Illusion (20 page)

Maya’s hands trembled, but she wouldn’t let that stop her. She nodded to Alexandr to keep going.

A bead of sweat ran down his hairline. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of charcoal, cracking it in two between thumb and palm and passing her a piece. “Mark the ground with this symbol.” He pointed to a slashing glyph on the page. “And call its true name, repeating this verse. I’ll show you.” He drew a large circle around the plinth in charcoal, then walked to the shelf and selected candles and a bottle filled with white crystal powder. He moved clockwise, sweeping a path around the plinth with his foot and revealing a pentagram carved into the floor. Taking a deep breath, he flicked the stopper free and tilted the bottle, pouring straight lines of salt into the channels.

“Remove the dagger.” He bent down and brushed more dust from the floor, revealing round holes. He fit black candles on each point of the pentagram and clicked his fingers. They spluttered to life and he stood back, nodding in satisfaction.

Maya sketched the glyph on the floor and pulled the dagger out of the ankle sheath. She stared at it, and for a moment she was overwhelmed by the reality of what she was about to do.

“Release your blood to attract the spirits. Let it spill into the spine of the grimoire. Then remove your clothes and stand on the glyph.” He turned to the grimoire.

“Maya, don’t. This is unwise. We haven’t sanctified the rite. You’ll owe it a diabolical favor,” Clarice pleaded from a distance. “You’re crossing a line. Summoning power is seductive. It’s too easy to fall for a ruse or make a mistake.” It seemed she couldn’t leave, even though she wouldn’t participate. “Your god might smite you.”

The God of Abraham had never done her any favors, and she shrugged the warning off. “Clarice, if you don’t want to help, I understand. Leave if you want.” Maya hardened her voice. “Put yourself in my shoes. Imagine removing this world of one of its prime warriors, so close to war.” She wouldn’t give a penny for her life if Resh didn’t return, but that wasn’t what worried her. She knew only too well power was a slippery slope and she had a lousy record of staying in control around magic.

“Repeat the words of the incantation,” said Alexandr. “Step within the second circle. Don’t move into the inner ring or he can drag you back with him. He’ll only respond to your questions and must speak the truth. Be specific and choose wisely. The longer he is here, the more danger you are in. So be fast and say these words when you’re done to repel him.”

She slipped out of her clothes, her cheeks burning.

Alexandr sketched a series of glyphs on her wrist in charcoal. The letters itched terribly, but she avoided scratching.

She walked into the circle, repeating the Latin that twisted awkwardly around her tongue. She sliced her palm, sucking in a breath at the sting. She clenched her fist and lifted it above the book, letting blood drip in a steady flow of bright red onto the page. The spine of the book arched back and hissed in delight. A gray triangular face formed on the page, with horns slashing back from a high forehead. The same face from the factory mirror.

Her ears popped and static lifted her hair. The world shifted beneath her feet and the circle snapped shut.

“God,” Maya whispered, the word sounding hollow and removed.

A nondescript blond man dressed in denim jeans and T-shirt climbed out of the book, smiling. He floated into the air, watching her with merry eyes behind thick plastic glasses. She inhaled the stench of sulfur and burned wood. Heat burned the soles of her feet and crept up her legs. She tried to shift her weight to relieve the pressure, but she was transfixed, stuck in the same standing position.

Her gaze followed Molokh’s as he took in the surroundings. The Vault appeared fuzzy, as if viewed through reddish, smeared glass. A hot wind blew against her face. The knife in her left hand shook.

Twirling lights surrounded Molokh. They flashed, growing smaller and smaller and bursting into a firework display of orange and yellow.

She avoided looking at the changing shapes, worried they’d suck her into a vortex. “Where’s Resheph-wa-Khasis?” she asked in an even tone.

“The warrior decides his future,” he said in a singsong voice. His gaze swept over her body and she flushed with embarrassment, feeling filthy.

“What do you mean?” She could smell the sweet-sour smell of sweat dampening her hair and running down her sides. She focused on filtering out the sensory overload and stared at his face instead.

He edged forward slowly, and she jerked back in alarm. “Bound by an oath, millennia ago. Balkaith agreed not to enter the Abyss. The warrior ignored the ancient decree. So there he sits, at my pleasure.” The demon tugged the sleeve of his T-shirt and checked his fingernails.

