Still Not Dead Enough , Book 2 of The Dead Among Us (6 page)

“Motherfucker?” he asked her again.

Again she blushed. “I was at a rebellious stage, early teens, purposefully doing things to piss-off my father. I thought it was cool to smoke cigarettes and swear a lot, turned a bit Goth, all of which met with lots of disapproval from him, which was exactly what I wanted. Teenage girls can be such nasty little bitches.”

“Really pushed his buttons, huh?”

“Every chance I could. Even had my navel pierced, but it got infected, for which I’m actually grateful because it was quite painful, and that made me leery of piercings and tattoos. Thank god I never got any I couldn’t easily hide, but I’ve still got that small scar on my navel. Anyway, that was about the time he taught me circles. My first attempt was a miserable failure, and the power I drew slammed into my hand like a hammer. I ran around the room shaking my hand shouting, ‘Motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker.’ I’ve tried to associate other words with setting a circle, and they sort of work, but for me that one word works better than anything else.”

Paul nodded, grinned, raised that eyebrow again and said knowingly, “Motherfucker.”

She blushed again and said, “Stop that.”

“Stop what?” he teased.

“If you don’t stop that I’ll leave you in that circle all day.” She grinned evilly. “Don’t bump your nose, smart ass, but just try to step out of that circle.”

Paul reached forward carefully and his hand pressed against an invisible wall above the line of salt. He put both hands against it, tried to push through it, put some serious weight behind it and failed utterly. There was no visual sense that anything occupied the space there, no shimmer in the air, no bending of the light passing through it, as there would be with a pane of glass.

“Bend down and try to break the circle of salt.”

He tried, couldn’t touch it.

“You can set a circle around yourself to protect yourself, keeping everything else out. Or, you can set a circle from without to lock something evil and disgusting in, like I’ve done here.”

Paul sat down on the floor in the circle facing her. “I’m evil and disgusting?”

She smiled. “Maybe not evil and disgusting, but definitely low moral standards.”

He laughed. “My moral standards aren’t low.” He carefully looked into her eyes. “I’m just attracted to beautiful women.” Again she blushed.

“What about the shape of the circle?” he asked. “Does it have to be perfect?”

She shook her head. “No, though the farther you deviate from a perfect circle, the weaker it becomes. But you have to deviate quite a bit before you seriously weaken it. One variation, and this only works for demons, is to put the circle inside a pentagram, with the circle touching all interior sides of the pentagram. You’ll create a much stronger circle, but again, only for demons.

“The interesting thing about circles is that even someone relatively weak can hold a circle against someone quite powerful like my father. That’s because a circle is a natural shape. Nature wants to see a circle maintained, so once it’s in place it’s virtually impossible to break from the other side.”

She reached forward, passed a finger through the salt. “I just broke the circle.”

Paul asked, “How powerful is your father?” Paul had learned there were three kinds of practitioners. There were hedge witches and minor practitioners who knew instinctively when they were in the presence of another practitioner, but nothing more. Then those like Paul and Katherine who could spot another practitioner, but could also read their level of capability in comparison to their own. McGowan and Colleen fell into the third category. They were so powerful they could hide their level of capability from everyone else, though they couldn’t hide the fact that they were practitioners from another practitioner.

She shrugged. “I don’t really know, though all my life I’ve noticed many practitioners look upon him with a kind of reverent awe. So I think he’s pretty serious stuff.”

She sighed. “Back to circle school. Keep in mind that if I hadn’t kept feeding that circle power it would weaken, and with some effort you would have eventually been able to reach the salt and break it. An alternative is to push a lot of power into a circle after initially setting it, then leave and forget it. It’s like putting gas in a car, the more you put in the tank, the farther it’ll go, or in the case of a circle, the longer it’ll last after you’ve left it. But it’ll eventually weaken, and can then be broken.”

Abruptly she stood, offered him a hand. “Here, you make a circle around me.” She helped him to his feet.

She got a broom and a dustpan, swept up the circle she’d made. “Why can’t we just use that circle. Seems a waste of salt.”

