Revenant (48 page)

I could see a spinning circle of silvery fog around the dolmen and thought Rui had probably created an alarm system, in effect, by posting the ghosts from any remaining Lenoir boxes to watch. They would be a problem only in bringing our presence to Purlis and Rui’s attention, but by then we’d be so close, the element of surprise wouldn’t be much anyway. I looked at the other sentries and lookouts, trying to map a path down to the stones without alerting anyone. Without Carlos, I’d have to be right at the edge of the casting circle to have any effect on the spell. I studied the landscape of my preferred route, looking for potential problems like tree stumps or sudden hollows in the ground.

As it grew darker and the sky was turning purple, the stars beginning to shine while they waited for the moon, I switched my attention to the dolmen, watching the slow building of the casting circle and the assembly of the bones within it. Since they were parts of the spell that would become the Hell Dragon’s skeleton, the bones gleamed through the Grey, leaving soft threads of ivory with streaks
of blood red and ink black hanging in the silvery mist world. They were beautiful in spite of their dire purpose as was the strange chanting of the Kostní Mágové. I recalled Rui’s bone flute that I was carrying in my pocket, the bone, smooth and pale, carved with red runes that molded the tones that would come from it. I wondered whether I was going to have to use it since we didn’t have Carlos with us and whether it would be better to take that risk and use it soon, rather than gambling on getting close without Carlos to back us up. Just how close would I have to get to make it work . . . ?

I sank a little deeper into the Grey, holding the bone flute in my hand. The world seemed to leap and tremble in shades of silver and gunmetal as if the planes of the normal and the paranormal fluttered here like sheets of cellophane in unearthly breezes, with almost no Grey fringe in between. The longer I stared, the more obvious it became: The Grey really was only the thinnest curtain here. And on the other side of it lay the true, deep paranormal—the realm of things that should never escape into the world of mortals, things I had only glimpsed and with which I wanted no closer association. Whatever Rui’s mages were doing with their lines and their chanting, it was thinning the Grey. If they could tear the barriers between the worlds open, I didn’t know what manner of horror would pour into the normal plane.

“Oh shit,” I whispered, rolling over to wake Quinton. “It’s not a nexus—it’s a portal.”

Quinton woke instantly. “What?”

“We missed it, Carlos and I. That’s not just a nexus. It’s a door. The Grey is thin here—there’s barely space between this world and the next. Whatever they’re doing right now, it’s pushing the Grey aside and tearing a hole in the barriers. If that nexus actually lies in the paranormal, it’s not as weak as we thought and once they’ve
made their hole, it’s not just power that will come through. Carlos thought something was waiting there—he almost told me something just before he . . .” I had to shut my eyes for a moment to banish the choking memory. “Just before he died. He started to turn back, said he had a better plan. . . . I can’t possibly exert enough control from here if that opens up. We need to risk using this,” I said, holding up the flute, “before they’re done preparing, or we’ll have to move a lot closer—and I mean breathing close.”

He blinked at me for a second or two. “Well . . . I guess we needed to get closer anyway. When’s the best time to go get captured?”

“Captured?”

“Yeah, whatever I can do to create maximum disruption, at this point, is what I need to do. You need to get as close as you can if you’re going to use that thing, so I need to pull them away and buy you the chance. How many of the people down there are bone mages? Or mages of any kind?”

“Six—one is Rui and one’s the dreamspinner. We know the kid is weak, so there’re only four to worry about aside from the Big Bad.”

Quinton nodded. “All right. Can you pinpoint my father? Assuming he’s here at all.”

“Yes. I know his aura. He’s down by the Devil’s Pool. I’d guess he plans to test his control of the drache as soon as possible.”

“Probably wants a good look at what he’s paid for, first. It’s so convenient of them to gather close together. This is one time I wish I had a rifle.”

“Are you any good with one?” I’d seen him handle rifles before, but I’d only seen him fire my automatic and a shotgun and that had been in close quarters. This was more like four hundred yards.

“Passable, but I’d settle right now for any mess I could cause from a distance. This small-caliber pistol won’t do much from here but
make noise,” he added, patting the gun that lay on the ground nearby.

