Halfway Dead (20 page)

The first sign of real danger came in the form of a Wisp. This one was green, and it hovered over Wulfric while performing dizzying acrobatics that imparted a sense of near hysteria. Along with this constant, wild motion came a stream of dialogue delivered in a nearly inaudible bass titter. He was a male, he was angry, and he was scared. That much I gleaned from the pitch and hiccupping pattern of speech from the little guy.

“How much trouble?” I asked Wulfric, who turned from the Wisp, nodding as if to process the torrent of information he’d just been given. A frown was spreading over his features, and I didn’t like that one bit. Jim recognized a problem no matter what language it came in.

“More than we have seen before now. The spring is just there, past that rise,” Wulfric said, kneeling. “Donneragh here tells me that there is something unnatural waiting. He’s afraid, and he says Bindie won’t leave her position for fear of being seen. He says many of his kin are hidden, and the woods are not safe for any living thing.” He turned up to the Wisp, who chirped once again, this time somewhat more calmly. “What? What do you mean?” Wulfric asked the Wisp, who apparently understood English, even if he couldn’t speak it. After a series of anguished tweeting noises and a final raspberry, the Wisp streaked away with an indignant squeak. “He is making little sense. He says there is a butterfly awaiting our arrival, and that we must not fall prey to its charms. I have no idea what that means.”

“A butterfly?” Jim asked. His face screwed up in comical concentration. “Charms? Like yours, Carlie? A magical butterfly?”

I sighed in disgust. Nothing about this walk in the woods was pleasant, and apparently the formerly innocuous butterfly now wanted to kill us as well. I decided that undead Viking bards could even ruin teddy bears if they set a mind to it. Note to self: keep undead bards away from waffles. If they ruin those, I’ll hunt anything that even has a Viking-sounding name to the ends of the earth, and the meeting will not be pleasant.

Wulfric was lowering his pack to the ground and generally unloading everything he carried.

“What are you doing?” I asked, curious as to this newfound desire to travel light. He was strong enough to carry an ox, and I couldn’t imagine he was tired.

“Scouting. I’m going to be silent as possible, have a brief look, and report back. If the spring is as close as Donneragh says, then we must be silent from here on out,” Wulfric said, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Wait,” I ordered. I snatched at a nearby alder and pinched a strip of moist bark from the young tree.

Wulfric raised a brow, and Jim shrugged at my sudden tone of authority.

That was fine with me; sometimes a witch just needs to
act
. “Hold out your hands, palms up. Both of you.”

They obeyed, looks of curious respect on their faces as I pushed my hands together tightly. My lips moved in silence as I reached for my power and seared the alder bark into a flare of colored light and ashes. I deposited the fine dust in their hands and indicated they should waft the fine plumes of smoke over their heads, like they were washing their faces.

Wulfric caught on first, sniffing his own skin with one brow raised. “Deer. We smell like a deer. Or an elf, perhaps. Well done, my lady.” He grinned at Jim, who lifted his nose to sniff, delicate as a doe at the creek.

“An old Indian trick. How did you do it with magic, Carlie?” Jim asked, his voice low and respectful.

I shrugged. “My Gran knows this land, and I guess some of her magic just fits out here.” I turned to Wulfric, who hovered expectantly. “Go silent, big guy. They can still hear you, despite your light tread.”

“I will,” he said, taking my hand lightly. “If I do not return before dusk, leave. Go as fast as you can, back to my cabin. Take what you can for weapons, and run. Do not stop until you reach town, but for no reason should you rest. Promise me, Carlie?” When I remained silent, he turned to Jim. “May I ask this of you? Get to safety, Jim. If I can be taken, then you
must
not join this fight. I implore you. Please.” Wulfric’s dark eyes bored into mine, and I felt a wave of dizziness at the thought of something stalking us that could kill the Viking who was also half vampire. That was a sobering thought indeed, but the feeling passed, and I nodded, if a little reluctantly.

I guess I expected more of a scene, but he turned on his heel and vanished into the thick undergrowth without a sound. I stared for a moment after, then felt Jim’s hand on my arm. “Carlie, I have a confession.”

