Shadows Before the Sun (9 page)

“There. Now you may talk and understand.”

She was close to me, so close I could smell lavender and sage on her skin. “Why are you helping me?”

Lightwater leaned her hip on the edge of the desk and folded her hands in front of her. “Because I want something in return.”

Ah, there it is.

“After you have obtained your goal, set things to right, and have had time to recuperate from your journey, I would ask you to return here to Ithonia and grant me two days.” My eyes narrowed. “To study you. To learn. I will have you answer any question posed to you and demonstrate your gifts to the best of your ability.”

The cloak I could’ve gotten. The
grimwyrd
I
could’ve gotten in place of the amulet. The mages to take me into Fiallan, could’ve gotten that, too. The language spell was helpful, but travelers also employed translators. So, Lightwater really hadn’t offered me anything I couldn’t have gotten myself.

“You give me two days, Charlie Madigan, and I will grant you one marker in return.”

“A marker,” I repeated.

“A promise. One. To put all my power, all the knowledge at my disposal, to completing one task, solving one dilemma, or granting a desire you ask. To the best of my ability and as long as it harms none, of course.”

Sandra let out a low whistle. “Never offered me a marker.”

Lightwater turned a kind eye to Alessandra. “There is nothing I can offer the oracle that she does not already have. And that which she does not have and desires is unobtainable. This you know.”

Sandra huffed as I slipped the amulet over my head, deciding to accept the offer. “I accept your terms, as long as the two days I’m here harms none as well.”

The Elder flashed a grin. “Of course. The deal has been struck.” She moved back to her seat. “Trahern and Brell will take you now.”

Sandra stood, said her good-byes to the Elder, and then faced me. “Ready?”

Trahern stepped next to me and curved his hand around my elbow as Brell did the same to Sandra. And then they vanished. I had a half second to see
them blink out before the ground dropped out from under me.

I’d traveled this way before courtesy of Aaron, so I knew what to expect, but it sure as hell didn’t stop that brief flash of panic as my body dispersed into energy and then re-formed moments later in a new place, feeling about a hundred pounds heavier.

Yep,
I thought. The sensation of going from weightless to weight? Still hated it.

He’d always thought going back into the grid would be a fate worse than death.

He was wrong.

Leave it to those fucking old hags to come up with something worse.

His laugh turned to coughs. He lifted his head a fraction to relieve the hard bite of the stone floor against his cheekbones and the side of his skull. He was naked and cold, chained facedown on the floor, arms straight out, held there by manacles on his wrists, neck, and ankles.

They wouldn’t let him die. And every time he did, every time his body gave out and his soul departed, their vicious spell would lasso it back, drag it back into his broken body. To endure. He’d seen the fucking light so many times it was making him mad, those glimpses of peace, the feeling it gave him, the brief absence of pain.

There was pure, soft, welcoming light. And then it would begin to dim, growing smaller and smaller and smaller, until he was surrounded in darkness and screaming to go back. This was a dark, despicable magic; one of the most heinous of spells, tethering a soul to a dying or dead body.

Returning to his broken body was a torture the like of which he couldn’t comprehend. The shock of it, the utter contrast between peace and pain . . . It was a sensation worse than the grid, worse than the whippings. It was a horror so unique that it fucked with his mind.

He was losing his hold on reality. He craved his own demise. They were turning him into a madman. His lust for death was only overshadowed by his hunger to kill the Circe, to exact the cruelest, most prolonged, most vulgar kind of end imaginable.

Over time, as he lay there, his pathetic body would actually try to heal, to knit some of his wounds back together. To give the whip master something else to tear back down. But nothing could repair his psyche, his mind, his tired soul. There was no healing for that. The sane part of him knew it and no longer cared.

As he went in and out of consciousness, visions of a former life flashed through his mind, of the forest of Gorsedd and the sidhé fae hermit who taught him, of a life that meant something, of a smiling child with big brown eyes, of a woman so fierce and loyal and beautiful that she took his breath away. He’d tried to hold on to those images, tried not to miss a single detail that played through his weary mind.

But they were all disjointed and random. All part of
a shattered life, one that he’d been stupid, idiotic to believe could ever be his.

The most painful, intense regret filled him in the lucid moments after those flashes. It burned through him, searing his chest, his heart, his throat. And sometimes it burned so raw and fierce that he couldn’t hold it in and he dug his fingernails into the stone and roared in pain and rage.

He was no longer siren. He was animal. A crazed thing to be toyed with and tortured and lost. An animal that would ravage its keepers as soon as the slightest opportunity arose. Kill or be killed.

He laughed again, the sound ragged and thin. He laughed at that because he
had
been killed. Over and over and over again.

Red washed across his cloudy vision, and he could almost smell the iron tang, and feel its heat and thickness. Red, all of it red in Circe blood and Malakim vengeance.

•    •    •

The highly unpleasant sensation of losing all physical sense and then becoming whole again paled in comparison to opening my eyes and knowing I was there. In Fiallan. In Hank’s city. So close.
I’m here, Hank.
I squeezed my eyelids closed and forced down the emotion. I was here, and I was damned well going to succeed.

Trahern’s hand fell from my elbow. He stepped back, bowed to me, and then blinked out. Behind him stood Sandra; Brell was already gone.

We stood on a large platform, a wall rising behind
us and a market spread out in front of us. I could smell the sea and, beyond the murmur of many voices and activity, I thought I heard it, too. The aroma of fresh bread and seafood mingled with the salty air and the faint scent of the stones warmed by the sun. I tipped my head to the sky and let it bathe my skin in warmth. It was easy, after a while, to get used to the darkness back home. The only times I acknowledged how much I missed the light were times like these.

