Illusion (3 page)

Something wet and cold touched the back of her neck, rasping as it brushed strands of her hair. It crawled onto her back, anchored its sinuous body to her clothes with painful digs, and tried crawling up her spine. She arched her back and slapped her shoulders. Another grabbed her ankles, making them burn with a wintry fire. She felt them, one by one, a dozen hands, forcing her to take notice.

She took even breaths and closed her eyes, fumbling in the side pocket of her bag for a rubber band. She tugged it on her wrist and pulled it back. The band snapped against her skin, and she exhaled with satisfaction.

Come back. It’s fine. There’s nothing to run from. Your name is Maya. Come back.

The thing on her back brushed her face. Panic rose in her throat and she tugged the band again, let it twang against her wrist.

Fingers brushed her cheeks, reached for her mouth and she gasped, began to drift away, began to disconnect to a place where visions wouldn’t find her. It wasn’t cold Earth, desolate after the Mage Wars, but a warm, balmy place where the sun bled through wispy clouds and a huge moon rose to forgive the past.

A caw sounded above and her lids flew open. There was a whisper of movement and the vision shifted. The shadows wavered, edging back.

“It is dangerous for you to be here.” A tight voice spilled from the darkness, the words delivered clearly, with enough volume that her muscles locked up tight. The shadows withdrew fast, shrieking in a seething mass of faces and arms. They darted back into the alley between the buildings.

A stony-faced man stood several feet away. She smelled acrid smoke and lifted her gaze. Red flickers of fire danced on the factory roof. The doors opened and magi and humans streamed out into the street, shouting, but it seemed to come from a great distance, even though they couldn’t be more than twenty feet away.

She gasped, sucking in a lungful of burned herbs. “Who are you?”

“We must talk, but this isn’t a good place. Come.” He held out his hand, palm outstretched.

“Where?”

“Somewhere safe.”

She looked into a hard expression, half-exposed by the streetlight.

“My life just went to crap.” Her breaths shortened and she wanted to get away from Jhara and his damn factory, from dark streets where shadows moved and lurked, waiting to drag her into oblivion.

“Indeed.” His features were harsh; a hawk-like nose jutted from between dark eyes.

“I don’t need your help.”

“Of course not.” He lifted her hand and pressed his hot palm into hers. “But perhaps you might allow me to escort you home.”

* * * *

She’d have to remember to thank the magi. Maya hoped the next run-in would end with them howling in pain. And there would be another meeting. The way her luck spilled through her fingers, she could almost count on it.

Maybe she’d finally reached the low point her mother had predicted would end her life? Her mind swirled with images of the magi, the stranger and, for some inexplicable reason, a fortress basking under a hot sun.

A headache wound its way across her skull and she wanted to be home when it hit, preferably between warm sheets. She probed the back of her head and winced when her fingers came back smeared with blood. Her body was one twitching pile of pain and she wasn’t sure what part ached the most.

She focused on the dark haired stranger sitting next to her in the back of the taxi pod and rolled her shoulders to relieve the tightness in her neck. In the front seat, a turbaned driver tapped on the illuminated dashboard as the pod weaved through wet streets.

“Where did you come from?” she asked.

Her blood still pumped through her veins in shock at the man’s sudden appearance, but at least the darkness had retreated.

“My name is Resheph-wa-Khasis.” A scar split one corner of his mouth, lifting the side of his lip into a permanent sneer. He watched her, his face expressionless and eyes steady, just like a shark watching its prey.

Instead of making her afraid, his intent gaze irritated her. Resheph carried the same bulky muscle as the warrior in the mirror. He’d unceremoniously assumed control, piling her into the taxi pod, and although part of her felt relief, the other part conferred a manic desire to smack the smirk off his face.

“Did you see or sense anything other than me earlier?” He uttered a strange, low-toned invocation and waved his hand. An odd circular object with glyphs and runes around the rim appeared. He turned it slowly, looking into the concave mirror, and beckoned with his finger. A purple vial burst out of the middle and bounced into his palm.

“What do you mean ‘anything’?” She glared up at him. So this guy happened to be another mage, with an unusual name. She stared at him, wondering when Fate had planned its mammoth magi surprise. The male bothered her, but she’d play along until she got home. Lessons were plentiful on the streets, but one thing stood out more than the rest—a human never, ever, showed vulnerability to the magi—it only brought out their predator instincts.