I looked at him in alarm. What could he possibly need to confess at that moment? “Y-yes?” I stammered, unsure if things were about to get weird. Excuse me, weirder.

He thumbed the safety off as he lifted his gun. “I have no intention of running.”

I smiled, a wicked curl of my lips that felt good right down to my toes. Jingling my charms, I said, “That makes two of us.”

I saw Wulfric before I heard him. He eeled through two saplings and sat down with an exhausted
oof
before either Jim or I could muster a sound.

We both sat, staring at Wulfric with the kind of respect that I usually reserve for Kindergarten teachers or lion trainers. He regained his breath and adopted a placid expression that was at complete odds with our current situation.

“Well?” Jim prompted.

I echoed his sentiment with an impatient sigh. I was feeling a bit testy, given the current atmosphere in our little corner of the woods, and Wulfric’s sudden moment of Zen was both boring and irritating.

“Look here,” Wulfric said, and began arranging twigs and small stones into a sort of battlefield model.

“Is this the part where you tell us there’s good news and bad news?” Jim asked.

Wulfric’s face soured. “There is no good news. The spring is within a ring of nine enormous trees—I presume these are your American Chestnuts, because I’ve never seen anything like them in the past century. They’re in a tight semi-circle, and the area is well tended, free of cover, and backed up by a sheer cliff face that makes a rear assault impossible.”

“Okay . . . why can’t I launch offensive magic from the nearest cover? You and Jim could sneak in on either side. Trust me, whoever this Haldor is, I can keep him busy.” I was confident that I could ruin that clown’s day if I got the chance. “I was not done describing the features of this place of evil, Carlie. There is a moat,” Wulfric said.

“Excuse me? A
moat
? Who is this guy?” I was incredulous. This was beyond anything I’d expected, but at second thought, it figured. The immortal guardian of an evil fountain of death would take unusual precautions. Haldor was really living up to the standards of villains everywhere. Too bad I planned on ending his reign out here in the woods.

“I told you. He is a bard, who is now creating undead souls through the tormenting waters of an evil source,” Wulfric replied equably, then smiled. “Did you expect less?”

“Not really. How wide is the moat?” I asked, doing a little math in my head. I could
maybe
clear an eight-foot gap with a running start. Like I mentioned, I’m built for everything that doesn’t require height. A moat definitely required height.

“That is unknown. It is covered by a powerful glamour. My human senses limit me in this respect, but I can guess that the rope bridge is a good indicator,” Wulfric said while spreading his hands to indicate the offending gap.

“A rope bridge? Bit theatrical for my tastes,” Jim groused.

I snorted in sympathy. All Haldor needed was a flaming dragon and he’d be the worst cliché possible.

“It’s damnably effective, though. He’s funneling us to him in front of the spring. I can only assume that he draws his power from those foul waters in some unknown way, and I would caution you against undue arrogance, Carlie.” Wulfric’s admonishment was gentle, but firm.

I nodded to acknowledge his tact, before clarifying my bravado. “I understand this guy is dangerous, but he’s also a coward, and more than a little weak.”

“Weak? He kills and raises the dead. How exactly is that weak, Carlie?” Jim’s question bordered on a derisive snort.

I looked at him patiently, waiting until I was sure his outburst had subsided before soldiering on in my explanation of my general awesomeness. That was what he really wanted to know, I could tell by his look. He wanted to know how a witch could regard someone like Haldor as vulnerable. That was where Jim, and judging by his expression, Wulfric, were wrong. I knew Haldor was bad news, but I also understood weakness when it was presented to me, no matter how buried under machismo crap it might be.

“How long has Haldor been here?” I asked Wulfric with more patience than I felt.

“You know this. As long as I have been here, Carlie.” At my raised brow, he added, “A thousand years.”

I nodded with what I hoped was an august air. “And how many times has he attacked people outside this corner of the forest?”

“Well . . . never.” Wulfric seemed nonplussed by this admission.

“There’s your answer.” I folded my arms in triumph. I didn’t
feel
victorious, but Jim spoke up. He was quick witted, and I saw the light in his eyes.

“You think he sends these poor souls abroad to kill on his behalf because he’s weak?” Jim asked.

