Paladin (Graven Gods 1) (15 page)

Then again, why not? The whole interlude had been an illusion.

Paladin certainly didn’t look like a dream as he sprawled in the desk chair, hands laced over his flat, T-shirt clad belly. His big feet were bare and crossed at the ankle, and black jeans sheathed his long, powerful legs. Dark hair curled around his handsome face and fell in his pale eyes, making him look ridiculously handsome and disheveled, as if he’d just rolled out of bed. Which he had.

Sort of.

Calliope trotted over and leaped up into his lap. He began petting her absently. I stared at them, wondering whether she was actually in my lap or sitting in an empty chair. Yet her purrs suggested he was really there.

The whole thing made my head hurt. What was real? What wasn’t? Thinking about it, I guess that was always the question.

If all we know of the world comes from our senses -- information our brains assemble into our view of reality -- how do we know anything’s real outside our skulls? It could all be an illusion.

And to a certain extent, that’s all it was. Matter might appear solid, but it’s mostly empty space. Color is only different wavelengths of light, smell and taste only chemicals. Looked at that way, reality is nothing more than a rough consensus. My mind veered away from the thought queasily.

Brooding, I watched Paladin pet the cat. He used my body as a vehicle the same way the goddess used Cal. The difference, of course, is that Paladin and I shared my body more or less equally, while Calliope was firmly in the driver’s seat when it came to the cat.

Gods could not speak and act without a living host to do their will. Oh, they could inhabit inanimate matter, as Eris inhabited my mother’s sword, but they couldn’t take action without something alive to focus their magic through. I understood that without being told. The knowledge was just there when I thought of it, the same way I knew how to use my cell phone.

Trouble was, I had no idea where reality left off and fantasy began. But somehow I was going to have to get it figured out. Especially when it came to who and what I really was.

So I broke the lush silence with the question that was gnawing at me. “All the stuff I wrote about you -- about Richard Paladin,” I waved a hand vaguely. “All that really happened, didn’t it? They weren’t just dreams. I was describing things you’d actually done the night before. I didn’t actually create anything.” The idea carried a surprising sting. Being a writer -- a creator -- was the core of my personality.

“Summer, that doesn’t mean you’re not a writer.”

“Doesn’t it? I’m sure as hell am not a fiction writer.” For the past twelve years, all I’d ever wanted to do was write. From the start, my work had revolved around Paladin -- his adventures, the people he fought, the magical world he inhabited. His world had seemed more real to me than the one I lived in.

Probably because it had been.

I’d been a lonely child thanks to my amnesia. Despite my aunt’s best efforts to keep it quiet, an article in the local paper covered my mother’s murder and mentioned the fatal car accident that supposedly killed my brother and father. You’d think all that tragedy would have inspired other kids to cut me some slack.

Nope.

I’d either been bullied as a freak, or avoided as if tragedy was contagious. Having been raised to fight -- whether I remembered it or not -- I’d brawled with my bullies, earning frequent suspensions.

I’d also defiantly embraced my persona as That Weird Bookworm Kid. Because really, what choice did I have? I’d either be TWBK or slink around hoping to go unnoticed. Given my Demi DNA, I was far too tall to slink successfully.

Paladin had become the playmate I’d desperately needed. His cheerful snark about my tormentors had made me grin and taught me to laugh, both at myself and the local schmuck ecology. He’d been the main reason I’d grown up as more or less sane. Our relationship had evolved still more when I went to college, taking on a sensual edge after my romantic debacle with Ronnie Gordon.

Then my aunt had died, and I moved back to the house I’d inherited from my mother, opened my bookstore, and gotten serious about writing.

Now I had to wonder what Paladin had been up to all that time, especially when I slept. That was, after all, when the spell gave him full control over my body, resulting in those incredibly vivid dreams. “Did you go out hunting Valakans when I lived with Mary?”

He shot me a
get serious
look. “Considering I occupied the body of a child -- whose brain I could have fried just by using my magic -- that would have been utterly irresponsible. I didn’t patrol until you moved back to Graven.”