“That’s another thing,” she said. “It can be salt, chalk, precious metal, silver, a bunch of stones, almost anything will do. A precious metal is best, depending upon what you’re trying to contain, salt is second best, and you can reuse the salt, but
you
must construct the circle if you’re going to set it.” She finished sweeping up the salt, then sat down where the circle had been.

He took the canister of salt, poured a reasonably accurate circle around her and sat down on the floor facing her.

“Now I want you to think of the circle as an impregnable wall, all the while concentrating on the salt as the foundation of the wall.”

He focused, recalled the invisible wall she had created around him.

“Now start drawing power,” she said. “It doesn’t take much, and don’t feed it into the salt. That’ll just blow the salt around. Instead, start feeding it into the imaginary wall. The salt is only the foundation. There’ll come a moment when the wall is complete, and you’ll know it on an instinctive level, then pick a word, and seal the circle.”

As she spoke he saw the wall forming, not in any visible sense, but with his newly formed arcane senses. And when the moment came, as she’d told him, he knew it in his bones. He said, “Ok,” and the salt scattered as if blown about by a breeze.

She helped him sweep up the salt and he laid down another circle, and again she sat within it. “This time use a trigger word, something stronger than
ok
.”

He tried “Abracadabra, fiddle-de-de,” and nothing worked. Each time he set the circle, and each time the salt scattered.

They’d set the salt one more time, and again she sat within it. She said, “You need to focus better.”

She said it just as he was ready to set the circle, and angrily he shouted, “Bullshit!”

“What do you mean?” she asked angrily. “I’m not bullshitting you. Everything I said is true. I—”

“No, no, no,” he said. “I didn’t mean bullshit on you. Bullshit’s my word. If you get to have
motherfucker
, I get to have
bullshit
.”

She laughed, shook her head. “You’re incorrigible.” They both looked at the salt circle and it hadn’t scattered. She reached out carefully, and he saw the palm of her hand flatten as it pressed against the inside of the circle he’d set. “Very good! I guess the lesson is complete. Go ahead and break the circle. I have to get back to work.”

He leaned back, grinned evilly and said, “I tell you what. You show me one of those tattoos, and I’ll break the circle.”

Her eyes narrowed angrily. “I said I didn’t get any tattoos.”

“That’s not what you said. You said you didn’t get any that you, and I quote, ‘couldn’t easily hide.’” He leaned a little to the side and leered at her ass. “Any tattoos that you can hide?” She blushed and he knew he was right. “Show me one and I’ll let you out.”

She jumped to her feet, put her hands on her hips. “You listen to me, Conklin. This is extortion. I won’t stand for it.” She pushed irrationally at the circle, muttering a few well-chosen curses at him.

Still sitting on the floor with her standing over him, he realized he wasn’t getting the reaction he’d hoped for, so he reached out and broke the circle. But at that moment she was pushing on it, and with her weight against it she toppled forward. Sitting there he looked up, realized what he’d done, leapt back to try to catch her, and she landed right on top of him. He let out a loud, “oomph,” as she knocked the wind out of him.

Laying on top of him as he gasped for air she laughed. “Well, well, funny man. You got exactly what you deserved. That’s poetic justice if I’ve ever—”

He shut her up by putting his hand gently behind her head, pressing his lips against hers and kissing her deeply. He didn’t have to force her, would never have done so. She groaned, closed her eyes, responding with an almost desperate need, their tongues dancing hungrily back and forth. It was a long, eager kiss during which her entire body responded and melted against him comfortably, warmly, passionately. But then she tensed, her eyes widened, she put a hand on his chest and pushed away from him. She scrambled off him, climbed quickly to her feet and backed across the room. “I’m not going to cross that line.”

She turned and almost ran from the room.

