Authors: Kat Richardson
Mara held on and remained facing him, a rock against his wave of influence. "No."
He raised an eyebrow, and the force of his demand hovered like a black swarm.
Mara glared at Carlos. "You can't push me as easily as that, Carlos. I'll not let you have it."
"You can't stop me."
"Common sense will stop you. It is necromantic, isn't it?"
His bladed half grin came back. "Why else would I want it?"
Standing in the hall, Mara glimmered as she opposed Car-los. "If you try to take it, you'll uncork the bottle and let the genie out. Even you couldn't put the cork back in fast enough. You saw the size of the power nexus it's feeding on. It's stuffed full of energies just wild to escape. You can't use it here, so you'd have to move it. But you can't move it without unleashing the energy stored in it. It's too ripe."
He glowered and gleamed black. Something shimmered between them. I was too drained to try to see it or understand.
Mara continued. "I imagine there's only one person who can con-trol the energy cascade that will start the moment it's disturbed. Am I right?"
Carlos stilled.
Her voice glistened and resonated, throbbing through my bones. "Answer me!"
He bared his teeth and snarled at her. His immaterial black cloak billowed ire. "Don't try to command me, witch."
"Don't be stupid!" she snapped back. "Do you want to destroy the whole fabric of energy here? That would be worse for creatures like you than for me, and I don't care to contemplate how bad I'd have it."
Carlos snarled one last time and took a step back from her, his black-ness subsiding. He cast a glance over his shoulder toward the organ.
He growled. "You're right. It's too dangerous. But we can't let it remain for someone else. We'll have to get rid of it."
Mara objected. "We don't have enough reserves to contain and control it right now."
"Of course not." Carlos reached back and closed the parlor door, then brushed past both of us and headed down the stairs. I rocked back from the force around him.
Mara led me away. I felt muzzy-headed, dazed, sore, and sick. The cold ache in my chest had returned.
As we reached the foyer I asked, "Are we leaving?" "Yes."
I gave a wobbling nod, so tired I wanted to lie down and whimper.
Out the side door, we walked back to the parking lot. Mara pushed me down into the Rover's passenger seat while she ran back to ring the curator to close up. A cool drizzle cleared away some of my nausea with the last whiff of the organs stink as the night breeze blew gusts of soft rain into my face.
Mara returned, looking concerned. "Are you going to be all right, Harper?"
I nodded, taking slow breaths to hold down my dinner.
She looked at her watch. "We'll have to make this quick. I have a class in the morning. So," she added, turning to Carlos, "tell us about it."
Carlos folded his hands and began to speak in a low voice. The rain brushed around him.
"It is necromantic. A much older artifact has been incorporated into the structure, behind the mirrored panel."
"The old wood," I mumbled.
Carlos made a small motion of his head. "That is a box. The bones and teeth have been built into the decoration, making the substance of the deceased part of the instrument."
"What?" I asked, appalled.
His mouth quirked. "A necromantic artifact incorporates the substance of the dead, both body and spirit. The revenant is commanded by whoever controls the artifact built with its mortal remains. A door in the structure allows the spirit to enter and leave at its master's bidding."
"Could the mirror be the door?" I asked.
"Yes. It's closed now, but it was open and the sprit escaped while his last master was unaware or helpless. While the sprit was at large, the artifact was moved. The spirit killed his master and stole his name, but then he became lost. Now he wanders, still bound to the artifact, unable to be free, but also unable to return unless he's summoned or comes face-to-face with his body's prison. There's no one to summon the spirit, so he tries to find the artifact and become his own master.
"But the museum owns the organ..."
"Ownership is nothing." Catlos frowned composing his thoughts "The box is the original vessel, transferred from object to object, wrapped in layers of spells and wood, to hid the spirit from himself and others. He's strong and autonomous, he was a man of power while he lived and his masters rightly feared his spirit. When the instrument came to the museum, he gained the power it absorbed from the nexus. He couldn't find it directly, but he had the energy to manipulate the world again. He began to hunt the owners down and kill them."
My stomach heaved. "All of the owners?"
Carlos nodded. "Every one but this one. He killed most of his masters, as well. Each time he thought he might be free at last, and each time he was wrong. His bitterness runs deep. His future plans are dark with more deaths."
Mara put a steadying hand on my shoulder. "Who was the spirit when he lived?"
Carlso gave her a narrow look. "A mage. It would be foolish of me to say his name here. Even his adopted name is strong enough to summon him while we're this close to his artifact.
"Then how old is the artifact?"
"The box is about seven hundred years old. The rest doesn’t matter. The spells and rituals worked into the artifact protect the remains from degradation until they're removed from the structure," Carlos explained. "Then they decay at once. If all the remains were removed, the spirit would be to free to leave this world. But even then, so long as a single angle of the structure remains intact, the artifact retains its stored energy, which is considerable now.
"Undirected, the energy will burst outward, like water from a dam, and destroy anything that resists it. It will blast anything that draws upon or constrains these energies. For you, witch, it would mean pain, loss of powers for a time—maybe forever."
Carlos looked at me. "For you..." He reached toward me and I leaned away. His hand came close; then he jerked back as if burned and pulled away with a glare at Mara.
"You dared?"
"Yes, I did," she shot back. "And you know it's not against you, but that thing up there."
Carlos nodded a sort of bow to her.
Mara nodded back. "And what about Harper?"
"I don't know." He looked at me again. "It might kill you. It might just wash through you, or it might burn you to a husk. It will be interesting to find out, if I survive."
I shivered and balled a fist over my sternum. "How funny that this thing I don't even want—that one of you stuck in me—is going to kill me. But what if your theoretical dam doesn't break?"