Sandra stepped off the block. I followed her, walking backward to get a good look at the wall. It was two stories tall, broken by an arched gate manned by guards. Through this break, I’d guess the wall was at least fifteen feet thick. There were two towers far in each direction. The Malakim towers. I’d envisioned them looking more medieval, but they were actually obelisk in shape, made of smooth cream-colored stone, and rising at least five stories high. The remaining two towers weren’t visible from my standpoint, and I saw no rings of power, no visible force field of any kind.

I let out a disbelieving breath and turned around in a circle. I was in Fiallan, the inner wall in front of me and the outer wall—which was built after the city had expanded its old boundaries—far behind us. Both walls were shaped like a horseshoe, enclosing the city to all but the sea.

I knew from my earlier preparations to go into the city that a request had to be made at the gate in order to enter the old city. As I took in my fill of the large
market, the gate, and the four streets that fanned off of this central area, I noticed Sandra straightening her veil, lifting her chin, and gliding toward the main gate.
Request in progress
.

I stayed back, allowing her to do her thing, knowing she’d accomplish the task with ease. And that was fine by me. The less notice I gained the better.

I turned away from the gate where Sandra held court and scanned the large marketplace and the crowd, gauging the mood, the threat level, and just letting myself become accustomed to the environment. What I knew of the Circe conflicted with the energetic, happy mood of the place. But then there were few who knew of the lies and heinous practice going on around them.

Eventually, I felt Sandra’s presence. “Now we wait.” And then she breezed past me.

There were mostly sirens, but some nymphs, a few imps and fae, and one or two humans in the market. Vines and flowers bloomed from railings and over pergolas, creating shaded spots under which tables and chairs had been placed. Streets fanned out from the market, lined with whitewashed buildings no higher than three stories. Brightly painted pottery decorated corners of buildings and doorways, filled with flowers, plants, and seashells.

It was all strangely . . . idyllic, completely at odds with the darkness I’d attributed to this place.

I lost Sandra, but found her again as she neared the building on the corner. It had a bright blue
door, whitewashed stone walls, and flowering vines attached to one corner. Her head turned; the flash of her eyes in the shadow of her veil found me and waved me over. I caught the door before it closed, stepping inside behind her.

I’d heard for the normal traveler, it could take a day or more to get approval, but government officials and celebrities like the oracle—it might only take an hour or two.

After Sandra spoke to the innkeeper, we were led to a private room with a window that overlooked the market. As soon as we entered the bright room, Sandra shrugged off her veil and sank into one of the couches. The window was open, one side framed in blooms that crawled up the outside of the building.

I let my bags slide off my shoulders and stared out at the market scene, itching to do something, itching for a fight, honestly. To do what I knew best. I was out of my element, in another dimension that looked like some Mediterranean paradise while all I wanted to do was bust some heads, exact some revenge, and get my partner the hell out of there.

I let out a loud exhale.

“Nothing like Charbydon, is it?” Sandra asked.

I glanced over my shoulder. “No. Nothing like.” I turned back to the scene outside. “It’s beautiful here.” Which pissed me off; it shouldn’t
be
beautiful. It didn’t seem right, not when children had died to protect this place. “Have you seen the city, Sandra, in your visions?”

When she didn’t answer, I moved away from the window. She was watching me, her expression blank. I stopped by the arm of the empty couch across from hers. “Have you?”

I waited, wondering if I’d be able to detect a lie if she told one. Alessandra was a lot of things. Greedy. Haughty. Prideful. Sarcastic. But for some reason, she didn’t strike me as dishonest. Oh, she milked her clients for every penny she could, but as far as I knew she never told things she did not see. She was more the type to deliver the brutal truth or simply not answer at all. This time, she chose the latter, which meant she
had
seen this place in a vision.

“Sit down, Charlie. Relax. If you start pacing, I might throw something at you.” Her eyes drifted closed and her head fell back against the cushion. “I’m already getting a headache.”

I sat down. “I’ve been thinking about what you said . . . If you can’t see Hank’s future because it’s intertwined with ours, that means he’s alive, right? He’s part of all this. Otherwise you’d be able to see.”

Her chest rose and fell. Her eyes opened and she looked at me with a mixture of exasperation and pity. “Well if he’s dead, I wouldn’t be able to see him, either.”

I winced, her words slicing between my ribs as effortlessly as a surgical knife and straight into my heart. Sandra had a way of hitting me where it hurt, and this time was no exception. I gazed out the window, knowing that pressing her wasn’t going to get
me anywhere, but I’d needed to do it anyway, needed some hope or reassurance . . . something.

“I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me, Charlie. I’m just . . .” She searched for the right words, but none seemed to come.

“Pissed off that you can’t see the future?”

Her eyes glowed and her tiny form seemed to vibrate with energy. “You could say that. It’s not enjoyable to . . .
wonder
what will come.”

•    •    •

The soft knock at the door came in just under an hour.
Must be a record,
I thought as Sandra stood and shot me a superior smirk before answering the door.

“Oracle!” A tall siren dropped to his knees, grabbed the hem of her robe, and brought it to his lips. “Fiallan is honored by your presence, simply honored.”

“Please, stand.”

I didn’t miss the note of discomfort in her voice, which was surprising. Guess after a while, groveling grew old even for the oracle. Who knew?