a geologist was brought in to investigate. All they were able to determine was that an old cavern had collapsed.
Some tied the strange event to the missing persons case, and speculated that some or all of them might have been inside a grotto rumored to be in that area. Calculations were made, and it was determined that the cost of digging up the land was too great for unsubstantiated rumor. Ground penetrating radar was brought in, but the images never revealed anything even remotely human.
Rumor and speculation lingered for a while before finally petering out. News crews came and went, as did the public's interest. In time, not even the townspeople spoke of that one night in winter, or the people that had gone missing.
In the spring, the land thawed, nature bloomed, and White River rolled with the tide.
Dalca waited in a dark place.
He didn't have to wait long.
"Is it done?" the cloaked wizard asked without preamble as he appeared in a dim shaft of light.
"Breach sealed," Dalca replied lazily.
"Did something come through?" the man hidden behind a dark cowl pressed.
"Part of the way," Dalca confirmed. "But I took care of it. There's nothing left."
"Witnesses?"
"No survivors in the town," Dalca assured him. "You'll probably hear about it over the next few days."
"How many dead?" the wizard asked coldly.
Dalca did the math. "Seventeen."
The robed man seemed to sigh. "How many did the demon kill, and how many were because of you?"
Dalca smiled as he reached a hand out in the real world. His fingers dipped into a glass, the tips staining red with spirit-infused blood. With some minor effort, he made sure the gesture played out in the dark place as well, allowing the robed man to watch as he sucked the blood of Jean Wilson from his fingertips.
"A monster never eats and tells, Little Hawk."
The man bristled, and Dalca was sure he'd finally pushed things too far. But the wizard was in his debt for the moment, and they had an agreement.
And wizards always keep their word, whether they want to or not.
"Payment will be delivered shortly," the man growled out, his distorted voice doing nothing to disguise his contempt.
"And what of this information?" Dalca asked, quick to remind the man lest he forget.
"The details are in route," the wizard said. "It's in regard to your family."
Dalca sat up at that. "You know what happened to Nicolai."
The robed head bobbed. "Last summer he went on a fire-bird hunt in Chicago. He was killed by a Kenku prince and some locals. I have the names of those involved."
A genuine grin spread across Dalca's face. "The family will hardly stand for that."
The cloak nodded again. "They won't act quickly in Chicago. The local warden has some power, and from what I've learned, is favored by those with more."
"Was this wizard involved in Nicolai's death?" Dalca asked.
"No."
Dalca thought back on their first conversation. "This is the new warden, yes? The one you didn't trust to get the job done?"
"Yes," the wizard replied.
"Well," Dalca mused. "The family will eventually seek retribution. The Kenku prince can be taken anywhere, but these locals… they'll bide their time."
"Those were my thoughts," the cloaked wizard confirmed. "Which means you know where they'll be, eventually."
"You're right, Little Hawk," Dalca said with a smile. "This might very well have been worth all the hassle."
Rather than replying, the wizard killed his end of the connection. After a moment, Dalca did the same.
He opened his eyes in the real world, and looked around the cabin of the private jet he'd reserved.
After hastily leaving White River, he'd called his contact, who had purged any record of Eren Marina from the RCMP database. He and Mara had made sure there were no traces of the identity left in the town. With the officer and hotel clerk dead, no-one even knew to look for him. Now he would leave the country under another name, one with no connection what-so-ever to the events of the town.
Dalca looked down at Mara as she worked on adding a new tattoo scale to his flesh. The needle she used glinted brightly, its magics keeping his skin in its more vulnerable state. The blood she used to stain the memory into his flesh was his own, and would not fade.
At the sight of the needle, Dalca's smile faded. Despite appearances, Zmeu weren't invulnerable. The demon had reminded him of that. Even the royal family's more powerful Balaur form was tender beneath a blade with the right enchantments.
He knew that from experience. He eyed several of the scale tattoos, recalling just how he'd earned them. And just why he'd been banished so long ago.
Power thrummed into existence in the cabin just as all of the window shades snapped down. Dalca felt magical energy build across the plane's aisle, and idly looked over as a pair of floating green eyes appeared. There was a feline cast to them, one that Dalca recognized on sight.
"Greetings, Dubhlainn," a disembodied voice called, the words rolling through invisible lips.
"Stalcadhkin," Dalca replied, unsurprised by the wizard's choice in messenger. He'd used him before. Or perhaps the mortal hadn't been the one to decide.
He'd only been a middle man, after all.
"Indeed," the voice sounded as the feline eyes tilted and turned to watch Mara work.