“Sort of the same problem with the flute.”

At the center of the Devil’s Pool, someone lit a fire. The flames jumped up initially and cast shadows into the falling night, then died back down to something more like a moderate campfire.

“Looks like gasoline,” Quinton said. “Flares up quick, but burns fast, too. I wonder how much of it they’ve got. . . .”

“Does it matter?”

“It could. I’d feel bad for the farmer, but I could do a lot of damage and wreak a lot of havoc with a couple of cans of gas, especially around these dry grasses and trees. Even more if I also had some rags and some matches. Gasoline makes a pretty impressive explosion if you know how to make it go ‘boom’ in the first place, and then there’re little fires all over the place afterward.”

“They’ve lit a fire of their own, so my guess is that they’re going to start this show soon,” I said. “The sun’s already down. They’re probably just waiting for the last of twilight to burn away. It has to be a pretty complex spell with so many parts, so it’s not going to advance quickly. At my guess, we’ve got maybe an hour. If they already know we’re here or if we draw too much attention too soon, they’ll try to grab us.”

“A pair of megalomaniacs like them? Yeah, they’ll want to make us watch the whole show. I’d better get to causing trouble so you can get into position. Where are you thinking of stopping?”

“Near the short end of the standing stones—I need to see what’s happening on the gravel, but I can always retreat to the river if I have to.”

“I don’t want them to hurt you. . . .”

“This is not going to be a damage-free fight. So long as we’re alive and they’re dead at the end, I’m willing to risk some hurt.”

Quinton looked grim at my reply, but he didn’t argue. He nodded. “All right. You start down to the stones by an indirect route. I’ll start moving toward the truck on the bridge to play pyromaniac.”

Once again, Quinton and I were moving in opposite directions; I digging the bone flute from my pocket and he slinking through the long shadows of the freshly fallen night like a snake in the grass.

Getting down the hill wasn’t simple. I wanted to keep one eye on the Grey and one on the ground, looking for a location that would be close enough to try the flute, but far enough out to give me room to run when Purlis’s guys started after me. I also didn’t want to step in anything that might slow me down—like a hole or a cow patty. Pastoral hillsides look benign and lovely in photos, but they’re full of potential pitfalls. I made my way to the top of one of the paths I’d been mapping earlier, crouching and moving with care while keeping to the shadows as much as possible.

At the top of my path to the stones, I stopped and, remaining crouched, slid a little farther into the Grey to look around. I could see Quinton’s energetic form moving down the hill closer to the bridge and no one seemed to be paying him any mind. I could see the fluttering of the planes and the growing white shape of the casting circle with its enclosed bones, sending ripples through the Grey like something rising from deep water. I thought that once I was within the radius of the ripples, I should be able to disrupt the spell with the flute. I had no idea what noise I was supposed to make with it, but I’d have to hope I could fake it—it only had four holes, so the tone combinations were limited and when Rui had used it, he hadn’t been playing a song so much as progressions of notes and listening for a matching resonance. If I could get it to make a noise at all, I’d try to do the same thing, except I’d be watching the glow of the bones to see if one stirred.

I checked for anyone moving nearby and estimated my distance to the first ripple. Then I backed toward the normal and started down the hill. I was going to be closer than I liked, but I didn’t think I stood any kind of chance at a greater distance.

Going downhill in a crouch was more difficult than crossing the face of the hill. I started to lose my balance once and bit back a yelp as I put my injured hand out to catch myself. I may have been healing faster than normal, but the flash of pain was sharp and left my hand throbbing for a minute. I would need both hands to play the flute and couldn’t risk doing myself more damage at this stage. Maybe later . . .

I could feel the ripple in the Grey when I snuck into it. The world seemed to roll like the deck of a storm-beset ship. With the contradictory evidence of my eyes saying nothing was moving and the remaining discomfort in my hand, I felt a bit queasy. It was nothing compared to my initial nausea in the Grey years ago, but it wasn’t easy to ignore—it reminded me too much of vampires and of one in particular. . . .

