Tell (11 page)

He carried the bucket outside and dumped the water in her flower box. The street bustled with activity, folks going about their business with no idea their world could be upended any second. Ignorant humans.

“Eb said it was too early to bug you, but looks like he was wrong.” Wystan, in that sneaky demon manner, appeared from the shadows. “Brought food. Rhia thought you'd need it.”

Tell dropped the bucket in his haste to snag the huge wicker food basket. “My stomach's eating my other organs.”

“I'm not even gonna ask how last night went. There are some things a man doesn't need to know about the little girl he helped raise.” Wystan rubbed the back of his neck. “You fare all right. No trouble?”

“Not a lick. Except…” Tell gripped the basket handle. “I guess Sylvie woke up in the night and went downstairs. She stayed up until a little bit ago, sewing. When I found her, she was in some sorta trance. Didn't have a clue why she'd worked at it so long. Her hands—they're rubbed raw from the material she's using.”

Wystan's eyebrows rose. “She's all right now?”

“Sleeping.”

“What's she sewing?”

“Coats. Out of dreadnaught. Meacham gave it to her, said it's fireproof and damn near indestructible. It's because of me.” Admitting it hurt. “She won't give up on it. I told her whatever happens, you and Eban will take care of it. Worst comes to worst, Father can do something.”

Wystan's face creased with a dark frown. “You better start from the beginning about this stuff Meacham gave her.”

“Then we better go inside. It's a long story. I'm starving anyway.” He gestured at the door. His mouth watered as he rifled through the basket. All the trouble in the world seemed distant with food at hand.

He pulled plates from the basket and tore into the wrapped food while he told Wystan everything Sylvie had told him about Meacham's plans for the dreadnaught. Wystan inspected the cloth still folded in the crate, then moved to the garment hanging on the hook.

“I don't understand. It's a coat. It's a nice coat. I'd wear it.” Wystan lifted it from the hook and turned it over in his hands. “What's wrong with it?”

“What it's made out of. Nothing about it's nice. It's rough as hell and ugly to boot. Something's not right about that stuff.” Tell bit into an apple. “You're losing your mind.”

“It's soft as fleece,” Wystan argued. “I'd wrap one of my kids in it.”

“I've sat on cactus softer than that coat.” Frustrated, Tell grabbed the coat. As expected, it scratched him and he pulled his hand back to show his brother the mark. “See?”

Wystan looked at his own unmarked hands. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Tension built in Tell's spine. “Something funny here. It hurts me to touch it, but you're fine.”

“You wanna talk to Meacham?” Wystan rubbed the cloth between his finger and thumb. “Seems he has a little explaining to do.”

Tell hesitated. “Sylvie doesn't want me to leave the building without her.”

“Probably better if you don't, but it's up to you.”

He glanced at the ceiling, hoping for some divine advice, or at least for Sylvie to come downstairs, raring to find some answers. Neither happened. “We won't be long. Back before she wakes up, right?”

“She's a heavy sleeper.” Wystan moved toward the door. “Let's go.”

“I'm telling her you wouldn't take no for an answer.” He followed Wystan outside. Stepping out without his hat and weapons was like being naked. He'd have to do something about that soon. Though he depended on the silver knife, the absence of weight from his crossbow left him feeling vulnerable. “We could always poof into Meach's.”

“Better walk. Maybe she'll only break one ankle to keep you in the building instead of outright murdering you.” Wystan grinned.

“I taught her well enough if she wants to. No less than I deserve.” He shouldn't break promises to her, but her health was in question as long as she kept using the dreadnaught.

By cutting across a couple of alleys, it only took a handful of minutes to reach Meacham's rundown shanty. It made the house Tell owned look like a mansion. Shriveled weeds bent and bowed in the tiny yard and broken red stones paved the way to the door. As though he'd been expecting them, Meacham waited on the edge of the property.

“Spit it out before your head explodes, Heckmaster.” The scowl contorting Meacham's face made a changesteed's snarl look pretty. “Come to learn answers you don't need because you don't know patience.”

He started to tell Meacham where he could stick his attitude, but why drag out the visit? “Why does the dreadnaught hurt me and Sylvie, but doesn't bother Wys?”

Meacham rolled his eyes. “You're touched.”

“In the head, maybe. Touched by what?” The cryptic messages had never amused him. “Plain words or I'll get Wys here to find some creative uses for that pig-sticker he carries.”

“Watch yourself, boy.” Meacham cleared his throat and spat a glob of yellow-green snot into the dust. “You need me.”

Tell exchanged a glance with Wystan. “Do I?”

“I gave you and your brothers the prophecy. The one about the present, future and past. I reminded you that killing Beryl Brookshier would be a mistake. And I gave Sylvie a way to protect your family. I'm valuable.”

“Maybe a little.” Tell shrugged. “Let's go back to the touched part.”

“Evil.” Meacham wrinkled his nose. “You've both got a fair share of it.”

Bile burned in Tell's throat and the fire followed. “Sylvie? She's the least evil person I've ever met.”

