Sleepless (Curse of the Blood Fox Trilogy, Book #1) (28 page)

“For someone so intent on danger,”
Traken said, “it is nice to discover you can at least take down a sorcerer by
yourself when the mood strikes.”

“Cursed to always be underestimated,”
I said, laughing. “One sorcerer is different from five, I'll have you.” I poked
him firmly in the ribs. “Still think you'd win?”

He grinned. “If we do fight, you can't
hold back.”

“It's a promise,” I said. Traken's
eyes stilled the laughter in my throat.

“I mean it, Blood Fox. If we ever
fight, aim to kill.” 

“Are you planning to fight me,
Traken?” I asked with a mixture of wariness and fascination. His eyebrows
inched up delicately.

“I am not planning anything. I am not
the one with goals, remember?”

“I'm sorry for you then,” I said. “I
hope your borrowed purpose satisfies.”

There was a moment of silence, our
sandals kicking up the dark soil.

“That sounded strangely like a
farewell,” he finally said, and I could scarcely hear him despite the silence
of the town. I cocked my head to the side.

“Isn't it?” The words felt heavy.
“Let's meet your lord.”

Traken didn't speak as we approached
Icol. The little man was wringing his wrapped hands together.

“Oh thank goodness. He is ready for
you, Master Traken. Please, please, before he summons me again.”

“Where is he? The dining hall?” Traken
asked.

“The Room of Seeing,” the little thing
squeaked. “He is impatient.”

“I have no doubt of that.”

I followed Traken through the open
gate and up the walkway to the flat wall where the orbs sat on display on
either side. He stopped before it, and stared at it for a long moment. I
thought he might be concocting some sort of spell to turn it into a door, but
the air did not stir.

“What is it?” I finally asked.

“Just taking a moment. You might want
to as well. My master is... an overwhelming figure.”

“Consider me ready,” I said, having
decided long ago that there wasn't a proper way to mentally prepare for the
unknown. “What do we do?”

“Do?” Traken asked with a laugh. “Walk
in, of course.”

And then he grabbed my shoulder and
pushed me into the wall. A panicked sound lurched from my throat as I threw my
hands up for the collision. There was none, of course; the wall sucked me in
and embraced me like a thick jelly. It was cold, and almost painful... and then
suddenly I passed through and it was gone.

There was no more sunlight, and my
hands were hovering absurdly in the air in front of me. Traken was there a
second later, laughing.

“Oh, if I could only have an image of
that face to cherish forever,” he crowed, patting me roughly on the back. “Was
that a little too much for you, kitten? I don't know if you're ready for this.”

“That was... unpleasant.” My eyes
narrowed to slits. “Extremely unpleasant.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Was there a
threat in there?”

“There was if you're smart.”

His laughter echoed down the wide,
empty hall before us—and wide and empty it surely was. It was three, maybe four
times my height, with magi-globes lighting only the distant ceiling so that by
the time it reached us it was only a dim glow. It was also long, with glossy
black floors that reflected crisp, dark gray walls. If there were doors along
the hallway, I couldn't make them out.

“This is dreary,” I said, leaning
forward to get a closer look at the walls. There were black jagged lines
running through them, and they wove up and down and everywhere, but didn't
really have any sense of order as far as I could tell. “And it smells like a
wet dog in here.”

“He doesn't often invite people in,”
Traken said. “Not what you were expecting, I assume?”

“I hadn't thought enough to expect
anything,” I said honestly, only now feeling the true weight of that against my
chest. Doubts were not very seemly this late in the decision process, but they
were creeping their way up. Silly things, like,
is this really where I need
to be?

“How many times, for how many
centuries, have humans asked themselves such?” I half-whispered. Traken scanned
me with slanted eyes, and I narrowed mine back at him.  “What is it?”

His expression visibly softened, if
only by a little.

“Don’t be scared, Santo.”

I blinked. “Why would you think I am?”

He leaned in very close as if to tell
a notorious secret, his mouth almost touching my ear. “Your eyes tell all, my
crazy fox.”

Something squeezed in my chest, and I
jerked away as if he had hit me. I didn't know where that reaction had come
from; how many times had Traken done and said similar things? Why had it felt
so much more personal now?