“No, I think he’s a coward. He’s hemmed in here by Wulfric’s presence, the woods are positively
crawling
with fae, and he’s comfortable. He may be powerful, but when it comes to courage, he’s flawed. Deeply so. I think that qualifies as a form of weakness, don’t you?” I concluded.

Both men took on that look of rumination where they were adopting and discarding ideas that would lead them to my assessment of our rogue Viking and his horde of cold corpses.

Wulfric spoke up first. “I agree. His unwillingness to expose himself is weak, but it also lets the beast stay in his lair, so to speak. He will be dangerous. We would be fools to prepare for anything less.” He was gravely realistic.

“I’m not saying he can’t harm us. I’m telling you that he can be exploited,” I clarified.

Jim nodded softly in what I hoped was collusion, not doubt.

“Well, your theory will be put to the test shortly, Carlie. Are you ready?” Wulfric asked, pulling me to my feet.

I stretched and mocked a yawn. “Of course I am. I hope Haldor is ready, because his day is about to get much worse.” I coiled my charms toward the palm of my hand, and took a step toward the source of magic that awaited.

The walk was not long, but time has a funny way of dancing through your memory when danger is at hand. I realized I missed Gus, and the smell of my house, and a myriad of other details would’ve made me bereft of hope had I been without Wulfric’s tall presence and the steadying aura of Jim on my left. Friends really do shore up the will of even the most confident witch, and I counted myself lucky to have the two men on my sides as we picked our way through a forest that seemed to grow cooler with each step.

I snuck a sidelong glance at Wulfric again, wondering about half-vampire lip temperatures and whether or not I would be warm enough for both of us. I swear he felt my thoughts, because just then he let the ghost of a leer cross his face, followed by a smile of such winning brilliance that I unintentionally reached out and took his hand in mine. He squeezed it lightly, before slowing his step and looking ahead with eyes narrowed in concentration.

“We’re here.” Wulfric’s voice was low, but not a whisper. That told me that Haldor would know we were present, whether by magical means or his own senses. I decided I didn’t care. We had a job to do.

“Like we discussed?” I asked. There didn’t seem to be a need for pointless cheering; either we were going to win, and free the ghost of a long-lost boy, or we weren’t. One of two outcomes, both hinging upon our bravery and skill.

Both men nodded, departing to the left and right without noise or wasted motion. Before me, the forest thinned to expose a sort of walkway that grew broad and inviting, only to terminate at a massive ring of trees. Their trunks alone were yards across, and the canopy showed us Wulfric was right. There were nine chestnuts woven together overheard to create a deep pool of emerald shadows. Behind the massive trees, gray stones jockeyed for position in a carpet of vines that climbed the erratic cliff face. I could see black spaces of regular outlines where rocks had been cut with great care; the broken pieces and tailings were scattered about under a deep coat of delicate moss and princess pines. It looked like a fae wonderland, except for the hunched shape in the middle of the scene.

Haldor crouched next to the wide mouth of the black spring, the hem of his robe dipping into the water as one hand played lazily in an arc, back and forth. His fingers broke the surface into concentric rings of silvered ripples that skirted past the unknown depths, and, for the first time since we left Wulfric’s cabin, I felt fear. There was something disturbing about that water; even the ripples seemed tired, as if it was an effort to move while saturated with such evil.

The bard was utterly unremarkable, except for his eyes. He had dirty blonde hair cropped short to his head, pale skin, and a plain, wide face that was curiously devoid of angles, as if the spring’s presence had smoothed him to a childlike state over the centuries. But his eyes—they burned. They glittered with an internal heat and hatred that was sickening to behold, and he fixed them on me with a smile that left his smooth skin utterly still. Apparently, Botox is a thing even among undead wizards. I decided I liked him even less.

“Hello, witch. You’ve come for a bath?” Haldor’s voice was soft, even gentle. Every syllable made the skin on my neck ripple with animal alarm. He swished his fingers through the spring hard enough to create a froth of bubbles that glistened with prismatic, oily reflections. As I suspected, there was more than water in that black pit.