The darkness in Carlos's eyes raked me as he shook his head. "It can't be stopped without dismantling the artifact."
"What happens if the ghost gets to the organ first?"
"Then he'll execute his plan."
I dragged my feet up onto the seat in front of me and huddled like a struck child.
"We'll have to destroy it," Mara said.
Carlos chuckled, the sound of bones rattling. "As if it were that simple. It must be done with great control. You and I together, witch, would not be sufficient."
"How many more would you need?" she asked.
Carlos thought aloud. "We require mages adept at unweaving the strands of death. Of necromancers, we'd need only one more—but there are no more nearby. Witches' strength runs in the wrong direction. One could hold it, but we'd need a dozen to break it."
My brain wasn't entirely frozen, however cold I felt. "How many vampires would it take?"
Carlos and Mara both stared at me.
"What?" Mara asked.
"How many vampires?" I repeated, my mind filled with a shape of information but not the information, itself. "They must have some powers over death, since they're the undead," I reasoned.
Carlos frowned. "I wouldn't have thought..."
"Why not?" Mara responded. She turned and stared at Carlos. "Would it work?"
"After the spirit is released... it might."
I laid my head on my knees, drained and battered by ideas conversely helpful and unwelcome. Wygan's voice echoed through my mind, saying that his "gift" would keep me alive, and I gave a bitter laugh.
We parted ways to plan and prepare. I chose to drink and sleep and make my preparations in the morning.
By Wednesday evening, my choices had dwindled down to what to wear for my meeting with Edward. I ended up in a slinky dress and heels and felt I was a bit overdressed for my own funeral. I'd discovered that my evening jacket wouldn't cover the holster, but the pistol would do me no good against vampires. I missed it, though. I felt less my own master than Sergeyev—whatever his real name—must have felt.
Cameron was waiting outside my office building. His eyes widened and he gave me an appreciative smile. "You look terrific."
My voice came out cold. "This is not a date, Cameron. I feel like a tethered goat."
He followed me up the stairs. "Are you nervous?"
"Why?"
"You just seem upset or something. You look funny, too."
"You just said I looked nice."
"I mean, you look... hard. Armored, maybe."
I threw myself into my desk chair. "Lovely." I felt anything but. "OK, here's the deal. I said there was something new we had to discuss."
"Yeah. What's up?"
"Things have changed."
"You're dumping my case, aren't you?"
"Would I be dressed like this if I was? No. I admit I wanted to, but it's no longer an option. And it's ethically repugnant."
He started to get up from the client chair. "But you don't want to work for me anymore. I understand."
I snapped, "No, you don't. We have something in common. We both had no idea what vampires were really like when we made our contracts. I've had some of that reality thrust upon me in unpleasant ways. But I am not becoming like you. I still have to live in a human world, by human rules. What you are and what you must do to survive are things I cannot stretch my mind over without going crazy."
He whispered, "That's what I felt," and sat down again.
"I know. That's why I'm not quitting. Besides having a contract, I'm as screwed as you are, and I need your help as much as you need mine."
I told him about Wygan and the Grey thread. He stared at me in shock.
"It's all my fault."
I rolled my eyes. "Everyone wants to take credit. It's my own fault. It can't be undone—or I don't think it can—but that doesn't mean it can't be dealt with. But that's for later. For now, we fix your problem and maybe some of mine, but it's dangerous."
The plan was simple enough, but I half expected Cameron's head to bulge under the speed and density of the information I poured into him. He goggled at me at first, frowning, asking questions. At the end, he just shook his head and looked dazed.
"That's... seriously wack."
"Best I can come up with. If I've accounted for all the factors, if I can persuade him it's to his advantage, we may all survive."
"What if he won't help? What if he doesn't see it as you do?"
"Then we run and hope we beat the blast. Which is why you will not be in that room tonight. Find a place to lurk where you can watch the front door."
"What am I supposed to be watching for?"
"Me. Once Edward comes in, I expect to be finished with him one way or another in less than an hour. If I don't come out the front door within two, I want you to come looking for me. Do you under-stand?"
"Yeah. I get to be the Seventh Cavalry."
"That's the plan."
"Well, I'm not thrilled with it..."
"Nor am I, but face-to-face is the only way."
"What if he just—you know?"
"Punches my card? He could, but it's a fair bet he'll hear me out. That room will be full of his enemies, watching and waiting for a chance to take him out. Edward is not stupid. I'll be there under protection, a defenseless daylighter begging a favor. Killing me in front of that audi-ence would be like firing on FortSumter. You, on the other hand, he might be able to get away with, if he's still pissed enough to try it."
Cameron didn't look happy, but he agreed to it. We left my office and strolled down the streets until we were half a block from the After Dark. The only sign was a small brass plaque next to iron gates and an iron-railed circular staircase leading down. Cameron squeezed my shoulder for encouragement, not thinking. My knees buckled as the black corners of the Grey folded over me in acid-trip lights.
He jerked his hand away, contrite and apologizing. I caught my breath and told him to get going. I walked down the stairs alone.
My heels rang a hollow clacking on the white marble stairs. The soles of my shoes slid on the cool stone. The foot of the stairs opened into a small marble foyer. It was like a very expensive crypt. A glossy pair of black-enameled doors faced me. I tapped on one of them.
The door swung back, silent as a 1910 movie. A dark man in an equally dark suit looked me over and beckoned me in. As the door closed behind me, he glanced at a list.
I was quivering as the surface of reality rolled beneath my feet. I kept my voice low. "Harper Blaine."
He nodded and held out a hand to take my jacket. He raised an eyebrow when I refused.
"I don't want to catch cold."
One corner of his mouth turned up, but you couldn't call it a smile. He led me through another set of doors, into the club proper, and pointed to a table.