I was even more surprised by Traken's
response. He froze right where he had been, and anxiety trickled through his
usually languid expression. There was nothing smooth or playful in that pose,
nothing that could be shrugged away as nerves. He simply stood there, then
straightened and started briskly down the hall. 

Twitchy and nervous from that odd
exchange, I followed quickly and tried to quiet the idea in my head that I
might have done something wrong, whatever that might be.

The steps we took felt irreversible,
and each one seemed to stretch the distance between us further and further.
Perhaps that feeling came with the realization that Traken was no longer here
to help me. His mission was complete, his purpose fulfilled. I had no say in
that, but gritted my teeth against it nonetheless. If I needed wariness against
him now then I was in a sore spot, because I could find none.

Traken's voice, now hard and low,
drifted back to me. “Whatever happens, I hope you’re truly ready.”

I couldn't ask what he meant or what
he really knew, though I doubt he would have told me. We stopped directly
outside a large arch halfway down the hall. There was a glossy door beneath it
that sat even against the gray wall, plain and smooth except for a solitary
handle. Traken took that handle and paused, and his muscles trembled with his
hesitation.

With the opening of the door, our
companionship would be moot. Roles would change. New orders would be given, and
certain things that did matter suddenly wouldn't. Even I knew that.

The door creaked loudly as it swung
out.

He sat alone on a single chair in the
middle of a vast room made of the same line-stricken stone as the hallway.
Magi-globes hung low in a circle around the very center of the room, where
there was a placid pond of metallic water. High above the pond hung a large
silver cage, ornamental and round like a bird's and only just smaller
width-wise than the pond itself.  He sat at the edge of this pond, and so I could
see him in vivid detail. He was half-robed, the pale skin of his chest gleaming
in the sorcerer-light. He was not what I had imagined a lord of his sort to be;
he was young, maybe even younger than my appearance, with long limbs as slender
and frail as any small creature. There was no hair on him anywhere, most
especially atop his head, and his eyes were lowered.  

“Master,” Traken said somewhere behind
my elbow. The young man looked up sharply, brought to life by that single word,
and my blood went cold. His eyes were
old
, old and wicked and
vile
.
I tasted blood the moment they met mine, his skin crinkling at the corners as
if we were old friends.

I had only seen eyes this fearsome
once.

“You are late, Traken,” he said, tight
lips curling pleasantly. His voice was like a child's that was still learning
to be an adult's, but nonetheless invasive. My blood boiled against it in my
ears, and Valentina and Phernado stirred into realization on my back.

“We were delayed a number of times,”
Traken said, giving no excuses. The smooth face broke into a sneer that was
ugly and beautiful all at once.

“So I can see. You are still wearing
that robe. Didn't I tell you to get rid of it?”

“You did.”

“I warned you, silly boy. She'll be
alluring, I said; she'll have the power to drag you in if you don't keep your
distance. As it is, you were almost too late. The last day is already halfway
gone. Have you fallen for every salty lie on her lips like the idiot you are?”

“I haven't,” Traken said softly.

“Oh, you have,” the young man said,
and his fingers stroked his own cheeks with long, wicked nails caked with old
dirt. “I can see it in those sad puppy eyes. And on top of everything, she's
armed. Shouldn’t you have tied her up or something?”

“You... didn't tell me that was necessary,”
Traken said.

“Isn't it your job to protect me? I
do
require you to think every once in a while, Traken. I didn't have you bring her
here to discuss politics.”

“I had assumed a request or a
recruitment—” Traken started, but I cut him off with hissing words that clawed
out of my chest and left my insides burning.

“This is no recruitment.”

I had already taken a step back so
that Traken was in my view, and Valentina and Phernado were out in the length
of a breath. Those horrible eyes finally came to land on me, interested for the
first time.

“She knows.”

“She does,” I said, crouching like a
cornered animal.

“Oh, but how?” Those old eyes in that
young face crinkled at me again, and he was up on his feet like a viper
striking. “You are not supposed to know me.”