I knew exactly when, too, because I remembered the dream I’d had that night. I’d written it down because it was so bloody and disturbing I was afraid I’d lose my mind if I didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Paladin said softly. “But I had to start patrolling again. Valak was back in town, and I had to help Zanos-James deal with the fallout.” As god of justice, he had a responsibility to Graven’s magical community. Because of his sheer power, he’d become chief lieutenant to the God of Graven, Zanos-James, also his best friend.

I frowned. “If you were running around Graven playing Batman, why didn’t Valak recognize me? At the gym he acted like he’d never seen me before. What’d you do, wear a mask?”

He gave me a look. “Your nerd is showing. I used spells to change your appearance, and I never took your car, since it could have been traced back to you.”

“How’d you get around?”

He shrugged. “Whoever I was partnering with gave me a ride. Usually that was Zanos-James’s daughter, Opal.” I knew Opal. We’d played together as kids. Now Paladin’s memories told me she was her father’s heir.

“Why not just buy a car?”

“Where would I have kept it? Valak would have eventually found it and used it to track you down.”

“Good point.” I sighed, and started brooding. He wasn’t the only one who had responsibilities, either. I too, had duties I couldn’t ignore. My dream of being a writer was pretty much over. Same with the shop. I was going to have to close it too.

Paladin looked at me, frowning. “Summer, you don’t have to quit writing or running a business. Those things ground you. You need them.”

“When am I going to have time? Between playing the Dark Knight of Graven and combat practice…”

“We can make time. I’m not going to gut your life.”

The fact that he cared made me feel more like I mattered. “But…”

“But nothing. Of course you matter. I love you. And you’re not giving up the shop or your writing. Period.”

I took a deep breath, his insistence making me feel a bit better. He
did
care. “Yeah, I suppose I could figure something out. Maybe hire somebody to work the shop when we have a late night or something. It might be tight…”

“Not really. I’ve got money in various funds.” Correctly interpreting my stare, he shrugged. “I’m immortal. I’ve had a long time to invest, and I’m good at it.”

I knew what my mother would say to letting my god waste his money on me.

“Forget your mother. I’ll spend my money as I damned well please.”

Which made me smile. “All right, but… One thing she always said is that combat has to be a consuming obsession, or you end up getting yourself killed.” I remembered the night she’d died -- the stark ferocity on her face as she crouched, sword in hand…

Wait, my mother’s sword. Had Eris been lost after she died?

Paladin shook his head. “I used my magic to contact Zanos-James after we escaped.”

As god of Graven, Zanos-James was responsible for keeping the magical community under the radar -- a full time job in the age of YouTube and camera phones.

“The sword fight would have raised far too many questions, so he made the whole thing look like a home invasion. He staged it to look as if Barbara used a gun to defend herself, shooting her attackers before dying of her injuries. Then he collected Eris and called the cops, who found you hiding in the neighbor’s garage.”

I shuddered, remembering the howl of sirens as I hid behind the lady’s SUV, shaking and traumatized, remembering nothing. To distract myself from that ugly memory, I said, “I thought we usually sanitized scenes so the dead just vanished without a trace.”

“Usually we do, but not when there’s a child survivor. We had to explain what happened to your mother and why you’d gone to live with your aunt, so you could later inherit the property Barbara left you.”

Calliope spoke up. “The last thing we needed was for police to mount a full-fledged murder investigation.” Tail coiled neatly over her toes, she watched us quietly, ears pricked in interest. “We have a hard enough time keeping the humans out of our business as it is.”

“What about Mom’s spirit? I remember how she had to use Eris to recover the souls of Richard and Dad. Who did that for her?”

“Since she was holding the sword when she fell, Eris was able to take her in.” Paladin curled a disgusted lip. “Good thing, too, because the goddess refused to let me so much as touch that sword since then. She holds a grudge over what happened to Barbara, not that I can blame her.”

“You may not blame her, but I do. Eris is a flaming bitch,” Calliope growled.

“Well, she’s going to have to get over it. I need that sword.” Those of my line had always carried Eris into battle, and I had no intention of giving up that advantage.

The goddess’ power combined with Paladin’s had made Mom virtually unstoppable. I badly needed Eris in order to survive whatever the Valakans threw at me next. “We’re going to have to go hunting for Valak, and we need her help. Otherwise, he’ll ambush us again, and the next time he may get lucky.”

