Fiery Edge of Steel (A NOON ONYX NOVEL) (3 page)

“Jezebeth”—my father’s voice boomed through the square—“you have been found guilty of murdering four human Hyrkes. Those sins are punishable by death. The Council has determined, due to the heinous nature of your sins, that your death must not only serve as punishment, but also deterrence. Your death will be needfully painful and prolonged and you will be subjected to all of the moribund degradations and dying humiliations that the traditional
Carne Vale
method of execution entails.”

And then, with no more emotion than if he were signaling someone to dim the lights before a theatrical performance, Karanos gave the signal for the stoning to begin—
“Exsignare
.
”
Extinguish his signature.
He looked right at me when he did it, his face unreadable. Did he regret that I had to participate? Or was he worried I’d make a poor showing and embarrass him?

The thumping renewed with the stoning. Jezebeth’s woman was trying to reach him again. Her screams and shrieks made it clear she’d stop at nothing—even her own death, which was what approaching him while he was being stoned with waning magic would mean for a human Hyrke—to be by his side. It made me wonder what her real husband was like. It said volumes about the man who’d left her that she’d rather die by the side of this hideous creature than go back to a life with him.

Jezebeth’s awful porcine roar turned into hoarse braying. To me, it sounded more desperate than determined. Had he even been able to control whether he changed or not?

Maybe he was just trying to tell the woman good-bye . . .

Jezebeth fell to his knees and I knew I couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t do it.

I ran.

*   *   *

G
rateful for its unoccupied silence, I took refuge in the stacks of Corpus Justica, our law library. I strode past the lone desk clerk, avoiding his eyes and hoping my face didn’t appear red and splotchy. I took the stairs to the second-floor study carrels two at a time and made my way back to the one I usually used—a tiny desk set in a far corner of the unpopular tithing and tax section. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten there was a small window in this part of the library, one that overlooked Timothy’s Square. I’d never given the window much thought before, but now I wished fervently that it wasn’t there. Why hadn’t I kept running? Why had I taken refuge in the academic heart of the very place I despised?

I walked over to the window, wrestled with the catch, and then pressed it wide open. Jezebeth’s bloody, steaming corpse lay sprawled on the wooden platform as the crowd dispersed. People’s expressions varied. Some were disgusted; others were shocked; a few just looked confused. Something must have happened to have brought such a quick end to the
Carne Vale
. But instead of feeling relieved that Jezebeth’s suffering was over, I felt miserable.

I couldn’t see Ari and wondered if he was on his way to find me. Part of me wished he wouldn’t (what was I supposed to say to him about what had just happened?) but the other half acknowledged that I’d run here because it was the first place he’d look. Just as I was about to close the window, I saw the taupe-eyed Angel—the one who’d asked me if I could, or would, execute Jezebeth alone and in cold blood. He stood at the edge of the square, staring up at me, his hands still in his pockets, his expression contemplative.

I guess he had his answer.

Suddenly, I remembered the cry that had first started the Apocalypse:
Beware! Angels at the gate!

I slammed the window shut.

I
waited for Ari at Corpus Justica for another half hour. He didn’t show so I packed up and left. I went to Alba’s, a.k.a. “the Black Onion,” a tiny café where my study mates and I ate when we wanted to get off campus.

Alba’s has been serving lunch on the corner of River Road and Widow’s Walk for three generations. Alba’s husband had been a fisherman. When Estes, mighty Patron Demon of the Lethe, chose to take her husband’s life, Alba made do by selling vegetables from a cart on this very spot. Her daughter (conveniently named Alba too, as was
her
daughter, the current owner), had traded in the cart for a café. Alba’s was mostly a Hyrke hangout, but I loved it because the menu was perfect for a waning magic user—there was no fresh produce. Apparently Alba the Second had had enough of farm fresh with her mother’s cart. Here, everything came fried, baked, battered, or stewed.

I chose a seat at a table near the big bay window overlooking the Lethe, wondering (as I did nearly every time I came here) why Alba the First would choose to live the rest of her life in sight of the very thing that took her husband from her. But then, maybe the answer was in the question. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to forget.

Alba the Third shuffled over to me as soon as I sat down. We knew each other well enough. After all, except for Rickard Building (where my classes were), Megiddo (my dormitory), Marduk’s (our campus’ underground pub), and Corpus Justica, I spent most of my time here. Which was to say
not much
, but enough so that she knew I was a student at St. Lucifer’s Law School.

She asked me what I wanted and I told her “bread” and “soup” without specifying what kind (there was only one kind of each here, the daily special). She nodded, but kept her substantial hip resting on the edge of the table. She looked down at me, her gray eyes still clear despite her age. Finally, she reached into her apron pocket and withdrew a dollar bill. She smoothed it flat on her leg and then put it on the table and pushed it toward me. I stared at it, puzzled.
Shouldn’t the money go the other way?
Alba slid into the chair opposite me.

Behind her, I could hear the sizzling sounds of fish on the grill as her cook prepared the day’s catch. All around us, the pungent smell of garlic and onion filled the air.

“I want to hire you,” Alba said. I gave her a blank look.

“I need to tell you a secret,” she continued in a raspy whisper. “You know, attorney-client privilege.”

I glanced between her and the dollar bill, not bothering to tell her all the problems associated with the arrangement she was suggesting. (I was being trained to represent demons, not Hyrkes; it was really my word that kept my mouth shut, not money; and worst of all—
a dollar?
—I wasn’t sure what she valued least: my services, my silence, or her secret.)