“You are younger since we last met,
sorcerer,” I commented, aware of the impossibility but knowing it to be true,
and took another careful step away from Traken to get a better angle. The
sorcerer I knew was still and unreadable, but I knew there was a bit of the
viper in him as well, and I didn't want to be off-guard when he sprung.

“And you are stronger since then,” the
young lord said, and his sneer showed what he thought of that. “How the years
change us, yes?”

“Why bring me here?” I asked. “Why
bother after all this time?”

A light shown in the young man's face,
and he pulled his thin hands behind him as he stood regally and ambled,
barefoot, around the rim of the pond towards us.

“Santo the Blood Fox. Quite the
reaction. You know me, and yet here you are. Fight instead of flight, anger
over surprise. What a curious little seed I've grown.”

“Say it. Tell me before you can't
anymore.”

Laughter tore itself from his chest
and echoed across the walls. His voice was long and high.

“You poor, insignificant darling. Do
you intend to kill me? It really is cute. I've always thought that of you, you
know... what an adorable, pint-sized piranha. Tearing about, mucking up wars.
You just don't know how much I appreciate how long you've managed to stay
alive. It really has been quite lucky.”

There was that word again. The back of
my head was burning.

“Tell me,” I repeated, as calmly as I
could.

“All you need to know is that your
life has had fine and sufficient meaning, my dear girl, and now it is coming to
its peaceful and long-awaited conclusion.” His gentle, young voice did not
match the wickedness on his face. “Aren't you tired of running around
aimlessly, trying to find things that cannot be found?”

“It looks to me like I
have
found at least one,” I pointed out. “A very important piece. I’ll have you
know, magic-users are not my favorite people in the world.”

“You give me too much credit,” he
said. “I am a leader before I am a sorcerer, and a scientist before even that.
What I am interested in is what you have; life. I may have been the one to
implant Night's Sweet Death, but I am no master of spells or curses. I merely
gave you what I was told to by another, and with great reward to me... or so I
thought.” His smooth brow tried to furrow. “What use was harvesting your people
when only one of you survived to bear the fruit? It really is tragic that the
curse was meant to kill.”

Now my own brow furrowed. I couldn't
make sense of his words, but I did make note of that name for later knowledge.
Night's Sweet Death… a terrible title.

“Are you trying to claim that you
aren't the cause of death to everyone in my village?” I asked, my swords urging
me with their silent will to stop talking and attack.

“Oh, I am. Well... only some of them
at first. The others I gave Sweet Death to as well, but they didn't take to it
as heartily as you. The ones I kept with me allowed their curse to kill them
within a few weeks, and though I tracked the others that I set loose, most of
them were gone within the year. It really was quite tragic. From the outset, I
had hoped for a much larger bounty by the time this day came. Maybe they knew.
Maybe that was why they gave me the information at all.”

The picture was becoming clearer, but
I was struggling with the knowledge that others had still been alive. I could
have found them. I could have done
something
. I couldn't remember every
detail of my first lonely year, but I'm pretty sure I spent most of it
wallowing.

How was
I
the only one to survive?

“What interests me,” the young man
continued, still strolling, “is that you aren't supposed to remember any of
this. They said that the spell would block the memory of it. There was supposed
to be no way around it. Did they trick me on that count too?” His nostrils
flared. “At least they did not lie about the years. I can certainly smell the
miracle at work in your blood from here.”

“Who were these others?” I demanded,
fumbling for straws of understanding. The young lord ignored me, snapping his
fingers for his servant’s attention.

“Don't just stand there, Traken. We don't
have time. Keep her still, but whatever you do don't put her to sleep. We can't
have her killing herself before the ritual is complete. Once started, it could
take a whole hour or more, and that blood must be fresh.”

“I understand, master,” Traken said,
and that familiar quiet voice threaded painfully through my hostility. I wished
him gone, erased from existence, just so that I didn't have to hear him speak.

The young man was lingering a couple
meters from the sorcerer now, balancing on the balls of his feet. His lips
curled.

“Understand?” he asked, clawed fingers
tickling his own face again. “I do not do things so that you can understand.
You can't pass along what you don't know. Seeing how much you've already
muddled my simple instructions, it was good foresight on my part not to involve
you with the pillaging of Popollo or tell you why you were keeping an eye on
this one. You lack secrecy, boy.”