Besides, the sword’s main job for my mother had been to purify the magic Mom absorbed from the Valakans. Without the goddess, that evil would eventually drive me mad.

“It won’t, no matter what Eris does.” Paladin sounded cool, icily confident. “I’ve found a woman who cleanses the magic for me. We do
not
need Eris.”

“I do.” And I went off to get her, Calliope trotting after me.

Paladin just growled, “Good luck with that.”

“Actually, Paladin’s got a point,” Calliope said, as she flitted along at my heels. “Are you sure this is a good idea? She’s still pretty pissed about Barbara’s death.”

“So am I,” I growled. “She just needs to be pissed off at the right god -- Valak. A bastard I’m damned well going to kill.”

“Unfortunately, Valak’s harder to stomp than a zombie cockroach raised on radioactive Twinkies. We thought Barbara had taken him out, but he somehow survived. If
she
couldn’t take him…”

“That’s why we need Eris.” I ducked into the kitchen, then descended the claustrophobically narrow flight of stairs that led to the house’s wine cellar.

Great-great-grandfather Paladin-Henry St. Clare, who’d built the house, had been something of a wine connoisseur back in the day. Racks of bottles of Riesling, Pinot Noir, Bordeaux, Champagne, Sauvignon Blanc, Merlot… Basically, if it was a fine wine, it was there, probably old as hell and incredibly expensive.

A flick of the light switch revealed hundreds of dusty bottles tucked into the ancient wooden rack that stood ten feet high against the basement’s stone wall. I hesitated a moment, overwhelmed by the selection. Then I took a deep breath and started counting bottles.

Two down, tug that bottle of Merlot out a few inches, over three, depress that Riesling exactly an inch and a half, skip the next shelf, and push in the fourth bottle of Chardonnay three inches. Count three shelves down and tug out the 1924 Pinot, the 1960 Merlot, and the ‘66 Sauvignon Blanc, an inch, a half-inch, and three inches respectively.

Then I waited to see whether it would work, muscles tensing. God knew it should, considering how many times my mother had made Richard and me practice it. But given the amnesia…

With a creaking grind, the entire shelf began to pivot. Sighing in relief, I skipped backward to avoid the rotating rack, then ducked into the opening revealed as it stopped.

Lights came on as I entered, and I stared around in wonder. It was exactly the same as I remembered it, as if my mother had only just stepped away.

That thought sliced into my heart like a spear thudding home. I thrust it aside impatiently. I didn’t have time to indulge my inner drama queen.

The combination weapons room and library ran the entire length of the house. Shelf after floor-to-ceiling shelf stood crammed with books, swords, daggers, armor, and
objets d’art
.

Paladin’s diaries alone took up one whole wall, recording the events of his many lives over many thousands of years. So very many years, in fact, that if he didn’t write down what had happened, he’d forget. Especially given how he moved into a new skull every fifty years or so.

I frowned at the opposite wall of shelves, occupied by an extensive collection of gems, weapons, and other magical objects. In my childhood, they’d held the volumes belonging to my father’s god. “What happened to Ulf’s books?”

“The diaries went with him when I found him a host last year. You’ll remember his new Avatar, Mark Andrews.”

“Richard’s best friend?” When he nodded, I smiled. “I used to play with his sister, Sara. I can remember sliding down the banister with them.”

“Your fathers were also planning to negotiate a betrothal between you two when Graham died,” Paladin told me. “Mark has excellent bloodlines, not to mention a lot of talent. Ulf was glad to get him.”

“Eleven years is a long time to spend in a sword.”

“Especially any sword Eris occupies,” Calliope muttered.

“Shhh,” I muttered back. “Don’t piss off the nice goddess before I even draw her.” I scanned the shelves Ulf’s diaries had once occupied. Now they were filled with other spell books and grimoires, interspaced with all kinds of magical objects and weapons Paladin had collected over the years. The magical weight of it all was so intense, I felt it burn over my skin like radioactivity.

As similes went, that one was fairly apt. Unlike radioactivity, the magical aura wouldn’t exactly kill you in and of itself. Still, if you picked up the wrong residence of the wrong god, you could end up deader than Elvis. Some of those boys didn’t play.