The water vâlvă didn't turn, but her tail twitched as she hissed in the direction of the mostly invisible malk. Her response elicited a pleased purr from the unseen visitor.
"You have something for me?" Dalca asked.
"Of course," Stalcadhkin replied. "My Queen was most pleased to learn of your success." The sound of fluttering paper preceded the appearance of a small sheet. It curled and floated through the air, before coming to a rest on Dalca's outstretched hand. "Payment, as promised."
Dalca's eyes played over the list of those that had killed a Zmeu prince. One of the participants, a Hecatean Hag, was already dead. That left the Kenku prince, a Fear Dearg, and two mortal practitioners.
Plenty of bait to lure out his prey.
"I wonder if the girl has any power," Dalca mused softly. Each name was accompanied by a small profile, and the girl's mentioned her membership in something called the Ordo Lebes. A coven name, if he'd ever heard one. "Thank your master for her generosity."
That drew a genuine chuckle from the malk as the green eyes faded from view. "Until next time, Dubhlainn."
The sense of the Fae's power disappeared as the shades all popped up again. At the same moment, a cabin door opened further up the aisle. A slim form slowly stepped out of the lavatory, looking around for whomever Dalca had been speaking to. But the malk was gone, and Dalca placed the priceless list aside to turn his attention on his other prize.
The human approached cautiously, watching as Mara put the final touches on the scale.
"Are you ready?" Dalca asked.
The newly minted blond head of Jean Wilson bobbed slowly.
Dalca reached into the pocket of the leather chair, and retrieved the contract Mara had drafted. He watched Jean as she tugged her shirt sleeve down to cover the bandage on her left arm, from where they'd drawn blood minutes earlier. The damage done to her right wrist had already been repaired by the water vâlvă, and only some faint scarring remained to remind her of the dangerous creatures she now accompanied.
"You understand the terms?" he asked as Jean settled into the chair across from him.
The girl nodded again, and took the papers he proffered. "I understand," she said.
Her clothes were wholly different from anything she ever would have worn, and her skin tone had darkened under Mara's ministrations. Her dark eyes were now blue, and Dalca had to admit that she looked better.
For his part, Dalca was now a roughish green-eyed redhead by the name of Tristan Fitzroy. Another personal favorite.
"Explain it," he insisted, remaining as still as possible while Mara worked.
Jean swallowed nervously. "I will enter into your service of my own free will. I will provide you with a pint of spiritually infused blood once every eight weeks. I will obey your orders, and fulfill any demands you make of me. I will tell no-one of our contract, and never work against your interests."
"And in return?" Dalca asked as a smile crept across his face.
"In return, you will spare my life," Jean replied softly. "You will not tell the White Council of my violations of the Laws of Magic." Something glinted in her eyes as she continued, something not unpleased. "You will teach me magic. You will let me use the spellbook, and others that you obtain."
Dalca waived off the details. There was more spelled out in the contract, but the girl had the gist of it. "And when will our contract be terminated?"
The girl's neck straightened. "When either of us declares it so."
"And what will that mean?" Dalca said languidly, relishing the moment.
"If you decide our agreement has ended, you will give me notice before you take my life, and the power within me… should you be able to do so," Jean added, the defiant tone to her words revealing that she believed he might fail in that effort. "If I decide our agreement is ended, I will notify you by attempting to take your life. Should I fail, you will be free to take mine."
Her determination made his smile more genuine. It was always the defiant ones that made him take note.
But the contract was honest, and so too would he be with her.
"I will be sampling your power," Dalca whispered, any hint of humor slipping from his face and voice. "As I consume your spirit, I will know just how powerful you are every eight weeks. I will know the moment you've become a threat to me." His forehead lowered, narrowing his gaze. "I will know it before you will. You will not get the better of me in that."
"I understand."
"No, you don't," Dalca insisted softly. His eyes focused on hers, holding her attention. "When I feed from someone with magical ability, I do more than consume their power. I consume their magic itself, and the knowledge that comes with it."
"Knowledge?" she asked, her voice breaking as she realized she might be in over her head.
"Knowledge is power, after all," Dalca said with a dark smile. "I will consume your power, and the knowledge of how to use it. I will know not only how powerful you are, but exactly what spells you could use against me." The smile faded. "As I said, you will not get the better of me."
The girl swallowed nervously. "But I thought you said others had survived…"
Dalca's face remained impassive. "That is true," he said. "Others thought they were ready. They. Were. Not." Dalca's voice deepened as he let a bit of the Zmeu out, his words sliding through sharpened teeth. "Those that survived their apprenticeship did so upon my desire. They live, but they are still bound to me. They still serve me, even if they wished otherwise."