Popollo. The name shot anxiety
straight through me, and yet it felt like a dam had broken inside. It was the
word I had been trying to remember forever, locked in hazy memories. My
village, Popollo.

“This won't play out the way you want
it to,” I said, edging further from the wall but not further away. “I did not
die in my sleep for an entire century just for your pleasure, and I did not
come here to sacrifice myself to you.”

“Are you so sure of that?” he asked.
“You didn't come for me, you say, but wasn't it only the idea of finding me
that has given you the will to wake up after every sleep? If you really think
about it, your entire life has been devoted to me, Santo. I am the sweet death
you chose instead of the curse.”

“Or perhaps I am yours,” I said,
muscles trembling. “You called for me, after all.”

“Not death... it is eternity that I am
playing for.” His silent footsteps padded the stone floor as he wandered that
much closer, but I stayed perfectly still. “It is your blood that will take me
down the path of true immortality.”

“My
blood
,” and I ground out
the word, “is capable of no such thing. I have spilt it many times and it has
not saved a single one of my enemies from meeting normal, mortal deaths.”

He took another step and my muscles
twitched.

“Not on the Week of Colors, my dear,”
he said. “During this time your blood is saturated in the sources and becomes a
rare and key ingredient in a potion that grants the most impossible dream—true
and unchanging immortality.”

“It doesn't,” I said, because it
couldn't. There was no such thing as true immortality. It was a myth; the idea
that a person could live forever, far into the future, never changing. True
immortality was something you couldn’t hurt, couldn’t kill. Scholars and
theorists had joked for ages that such a thing was only for the gods.
Everything, at some point, died. Even I could not live forever with my curse; I
was pretty positive of that.

“Don't play coy with me,” he said,
eyes dancing. “Your body is a far more important miracle than perhaps you have
ever thought. Maybe you knew once, but more likely you never did; there were once
people called the Children. The Children of who? No one knew... but they had
vivid eyes and strange effects on people. For them, the mystical sources that
feed magic-users were not just invisible lines of power running through the
spaces between all things physical. No, for them the source lines of energy
actually grew in them, or crisscrossed through them, or maybe they were even
beings of the same material. Whatever the case, you are the last, and the only
one left in the world with blood that can turn a man truly immortal. And I am
the only one in the world who shall possess this impossibility.”

The greed in his eyes was close to
malignant, and I shuddered to think where he had heard such a thing. “Not once
have I ever been hunted over such a ridiculous idea.”

“Who knows where humans eventually
uncover the secrets of their world, but those who did traded the information to
me at a simple price, at least at the time. I was suspicious myself, of course,
but they gave me a taste.” His grin widened and he took a step forward. “For
just a moment in time, I was invincible. It was enough to realize I needed the
feeling to last, and I needed to be the only one who had it.”

My skin trembled with rage. “You
massacred my people because some stranger offered you a fleeting piece of magic
and a
rumor
? Why? Why
kill
all of us?”

He tsked, reminding me of Traken, and
my skin prickled at that.

“Like fine wine, that spirited blood
of yours has to be aged, at least 100 years or more,” he explained with warming
condescension. “Your people, the Children, can't seem to make use of magic,
though the sources live so close. Not one of you would have lived that long on
your own, and aside from that... what if my benefactors had decided to share
that interesting secret? What use would such a power have been if I had to
compete on equal level with others? No, there could be no one left.” His eyes
crinkled again. “It is simply politics, dear.”

And that was all there was to it. The
death of my father, my best friend, my village, and apparently my race, came
down to a rumor and an insane man's lethal optimism.

“For what?” I asked. “How could this
have been worth it?” My eyes met his. “You are as wrong as the rest of the
people here. Your reasons, your logic; nothing makes sense.”

“Said the pig to the farmer, and did
the farmer care?” he cackled, for the first time sounding like his young
appearance. His smooth skin glowed oddly as he took another step. “Traken,
still her. I need a sample.”

Traken's spells were always gentle. No
matter how deadly they were, the magic still tickled the same—sweetly, simply.
The hair on my arms bristled, and though I knew I couldn't stop him, I braced
my swords in front of me like I had with Derk.