I squatted in the churning cold and unwound from the flute the black thread that Carlos had made. I shuddered at the thought of putting my mouth on the nasty little instrument, but I forced myself to do it and started to play, the random notes warbling out into the night like disturbed birds, screaming in distress. I played as terribly as I sing, being tone-deaf. The initial notes from the bone flute caused a flurry of sparks to rise from the bones assembled in the center of the casting circle and, for a moment, the spell burned phosphor-white. I didn’t see any of the bones move, but I did observe the black and white energy around Rui eclipse in a storm of red as he heard me. The chanting of the Kostní Mágové faltered and the spell dimmed, wavering as Rui moved, shouting first at the mages and
then at Purlis. The chanting resumed and the spell gleamed not quite as brightly as it had and the red spires of Rui’s anger fell back only part of the way. Apparently I was irritating him and that was adversely affecting the spell. It was not the effect I wanted, but it was still a good one.

I could see the tangles of energy that were more-normal people scrambling around near the dolmen as three of the guards broke away to find me. Others spread out into the edges of the river-bound area, the non-magical working their way farther out, crossing the water to search for anyone else who might be with me. I could no longer see Quinton’s aura clearly in the mess of movement and the rolling of the Grey. While Purlis’s men were quiet and careful, I had confidence in Quinton’s ability to avoid them long enough to make some trouble at the very least. Me, I made noise and tried to keep an eye on the bones in the circle as well as tracking the three men coming across the river to catch me.

Every note I played made the spell waver, but I needed to move or be a sitting duck. It didn’t take long for the three men tracking me to converge and try to grab me. I slipped sideways through the Grey and forced them to chase me, playing different notes on the flute whenever I got away and waiting as long as I could for any bones to respond.

On the third try, I saw something flicker, dim, and quiver in the illuminated skeleton within the circle. That was the note I needed. I only had to remember which holes to cover and how hard to blow. Down near the bridge, I spotted Quinton’s energy signature slipping toward the truck. I figured we both needed a few more minutes and I wasn’t sure I could get them.

I dove back into the Grey as the men stalking me drew close to my position. I struggled through the thin, heaving Grey as if I were
trying to swim in a storm-wracked sea. It was becoming difficult to keep both my positions in mind—where I was and where I needed to be—and watch everything that needed watching, but I saw the men turn, realizing I’d moved, and start searching for my new location. They were pros and knew I wouldn’t be far away, but I still wouldn’t be where they expected.

I dodged around behind them and dropped for the normal. . . . Then one of them stepped left when I’d expected him to go right, and I fell into him, knocking him down as I slipped out of the Grey. I tumbled a few feet down the slope toward the river and the dolmen. I felt the flute break in my hand as I rolled and my injured finger took a beating even as I tried to pull my fist in against my body.

The man I’d knocked down shouted for his comrades and they bounded down the slope after me, my movement making me easy to track under the quarter moon and the light of millions of stars. The quickest of the three caught up to me and stopped my downward somersaulting by throwing himself across my path and onto my body. The second guy jogged up and started to haul me to my feet as the first stood up and then slipped and fell in the unmistakable stench of cow flop.

“Shit!”

The second one laughed. “Yes, it is! That was fucking hilarious, Bara.”

“Fuck you, MacPherson.”

Apparently the guys in Purlis’s team were Americans and they had the usual sense of humor that young men in combat acquire. I put my feet down more carefully, avoiding the dung, as the last of the trio trudged in, feeling no need to hurry now that someone had captured me.

“Remove your heads from your fourth point of contact,
gentlemen, and tell me what we’ve got here,” he said. I immediately thought of him as “Leader.”

“It’s a woman, sir,” said the laughing one—MacPherson, I reminded myself.

“Must be Blaine.” Leader looked at the one who’d fallen. “Jesus, Bara, you stink. Go back to the truck, clean up, and see if you can find something less . . . shitty to wear. If not, stay at the truck. This isn’t going to be much of a job now. The only remaining threat is Junior.”

“He’s a sneaky bastard,” MacPherson said as the fallen one trudged away, muttering. “I’d be more worried about what he’s going to do than what this skinny bitch is up to.” He shook my arm slightly to make his point.