“Not today, bard. Nor any other day.” I kept my voice steady, but then realized that there was little call for discussion. I closed my mouth and regarded Haldor with a respectful wariness I was certain he deserved.

He stood, or uncoiled, I couldn’t be sure. Peering into the stygian water, he never looked at me as he spoke. “It’s been rather busy here of late. First, that would-be raider with delusions of wealth visited. Major, he called himself? He was a man after my own heart—slavishly devoted to advancing his own needs. I believe he fancied himself some sort of spy.” He glanced up from the water, smiling like a mortician at work. “His bones may be left, but little else. He was quite useful. It was unusual not to comb the nearby towns for volunteers; my children began to harvest them for me of their own volition. They became quite skilled at mimicking the appearances of a natural death, but the bodies always ended up here. In the spring. Where they belong.” His smile grew tender, even maternal.

I felt my stomach flip again at the sheer inhumanity of his villainy. Haldor’s face hardened as he tore his eyes from the black water to pierce me with his stare. “The boy will not be leaving today. In fact, none of my family will be leaving. I need them too much in such troubled times, and now that you’ve presented me with my gift—” His voice fell away into silence as he shrugged cheerfully.

I detest games, and I was about to let him know how much. “Oh, hell, I’ll bite.
What
gift? And be quick about it. I have plans.”

He tittered, a cheerless noise of mania that told me the centuries in the woods had left him a few oars short of a rowboat. His eyes flared anew with the zeal of a true believer—I hate those, they’re always so
certain
of everything—and he waved casually at the black water before him. Bubbles began to rise immediately, slowly floating upward to burst with dull pops. A scent of death carried on the breeze, and I set my feet, readying the first spell. It was time to begin.

“There was no canal. There was no survey.” Haldor smiled wickedly at my expression of surprise. “Any fool can tell that water will not climb mountains, but I whispered in the right ears, over time, until your family dutifully trundled up this hillside to bring modernity to this lost place.” Again, the laugh. He really
was
irritating, and I had to fight from rolling my eyes at him out of sheer habit. “Your uncle was a brave man—he asked that the boy be set free, but I could not honor his request. The lad was so malleable, such a wellspring of potential in him.” Haldor waved at the cliff face behind him with a negligent hand. “I buried what was left of the man back there. Oh! To be sure, he is not lonely. I know that you must care for the wellbeing of your family. Trust me when I say that the rocks of my grove are quite crowded with kindred spirits.” He smiled, a crazed, implacable slash across his face that revealed small, even teeth.

“You will release them all, Haldor. It is no longer your decision.” I raised a hand, but he held up both of his own in submission.

“I know you think this to be true. Look at you, a young, confident witch. Gifted and true, yes? You must think it incomprehensible that your wishes could be denied, especially when they are so pure of intent.” He shook his head ruefully. “Oh, that you might know true sacrifice, Carlie. One cannot simply
wish
for justice. One must have might to achieve such noble ideals.”

The bubbles were reaching a fever pitch, popping immediately upon breaking the surface of the spring. Haldor looked down at the stinking water with a paternal gaze. “The spring has always been here, and it always will. The only thing that shall change will be my ability to roam free, safe from the irritating valor of my own countryman.” He craned his neck momentarily, eyes searching. “Where is the half-blood? He must be near. I cannot imagine that you’d be so foolish as to approach me without aid.”

Wulfric struck just as Haldor turned his head to look upward. The blow came from above, a devastating punch that sent a loud crack echoing off the trunks of the chestnuts. I thought there was a chance the Viking had decapitated Haldor, but they rolled to a stop more than ten yards away, Wulfric’s back against the trunk of one of the grove’s enormous trees. Incredibly, Haldor began to rise, but I was suddenly concerned with other things.

Or thing, to be accurate.

A shape began to rise from the spring. And it kept rising. And then it rose some more, viscous fluids of the spring’s depths sheeting downward from the plump form in ribbons of oily light. From ten feet above the black water, a blue-gray head parted and hissed, its jaws swinging open to reveal blocky, stained teeth. The creature began to pull itself from the water with a series of elderly grunts, coughing and spraying disgusting saliva from one end of the clearing to the other.