He issued an impatient sound. “The portal you opened. Did anything else cross?” The soft trench coat covering him to his knees exaggerated his height so he looked like a mythical werewolf crouched in the shadows.

“Portal?” She must have been mistaken; he couldn’t have been in the factory—Jhara never let strangers past the front door, especially one who packed enough muscle to swat him into next week.

The dark-haired mage reached out to touch her forehead. When he pulled his hand away, he rubbed his thumb across his fingers. Blood tickled as it dribbled down her temple, coagulating near her ear. She raised both palms, retreating to the far corner of the pod. A frown creased his brow. He turned away and his wavy, shoulder-length hair fell forward over his face.

She leaned against the frameless window and her arm pulsed. She gave an involuntary jerk, stifling a cry of misery, and clamped her teeth together to stop them from chattering.

“I have something that will help,” he said.

“No, I’ll be fine.” She wasn’t okay but didn’t want to show pain in front of the mage. His pronunciation was oddly slow and inconsistent, as if he was concentrating on making each inflection as bland as possible.

She fumbled in her bag, locating eyeliner and a knife, before her fingers closed over her spellbox. The glass lid showcased her motley supply of Jhara’s spells, tossed together with a used entry ticket to Absinthe.

“Are they capable of healing a fracture?” Resheph leaned forward to view the small case. His voice sounded deep and rough, almost hoarse.

“No, probably not. But I’ll live.” She eyed the thin slice of paper, almost the size of her pinkie nail. She had three blockers left—after that she was on her own.

She swallowed the tab and heaved a sigh as her muscles relaxed. The image of the middle-aged woman who’d purchased a spell from her last week ran through her mind. The husband had sworn she’d taken one of Jhara’s
inflammatio
spells to reduce swelling, and had shrunk to two and a half feet tall instead. Of course Jhara denied any culpability.

Her head throbbed, pounding as if it had been crushed.

Resheph took off his coat with a whisper of sound and placed it across her shoulders. It enveloped her in a rich smell of sandalwood and she ran her fingers over the lightweight mesh, curious despite her pain. The warmth from his body trickled into hers and she breathed deeply, holding in the scent.

He smelled much nicer than regular magi. His fitted pants were made from some type of dense black material while a white shirt stuck close to his skin. He had a stunning body for a mage—two points in his favor, then. His upright posture and formal tone reminded her of the military. A dark shadow of a tattoo snaked up a well-toned wrist to his upper arm. Black ravens gazed back at her from between the desolate branches of a bare tree. Their shiny obsidian eyes seemed filled with knowledge, and she screwed up her nose before she could stop herself.

Pain shafted through her skull. Her mouth filled with saliva and she swallowed hard.

“This will help remove the pain.” Resheph held out a slim ampule filled with fluorescent pink liquid. “Your lip and scalp are raw.”

Maya eyed him. She closed her fingers around her spellbox. The oblong shape under her palm reassured her. Trusting the higher magi went against everything she’d been taught, and this mage didn’t wear the runes of either House.

“What is it?” she asked. Her voice sounded raspy in her own ears. The elixir looked unfamiliar. She pulled out a mixture of pennyroyal and peppermint oil from her case. After dabbing a spot on her finger, she indicated for him to pass the elixir across.

“It is a healing spell. We call it
ad partes dolentes.
” He handed her the glass vial that he’d pulled from the concave disc.

She rubbed the oil on the bottle and waited a moment to see if it would change color. The oil remained a stable opaque. So the ampule contained nothing poisonous. She pulled out her last
ashwood
medi-amulet to neutralize untamed spells and attached it to her wrist. He watched impassively.

Her face scrunched as the pain reached a new level, making the decision for her. Eyebrows drawn together, she snapped open the lid on his ampule and downed the contents. As soon as the taste of spicy nutmeg hit the back of her tongue, a wash of pleasure flooded her system.

Ahh, relief.
The pain reduced to a bearable throb and her muscles unclenched. Her shoulders relaxed and she sighed. She held the glass case between finger and thumb. Good grief. Working in Jhara’s charm factory gave her access to more drugs than she’d ever dreamed of, but she’d never imagined anything could work so fast. It must have cost a fortune.