“Tell me what you want with him.”

Molokh lifted his gaze to her face, nodding in approval. His eyes glowed a deep celestial blue. “I’ll agree to a bargain.”

She squinted as the twirling lights grew in her peripheral vision, flashing a deep orange. “What bargain?”

“I’ll return Resheph-wa-Khasis, alive.” Molokh bared his teeth in a gentle smile.

Clarice’s blurry face appeared behind Molokh. Her mouth was open, but Maya couldn’t hear the words. Maya paused, breathing in the reek of sulfur in the airless circle.

“For what,” she choked out.

“If I asked you to return in his stead, would you agree?”

She wasn’t that stupid and didn’t respond, but he saw the answer in her eyes.

“Draw for me.” The demon lowered his voice to a whisper, but it felt overwhelmingly loud, hissing in her ears, right inside her head. “At a time when I decide.”

Maya’s lips parted. “What are you saying?” Her vocal cords felt tight and she realized she’d been talking in a high register, competing with the popping lights. She was dangerously close to slipping up and making a fatal mistake. She should have listened to Clarice; this was way beyond her abilities. The demon was playing with her and enjoying the fear coming off her in clammy waves. She flicked a glance at Clarice, but the reddish color had deepened to the color of old blood, enclosing her in a world of demon.

“I won’t be your servant,” she said, flicking limp hair out of her eyes.

His smooth face shifted into a frown as if she’d insulted him, such a human pretense that it scared her witless. His eyes narrowed. She adjusted her hold on the dagger, thumbing the blade.

“Daughter of Mist,” he said. “Don’t disappoint me. You won’t like what happens.”

“Why do you want me to draw?”

“How specific shall I be? You crave love and acceptance, but none shall offer it to you. Especially once they discover what you’ve done. Darkness coils in your soul, itching to break free. The djinni hopes to hold it back, but it’s a useless exercise. I could give you the control you desire. I would accept your true nature.”

He lifted his hand and she fell to the ground. Except instead of hitting cement floor she was in a cold sky, flying on the back of a scaled beast, leading a horde of Khereb into battle. In front of her were hundreds of jackal-headed serpents. Below was Balkaith’s fortress, a long line of black stone and ramparts. Tiny warlocks wearing black robes ducked and hid from a rain of fire cast by the Khereb. The sun exploded into a mushroom, leaving an orange glow across the land. Her mind peeled back to reveal a new scene. She stared up at black-robed accusers, standing in a semicircle above her head. One nodded and a rope lowered her into a pond. She gurgled in fear as brackish water gushed up her nose and down the back of her throat. Heavy weights attached to her feet pulled her under the waves and she thrashed, staring up in vengeance at the men of God. Another image appeared behind her closed eyelids. The sky roiled with clouds and she called down lightning with a dagger, sending strikes of blue electricity at a line of feudal huts. Women and children screamed as the sky filled with smoke and briquettes of charcoal fell on the earth with loud thuds.

She fell back into her body with a jolt and, without thinking, leaned forward and stabbed Molokh with the
kila
. The tip of the blade passed through thin air where his heart should have been.

The demon reached forward in a motion so fast she didn’t see it coming. His finger tapped her nose lightly. Pain ripped through her nose. She lurched back and righted herself. She gasped, face blazing in pain, tingling in such overbearing agony her teeth ached. Something rested on her upper lip and she wiped it away with her wrist. It came back smeared in blood.

“What are you doing?” he asked, so close she could feel his breath against her mouth, though he appeared to be floating several feet away. “They are your memories, not mine.” His eyes were bright with pleasure. “They’re just waiting for you to accept yourself and then they’ll rush free, returning your powers. Agree to draw for me and I’ll give you back the warrior.”

She nodded, tears coursing down her face and dripping off her chin.

Something hot ran up her thigh and she stiffened, looking down. A moment later a hit of crushing pain brought tears to her eyes. Black bruises the size of fingerprints formed on her white skin, spreading into massive contusions. She tried to pull away, but a manicured hand crushed her upper thigh, holding it fast. A fleshy, disembodied tongue appeared on her stomach and licked a wet, sinuous path up her chest.

“You know who I am.” His accent altered, sultry and drawling, right next to her.