The hide was slimy, bloated, and pale blue, marred by wounds and scratches, as if it had extricated itself from a thorny trap. Nubby wings unfolded to shake even more of the gross variety of wetness all over the place, and a few droplets fell close enough to me that my eyes watered from the stench. It had four legs ending in three toes, all smooth-jointed and tipped with a single, rounded claw. There was no deviation of color from head to the tip of its fat, wriggling tail, which finally emerged from the water to reveal an overall length of more than twenty feet.

The eyes were small, beady, and black. They focused on me as the beast rose up once more, waving those ridiculously plump arms like a dancing stallion. I covered my nose at the stink just as Jim approached me from behind, an expression of absolute horror on his face.

“What in the name of all that’s holy is
that
?” he asked, pointing with his gun. It was a legitimate question for someone who had only recently learned about the existence of witches, let alone other denizens of the Everafter.

I groaned as the creature began to advance toward the rope bridge, which appeared to be sitting on the ground. The glamour over the moat held fast, even though I could detect a slight ripple in the illusions as the bulk of the monster began to shift the air around it.

“It’s a wyrm,” I said in disgust. “Haldor probably grew it in that spring. They tend to take a long time to create. Totally magical being, and from the stink of this one, it’s undead.” I turned to Jim and pointed at his gun. “Can you hit those ropes?” I asked, cutting my eyes at the huge knots that held the bride aloft.

Jim responded by snapping off four rounds, two at each knot. The impacts shattered the ropes and pilings holding them fast, and we were treated to the bizarre sight of a rope bridge collapsing into the earth with a ripple. The glamour never faltered beyond some shimmering, and I decided that Haldor must be a seriously gifted magician to create such lasting spells.

“Okay, now what?” Jim asked pleasantly. He cocked his head to listen to the sounds of Wulfric struggling with Haldor in the underbrush; it sounded like two bears were pile driving each other into the earth.

“Well, it can’t fly. I don’t think it can figure out the moat, being dead and all, and whatever brain it had is a lot like pickled mush right about now. I guess we can stay right here and fire off a few—”

The wyrm had come to the edge of the hidden moat. It sniffed around, looked at us with its piggish eyes, and began to contract while lifting up nearly vertical. In a squelch of fluid and floppy skin, it turned into a massive loop, then reached out like an inchworm, and placed its forelegs on our side of the moat in one neat motion.

“Oh, crap.” I kicked at a rock in frustration, marveling at the athleticism of the pudgy pseudo-dragon that now shared my side of the moat. “That was unexpected,” I said.

The wyrm seemed surprised as well, taking a moment to gather its bearings before it tried to turn us into goo. I didn’t hesitate any further, but lifted both hands and unleashed my first spell in a lemony sunburst of light and heat.

The blaze of energy flowed across the shapeless chest of the wyrm, knocking it back and to one side with an enraged squeal. It was a perfect strike, except for one thing: the wyrm wasn’t bleeding. In fact, other than clipping a large patch of the sodden skin from it, I didn’t appear to have hurt the beastie at all. This troubled me.

“Okay, let’s try darkness.” I flicked my fingers delicately toward the charging wyrm, thinking that now would be a grand time for Wulfric to do something Vikingish.My fingers uncurled to release a swirling serpent of black, sinewy fumes that whisked toward the howling wyrm, whose teeth were clapping together in anticipation of a sandwich made out of me.

The spell hit. Hard. I stepped back, faltering from the power of the discharge, and slumping to one knee as the wind rushed from my lungs like I’d been kicked. Good spells can tire you; great spells can made you dizzy. That one was pure ass-kicking magic, and my legs wobbled to tell me so. Jim Dietrich looked at me with newfound respect, and turned to begin firing into the wyrm as it wheezed and thrashed less than ten feet away.

Round after round from his gun crashed into the beast and, as the piteous cry grew to an air-raid siren of agony, I began to feel sympathy for the devil, so to speak. Then it focused those dead eyes on Jim and lunged forward, coming directly at me with a bone popping extension of its freaky neck. The wyrm’s back talons dug deep in the soft earth, and it shoved forward like a bulldozer with a thrown track.