“She's not evil. She's
touched
with it.”

“By me.” Dread kinked the muscles in his neck and shoulders. “I did it to her.”

Meacham rolled his eyes. “You must be the son of a demon baron, the lord and master of the Gray Lands to think so highly of yourself.”

Wystan glowered at the abbeylubber. “How 'bout a straight answer, Meach. The kid's good and worried now.”

Looking world weary, Meacham spread his hands. “The dreadnaught I gave her has one purpose—to protect against evil and all of its many uses. If she makes a coat and gives it to Wystan, the coat will keep him from most harm. The same for any family member she makes a garment for. Sadly, our dear little Sylvie can't make her own coat. Neither can she make one for you, Tell. At least not until that name curse is gone. It's in the rules. She was bitten by Rosemar and that poison got in her blood. It doesn't make her evil; it just means she has traces of it. Evil dwells in the heart of most creatures. She's not special. Don't feel bad about letting her get bitten—it's that black magic that allows her to make the coats. It made her stronger.”

“Whose rules?” His fingers sought the loops of the belt where his bolts usually rested, but came up empty.

Meacham shrugged. “Heaven's, Hell's? Who knows?”

“You're not makin' any sense.” Tell jammed his hands in his pockets. “So we're all a little evil. Why does the cloth keep some safe and not others? Wys and Eban have as much demon blood as me.”

“But they can control what they become. Can you, if I say your name?” Meacham's scowl turned into a wicked smile. “Ah, better not tempt fate.”

“Good, because yours will be the first heart I rip out.” Slow molten heat rolled through his veins.

“Sylvie is the maker, the creator of the coats. The protection she puts into the cloth does not carry over to her. She can't pass it on to you because of the curse. The pair of you need to be careful, but the rest of the Heckmasters should wear those coats from the moment Sylvie presents them. Clear enough?” Meacham blinked and his forehead wrinkled as he raised his bald brow.

“I don't like it,” Tell growled.

“It's life, boy. Much of it isn't meant to be liked—it's meant to teach you to endure.”

“Helpful.” Wystan shook his head. “So we can't do anything about how the dreadnaught is hurting Sylvie.”

“I'm afraid not.” For a second, Meacham's gaze went distant, soft and thoughtful. In a blink, it turned hard again. “She'll have to endure.”

Tell ground his teeth together. “Why is it that everything helpful comes at a cost? We got the weapons we needed, but Seere made sure we paid. Meacham gives us cloth that might as well be made out of nettles.”

“Poor little Heckmaster. You must get the worst of it. All rain and no sunshine.” Meacham seemed to swell with indignation. “You've lost a mother and a sister to Hell's forces. Your father gave himself up twice to seal protective magic. Is your grief worth more than another man's?”

Anger crackled in the form of sparks across Tell's skin. “If I lose Sylvie because of this bullshit, Meacham, I'll make the ten plagues of Egypt look like a carnival.”

“Tell.” Wystan laid one hand on his wrist, the other closed around the hilt of his knife.

“If anything happens to Sylvie, it will be at your hand,” Meacham spat.

The fire in him turned to frost. Shit, all he needed was to lose control out here. “Let's get home before Sylvie wakes up and makes me regret this trip even more.”

Chapter Eleven

“Go home, Wys.”

Wystan froze. “Don't listen to Meacham. The little bastard is as grouchy as they come. He'll say a few things that make sense, but he can't leave you pleased and feeling good about what's coming next. It's not his way. Sylvie's got a big job ahead of her, but she'll be all right. She's tough.”

Tell rubbed his fingers across the denim stretched over his thighs. “Sure she will. I'm not worried.” Scared out of his mind, on the verge of tearing out his hair. So far gone past worried, it didn't even factor in anymore. “Go on back to Rhia and the kids. Tell them I said hi and we'll stop in sometime in the afternoon.”

Wystan raised his brow. “I should walk you back to the shop.”

“I know my way.”

The dead silence spoke more than words.
Do you?

A numb throb worked its way over the power of fire thrumming through him. “I promise not to kill anyone. You can trust me.”

A muscle in Wystan's cheek twitched. “I have trusted you. Plenty of times when I thought you'd get your dumb ass killed. Somehow, you always surprise me.”

“Once more won't hurt, will it?” He needed air, time to think away from his family. They'd smother him—even Sylvie—if they kept him corralled.

“Sylvie's gonna be pissed if she wakes up and you aren't there. Besides, how do I know you're not going back to Meacham?”

“I already said I wouldn't kill anyone.” He gestured to his body. “No weapons. Unless I pull off a button and make him choke on it.” He tried to grin, but failed. “This doesn't have anything to do with Meacham. I swear.”

“Are you going home or somewhere else?”

Tell sank his jaw teeth into his tongue. “I'm a grown man. I think I can take myself around town without an escort.”

“I have to know so if something happens, I can look for you. Consider it a big-brother thing and not a demon-hunter-looking-for-a-demon thing.”