She swayed, disoriented by the different views of Molokh; his body reclining above the book, his disembodied hand and pointed tongue brushing her skin. She tried to reconcile the dual aspects, all three images casting confusing shadows in the dim light.

A moment later, there was a loud
pop
and she lifted clenched fists to her ears. The pages of the grimoire blackened and curled. Molokh’s face filled with surprise before his shape shrank, compressing to a tiny pinprick of darkness. She swallowed hard to equalize the pressure in her head.

In his place, and above the plinth, stood the warrior Resheph had called in her apartment.

She twisted her wrist to repeat the incantation, wishing it would stop shaking so she could see the words properly.

“Don’t tempt me,” Besmelo said, raising a gloved hand. “Summoning Molokh was a mistake.”

Her incantation stuttered to a halt.

“I’d take you to Mithra myself if I thought the strife would end there,” he continued in a droning echo. “But Molokh wants more, always more.” The spirit shifted his feet with a clang of metal. “And then, there are some gods in the pantheon who believe you still might redeem yourself. Take a different path. Little likelihood of that, now you’re bound, but they’re optimistic.” Besmelo’s eyes through his helm were deep gray pools. “Thankfully, a majority want you back behind Mithra.” He sidled closer. “I think you’re pure evil.”

“I don’t understand.” A puff of mist formed in front of her mouth.

“You wouldn’t have come to Molokh’s attention but for your desire for spells. Jhara the mage was a lure and you took the bait. Send a message to the Tribune. For taking you in, no intervention from the gods shall be sent their way. No channels through the Abyss will be tolerated. I’ll tear out the throats of any that call on the gods, magical formulae or not.” He kicked the outer circle, smudging the charcoal with a metal boot, his voice mechanical. “The rips you’ve created in the Veil will take eons to fix. Balkaith will battle its enemies without assistance, though they have a weapon. Whether it turns to ash in their throats is another thing.”

The spirit looked at Maya for a long moment and laughed grimly. “Their weapon is you—daughter of Molokh, Lord of Filth and Squalor. You have seven days to put a halt to Molokh’s plans—send him back behind the Gates of Mithra. The djinni will return you to the Abyss for judgment. If you fail, Earth and Balkaith will be reduced to rubble.”

Oxyhiayal, House of Horus, had called her a mage-whore. Perhaps there were worse things to be.

“You are your father’s child, and bound by your word to him. He’ll call on it, you can be sure of it. Your damaged soul makes the same mistakes, over and over. The dagger has found you, yet again. Learn, illusionist. Best hurry before the Khereb find you. Your last life, the djinni warned. Best use it well.” His sarcasm echoed around the Vault.

She couldn’t possibly achieve all that he demanded. For one long agonizing moment she wanted to follow him.

Molokh.

Her vision cleared and the room swung back into view. She didn’t know whether to laugh or scream in fury.

Picking herself up off the floor, Maya marched over to her clothes. The warlock and dryad stared at her as she tossed the dress over her head with trembling hands. It pooled at her bare feet, now covered in dust, blood, and sweat.

Damn it. She might have been forced into a corner, but no one decided her future, let alone two lousy parents, a bloody book, and a callous deity. She’d saved Resh and now she’d try to circumvent Fate. Too bad she had no idea how to do it.

Clarice hurried toward Maya and placed a hand on her shoulder. She pulled Maya hard against her chest.

For a moment, Maya slumped into the tight hold, relieved to know someone in the world didn’t judge her. Maybe she could just find a hole and crawl into it until this was all over—except she’d never been one to back down from a fight, even if the djinni let her.

She jerked away on wobbly feet and cracked a halfhearted smile that must have been as unconvincing as it felt, because Clarice just stared back, unblinking.

“Well, you heard the miserable immortal,” Maya said. “Let’s find a way to send Molokh back behind the Gates.”

Clarice looked aged and vulnerable, a lot like Maya felt.

“Hell and damnation,” Alexandr said from his post near the stairs.

Maya swiveled to the plinth.

A dark shape huddled in the middle of the blood-splattered, blackened circle.

Pia.

The bird’s feathers rustled as she lifted her head. “Molokh’s bitch. Still alive I see.”

“Pia, that’s enough,” said Clarice. “Not a word to anyone. She bargained for Resh’s life.”