“So money’s no object, huh?” she asked.

He conjured a bright orange tub filled with a gelatinous substance. “May I?” He gestured to her arm as if asking for permission. His elongated eyes gave him a foreign cast. Something slipped in front of them and lightened the irises, like a silver shade drawn over a window, before they went back to their previous color. His size overwhelmed her and she drew back again. His lip lifted in a ghost of a smile. Before she could say no, Resheph opened the lid.

“Would you prefer to see a physician? Or are you one of those who dislikes the touch of others?”

The mage was a fool if he thought she’d step into that trap. “Where are you from? I can’t place your accent and you’re different from the magi around here.” She rubbed the coat between finger and thumb and it crackled with static.

“Balkaith.”

She raised a brow.

He continued. “It is my homeland. A long way from here.”

There were no surprises there. He didn’t look like a local. Balkaith sounded foreign. Perhaps it was one of the territorial specks on the map in Europe.

Since the Mage Wars, the tensions between the races had created insecurity, polarizing society. Humans, the higher magi, and the hybrid lower magi gravitated toward their local communities, becoming increasingly insular. It didn’t help that the tripartite government rigidly controlled global communication.

“So, why not try it? I promise it won’t dissolve your arm.” He gave a crooked smile and touched her arm with the rough pads of his fingers.

A shiver went down her spine and she spoke to disguise her response. “Go for it. But no tricks, Mage.” She meant it. “What’s it made from?” She shrugged out of both coats, wincing as her sleeve dragged on the cut.

“We make it from local ingredients.” He put two fingers in the tub and extracted a glob of gel, which he wiped on her bare skin. “Mostly adder’s tongue, dead men’s balls, and sheep manure.” He abandoned the tub and it floated in midair.

The jelly settled into the wound, burning. She gave a reflexive jerk, but he reached out with his other hand and applied a subtle pressure to her shoulder. Their eyes met and he inclined his head slightly, amusement warring with the gravity in his eyes. His long fingers slid down her arm to her bare hand, sending a tingle of heat through her body. It was an alarmingly intimate bond. He turned her palm slightly and rubbed more gel onto her wrist. He held her lightly, but she didn’t fool herself that if she resisted, he’d let her get away.

“My mother always said the only good man is a dead one.” She shifted uneasily. “So what do you do in Balkaith? Do you work for the military?” The swelling shrank, easing into more tingles. A queer feeling untangled in her stomach and she sighed.

Oh God, that feels wonderful.
She looked up at him. Please say she hadn’t just groaned out loud?

His hands were steady on his task and she exhaled in relief.

“Your mother sounds like a cautious woman,” he murmured.

She was a bitch and a whore, but let’s not go there.

He touched her head with gentle hands and parted her hair, rubbing the stuff into her scalp. For a moment she wondered if he’d lingered, rubbing a strand between finger and thumb. But he pulled away, and closed the lid with a quick snap.

“You could say I’m familiar with strife. I suggest you rest for a few hours and give the liniment time to do its work.” His deep, resonant voice had changed, sounding thicker, more foreign.

She looked up at him. For the first time she noticed the long sword leaning between his leg and the pod glass. The silver wire-wrapped grip flickered in the dim light and the scabbard looked tired and worn. He must be a fighter as well as a mage. Frowning, she tried to recall a House that used a sword. They usually favored spells and nasty backfiring hexes that gave more than one asked for.

“What are you doing here? Are you with Anu or Horus?” Now that she had time to think, she could see he didn’t carry any of the muddied mutations that followed mage-human hybridization. Plus a lower mage could never afford an engineered coat that flowed like silk but felt as cold as chain mail. She tugged her coat back on, the wound on her arm numb.

“Right now, I’m helping you, if you’ll let me. I’m not affiliated with any House or guild.”

She raised a brow as his words confirmed her earlier thoughts. She’d never heard of an unaffiliated mage. The Houses held legal privilege over their familiae. The lower caste, with their genetic variations, belonged to the guilds. Without a House or guild, a mage held no citizenship. For all intents and purposes he didn’t exist.