I sighed and pretended to accept the dollar. I’d give it back to her as part of the tip anyway. I’d have kept her secret without it. I could already tell she wasn’t hiding anything truly horrifying.

“What’s up, Alba? Has one of your suppliers been substituting catfish for grouper?”

She frowned at me and shook her head, waving a hand in the air to dismiss an obviously ludicrous idea. “As if,” she mumbled. “No . . . I . . . Noon, when’s the last time you had one of my black onions?”

I chewed the inside of my cheek, wondering how to tell Alba the truth. The fact was, Alba’s onions were infamous. Every kid in Halja had probably eaten at least one. That’s why Alba’s café was also known as “the Black Onion.” Legend had it that a real black onion would tell a sailor’s fortune (and
only
a sailor’s fortune). Those who sailed the Lethe could ask it a question (
any
question) and then peel the onion for the answer. The sailor’s answer would be buried within the onion, written on paper as thin as, well, onionskin.

But Alba’s onions were fake. First off, anyone could use one (convenient for the Albas, since that meant any customer could buy one). Second, the question asked had to be a “yes” or “no” type question (
Does he love me?
and
Will I be rich?
were popular choices). Over the years it had been determined that Alba’s black onions revealed only twenty or so standard answers (
Not so much
and
Never!
were unpopular answers). No one complained, though, because at least half of Alba’s onions revealed answers the asker wanted to hear. The last time I had one?

Never!

But, savvy as she was, Alba was already one step ahead of me, guessing my answer before I voiced it. She pursed her lips and looked unhappy.

“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding. “I thought so. Truth is, Noon, I
do
have a supplier problem. The Angel I’ve been getting my black onions from is moving on. He graduated from divinity school and found a ward. He says he no longer has time to keep me in onions.” She looked completely put out that her co-conspirator was going legit. I tried to hide my smile.

Angels were spellcasters. Unlike Maegesters, whose waning magic was innate, an Angel’s magic came from faith and constant practice. Apparently Alba had found an Angel willing to create bogus black onions as part of his daily workout routine.

“You want me to help you find another Angel to work with,” I guessed.

“Bah! No. I’m sick of Angels, sick of spells. I want the real deal—black onions made by Luck’s hand.”

“Alba,” I said slowly, “I’m training to be a Maegester. My magic is waning, not waxing. I can’t grow anything. Every plant I touch turns to dust. You need a Mederi.”

“I know you’re not a Mederi,” Alba said, rolling her eyes. “But your mother is. And word on the street is that she’s got a blackened garden. I’ll pay good money for some black onions. Real ones. I’ll even offer to make her a partner, with respect to the sale of the onions only, though.” Alba waggled her finger at me, as if I’d already agreed to handle the contract negotiations. “Tell her we’ll raise the price. Won’t get as many people buying ’em,” she grumbled, as much to herself as me. “Although . . . maybe we’ll get more—”

“I don’t know, Alba,” I said, cutting her off. I didn’t want her to get too excited about an idea that wouldn’t work. “My mother doesn’t grow anything anymore . . .”

But this time it was Alba’s turn to cut me off. She barked out a laugh and said: “She wouldn’t have to grow ’em. She’d just have to dig ’em up!
Luck
makes a sailor’s fortune.”

I raised my eyebrows at her.
Didn’t Luck make everyone’s fortune . . . or lack thereof?

“Look,” Alba continued, “I hired you so I could tell you what I’d done without you reporting me. I wasn’t trying to trick anyone; I was trying to make a living. And the fact is, Hyrkes like to have a little fun with magic too.”

Magic, fun? Hardly.

Alba must have seen my mood change because her expression suddenly became serious. She slipped her hand back into her apron pocket and withdrew it a second time. This time she moved her hand toward me with a closed fist. When her hand was close enough to almost touch me, she uncurled her fingers and deposited something on the table in front of me. It was a small, black onion, about the size of a clove of garlic.

I stared at it.

“Go on,” Alba urged. “It’s the last real one I’ve got. Even a waning magic user can touch it without spoiling it.”

“Trying to trick
me
wouldn’t be wise, Alba,” I growled, but she scoffed at my words, clearly unafraid of me.

“I may be ignorant, but I’m not stupid. The black onion is yours.” She grabbed my hand and plopped the small bulb into it. “Take it. Your mother doesn’t even have to say yes. Just
ask
.”

Finally, I groaned and nodded and slipped the onion into my pocket. Alba smiled and left to place my order.

Since no one else was there that I knew, I took out my copy of
Manipulation: Modern-Day Control of the Demon Legions
to keep me company. I would have preferred the company of anyone else to that book, save the next person to enter—my father, whose entry set Alba’s tiny doorbell tinkling in a happy fashion that was completely at odds with the person who had caused it.

The appearance of Karanos Onyx at the Black Onion had a stilling effect. All conversation stopped, as did the scraping of metal spatulas on the grill in back and the clinking of utensils on dishes out front. A fork fell off of a table and clattered to the wooden floor. My father glanced pointedly around the room and people fell back into their previous rhythms immediately, even if those “natural” rhythms now seemed deliberate. My father was the highest-ranking Maegester in all of Halja. He was executive to the Demon Council. No one wanted his gaze directly on them. Solo patrons buried their noses in books, and groups of twos and threes restarted stalled conversations with gusto, laughing a little too loudly and speaking a little too quickly. For my part, I simply frowned and watched my father’s slow progress toward my table. I knew why he’d come.