Paul picked himself up off the floor. “God damn it,” he said softly and headed for the door, hoping to catch her and apologize.

~~~

Anogh traced the line of Taal’mara’s hip as she lay naked beside him, sleeping peacefully, lying on her side with her back to him. They were taking a chance meeting on the eve of the festivities of the equinox. But his hunger for the taste of her skin grew with each clandestine rendezvous, with each kiss, each session of their lovemaking. She was, after all, Unseelie, and the courtiers of the Winter Court were legend for their sexual proclivities, even more so than the Seelie Court, which had a reputation of its own. He was deeply ensnared in their love, though no more ensnared than she. They both knew they were taking too many chances, and had repeatedly sworn they would be more careful, see each other less frequently. But she had confessed that, like he, each moment they were apart was an eternity, and each day they shared together seemed but a blink in time.

She sighed deeply, stretched sensuously and rolled over. “My love,” she whispered, then wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. And as his passion blossomed, he wondered again how they had come to be so foolish, wondered at how it might end, though deep inside a piece of him knew there was little chance it would end well . . .

“Sir Anogh,” Ag called, bringing him out of his reverie. “You must join us . . . here in the present. Don’t you find the past a bit dated?” The room full of Unseelie courtiers twittered at Ag’s humor.

Anogh nodded his head respectfully. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.”

Ag had that look of cruel anticipation that always precluded unpleasantness. “She was a lovely creature. I should have bedded her myself a few times.” A father, speaking so casually of bedding his own daughter, did not raise eyebrows here as it would in the Seelie Court.

Anogh knew he was a fool to succumb to temptation as he said, “Certainly you would have enjoyed it far more than she.”

The beating that ensued was vicious, cruel and brutal.

~~~

Standing at the right hand of Ag’s throne, Simuth watched Sabreatha stride across the floor of Ag’s formal audience chamber. She was a fearful sight, a tall specter of untamed shadows and wild magic with a broadsword strapped to her back and an unstrung long-bow in her left hand. She stopped at the base of the steps beneath the throne, stood straight and tall with her shadowed head canted at a slight angle, as if regarding Ag with disdain, a clearly intentional violation of protocol.

Simuth bent close to Ag’s ear and whispered, “We don’t need this
black fey
. Let me kill him myself. I’ll—”

Ag raised his right hand, silencing Simuth, though his gaze remained on Sabreatha. He and she stared at each other for several seconds, then Ag finally broke the silence. “Thank you for coming, child of dark magics.”

Sabreatha’s head merely nodded once. When she spoke her voice crawled through Simuth’s heart like the hiss of water spattering on a hot brand. “You summoned, I came. State your business.”

Ag shrugged, tried to be nonchalant as he said, “The Unseelie Court may have common cause with the
black fey
.”

“I doubt it,” Sabreatha hissed. “State your business.”

“There is the matter of this necromancer—”

“State your business.”

“He is a danger to us all, and something must be done about him—”

“State your business.”

Ag flinched, agitated that she showed so little deference. “This necromancer is . . . how shall I say—”

“State your business.”

Ag snarled, “I’m trying to, but you—”

“State your business.”

Ag stood and screamed, “I want him dead. I don’t care how it’s done. I want him dead.”

The ever-changing shadows dancing about Sabreatha’s face slowly dissipated, and she looked upon the king with her multi-colored eyes. She turned her gaze upon Simuth, and he realized she really didn’t look upon him, but rather through him, an unnerving glance filled with contempt. He shuddered, and was relieved when she looked back at Ag and said, “Perhaps
les flèche du coeur
.”

“Yes,” Ag said, stepping forward to the edge of the dais greedily. “Yes, deliver the arrow of the heart and I’ll grant you anything.” He hesitated, thought better of such a bargain. “Well, almost anything. What would you have?”

The shadows returned to obscure her face and eyes. “Free access to the domains of the Unseelie Court.”

“Yes,” Ag agreed. “We have a bargain.”

Sabreatha reached above her head, gripped the hilt of the broadsword protruding there and drew the blade. A steel blade, it reminded him that Sabreatha could touch cold iron, the only fey that could do so.

She swung the blade down, and it rang out as it tore a chip of stone from the first step of the dais in a shower of sparks. “My signature,” she said, “for a bargain signed and sealed.”

She sheathed the sword and, without waiting for leave, turned and strode from the hall.

When Ag and Simuth were once again alone, the king sat down and breathed a long sigh of relief. Simuth couldn’t take his eyes from the chipped first step of the dais, Sabreatha’s
signature
. He said, “Anogh will be furious when he hears of this.”