Jean had frozen like a deer in headlights at the sound of his voice, and the appearance of his slim fangs. But then both were gone in a flash as Dalca smiled a charming smile. "Or maybe I'm wrong. I've been wrong once or twice."
Mara snorted at that, and declared the tattoo done. "Not that you deserve this one," she muttered, clearly still believing herself to have been the linchpin to victory.
Dalca ignored her. "You're in agreement, then?" he asked Jean one last time.
She was smart, at least. He watched her consider her options, bleak as they may be. She understood the consequences, and knew her life might very well be forfeit no matter what she chose.
But eventually, she nodded.
Dalca retrieved the fountain pen from the seat's pouch, as well as the glass of her blood. After drawing the sanguine fluid into the pen, he passed it to her. "Sign thrice."
She did.
When it was done, she started to pass the contract back, but Dalca held up a palm. "Swear it thrice on your power."
She swallowed nervously, but did so. Her voice was timid at first, but her confidence grew by the time she finished.
Then it was his turn.
The girl's blood was ejected back into the glass, and a fresh draw was supplied from the bowl Mara had worked from. Dalca quickly signed the contract in his own blood, just as she had, and then swore thrice.
When it was done, he passed the paperwork to Mara, who whisked it away for safekeeping.
As she did, the plane began to taxi out to the runway. Dalca glanced out the window, and wasn't sorry to see the last of Canada for a while.
Several minutes passed, until Jean finally grew impatient. "When do we begin?"
"Soon enough," Dalca assured her. "After Mara has removed the last of the modifications from the book, it will be returned to you." She'd also be removing any spells that might get the girl in trouble, or those that might cause Dalca trouble. But Jean didn't need to know that.
The girl nodded, and as Dalca sipped from the glass of her blood, he could taste her excitement.
Jean Wilson was twisted, to be sure. She'd lost the only family she'd had days earlier. Her father was dead, and her absent mother left to believe her daughter was lost forever. Jean had lost her home, and all of her possessions save for her brew kit. She'd watched mortals and monsters die, and had killed a few of the latter herself.
And yet there she was, agreeing to work with another.
She'd seen what Dalca was, and was willing to enter into his service in exchange for sweet breath and sweeter power.
The two things humans desired most.
He hadn't lied to the girl. In truth, he was sworn to kill her. But the harvest from the job had been slim, consisting of only the officer and the hotel clerk. There was no way Dalca could restore his reserves from draining them and the girl in one sitting.
Instead, he'd offered her a stay of execution.
To her, it was an opportunity to survive, and grow in knowledge and power while under the protection of her new master. For him, it was a regular source of spiritual power. One that would free him from the necessity of taking quite as many mortal jobs. One that would allow him to pursue other things, and right long-standing wrongs.
It was almost too easy, considering how humans had romanticized dragons over the years. She wanted to believe that he was more than just a killer. And perhaps the reputation of the species was mistaken; perhaps there was some good in him, something resembling human that she could trust.
Jean was no fool, though, nor would Dalca suffer her if she was. She knew the danger.
She was not the first he'd taken under his tutelage, and she would hardly be the last. There were always those that believed themselves the hero of the story, the one that would survive what others had not. She thought perhaps that she could win her freedom.
But only two mortals had ever gotten the best of Dalca. A fact that cursed him to that very day.
"Where are we going?" she finally asked, as Dalca lost himself in memories.
"Copenhagen," he replied as the plane picked up speed. "I've got a job to do, and a lead on a beautiful townhome that will be up for sale soon."
And despite her worries, despite her fears, the little girl from the middle of nowhere smiled as the private plane took off for exotic locales, where she would learn magic at the hands of an ancient being, grow in power, and one day set out on her own.
Well, the last wasn't guaranteed. But the girl had to hope. Dalca wouldn't deny her that.
And in the meantime, he'd harvest her power, growing stronger as she did. He'd replenish the reserves he'd tapped casting so many spells. So much power spent, all to close a breach, to preserve the reality he preferred over the chaotic end the Outsiders would bring if they ever succeeded.
He would wait. Wait to settle old scores that had already waited centuries. Wait to pay off a debt that bound him to those he did not wish to serve. Wait to find a cure for the curse that plagued him, preventing him from reaching his full potential.
He would wait for the day his accursed family strayed too far from home, seeking their vengeance against those that had slain his cousin.
When they finally did, Dalca would be waiting.
And the streets of Chicago would run red with their blood.