Tightness in his chest sucked the air out of his lungs. “Sometimes I think it'd be better if you just stabbed me in the back and put an end to all this.”

“I've wanted to kill you plenty, but I figure I'd run into some trouble I couldn't get out of if I didn't have my brothers when I needed them.” Wystan's grin was weak. “Don't get into any trouble, because I might not be there to help you. You get back to Sylvie as soon as you can.”

“I just need—” He gestured down the road. “I haven't been in a while.”

Wystan's face softened in understanding. “Me either, but I'll save my visit for another day. Sure, spend a few minutes talking or…whatever. Then you get home to Sylvie. She'll need you. The living always need you worse than the dead. We'll look for you this afternoon.”

“You'll see us.” He waited until Wys was several steps in the direction of his own home before turning toward the cemetery.

During the daylight hours, the gates remained open. Beneath the hulking shapes of big, weathered cedar trees, the single acre of sun-dappled plots appeared peaceful. At night, someone always shut the gates. Not only to keep people out, but to hem in any unnatural presence. They'd never had monsters in the cemetery abduct an unsuspecting soul, but why tempt fate?

Near the gates, two huge granite slabs rose from the ground. A stone angel as high as Tell's waist lurked between them. Its face, smooth from two decades under the harsh sun and driving wind, appeared peaceful. They'd set the angel to watch over their mother's plot. Her remains barely filled the box she rested in. Under the tombstone for Seneca, there was neither a casket nor a body. There'd been nothing to bury when Astaroth dragged him to Hell. Even though the headstone was unnecessary, there wasn't much use in removing it.

He rested his hand on Sandra's headstone. Hers was the first dead human body he'd ever seen. The wounds Wystan had inflicted in order to kill her hadn't been pretty. The thing they placed in the casket had been less his sister and more a monster. Eban and Wystan had shielded him from their mother's charred corpse, but Wystan ordered him to look at Sandra so he'd know what kind of new trouble they faced. It wasn't but a couple of years after, the memory of her ragged severed head burned into his skull, that he'd gone into the world bearing a crossbow with silver bolts and took his first demons.

“I need the book. Whoever gave it to you didn't take it back. You kept it and hid it somewhere. So where is it?”

Wind whispered through the cedar boughs, but it didn't give up any long-buried secrets.

“There's no bringing the dead to life again. That's for fiction and idiots. I need some help here. If you can talk to me in a dream, you can damn well give me some kind of hint in the real world.”

A fat gray dove landed on Seneca's tombstone and cooed. A second joined it.

Tell hung his head. “You'll have to do better than that.”

The birds startled and flew away in a rush of wings and panicked chirping. Tell spun to see what had frightened them.

Nebo, wearing his natural skin, stamped his hooves into the grass. “Pardon my intrusion. This is a private place and your conversation more so.”

Tell's skin prickled. “What do you want? This is sanctified ground. You can't hurt me.”

“I've no wish to hurt you. I tremble at the thought of what would become of any demon ignorant enough to do so while Baron Seneca is on watch. And he would give what little remained of that doomed soul to your brothers to finish off.” Nebo's tentacles curled around Tell's battered hat. “I've come with a message for you.”

His body coiled with tension. He itched to reach for the hat, but hesitated. The last demon that had handled it nearly killed him. “Why didn't Father send Dochi?”

“My grasp of English is better. You'll want the message I bear, for it's ill tidings and must be considered straight away.” Nebo licked his nose with his fat tongue. He offered the hat. “I apologize for it, though it is not of my doing.”

“Spit it out.” Tell snatched the hat, then settled it on his head.

“There's a presence with a putrid eye turned on you. Its servants watch. Servants of the vanquished Astaroth. They know your name, for they listened closely when it was given. Quiet, they walk through your town and outside it too with the syllables burning their lips.” Nebo twisted his tentacles together. “These demons seek to steal your powers and plot to help Astaroth escape.”

Tell approached the messenger. “Tell me where they are and I'll cut them down myself.”

“Too dangerous, Master. They slink through the night and will find you when they see the opportunity. My advice is to hide well and wait. The day will come when they expose themselves and then it will take all your efforts to dispatch them.” Nebo's bovine eyes widened. “I sense a temper coming on you. I would remind you again, I am the messenger. A learned demon, but that only gets one so far. I pray for your long life, Master Tell. Nothing would be better for the Gray Lands than for one of Baron Seneca's sons to inherit.”

“No, thank you. I'd rather cut my own hand off than spend the rest of my life in the Gray Lands, ruler or not.” He put confidence into the words, but it didn't trickle into his heart. “How do I know I can trust you? Maybe you have my name too.”

“As it happens, I do, though I'm not foolish enough to put it to any use. I grow tired after centuries of battles for good and evil. Learning suits me better. Your father's libraries are vast. A good place for learning.” Nebo gazed at the tombstones. “Your sister and mother. And a shrine to the baron.”

“We thought he was dead once.”

“If we are lucky, we might all get that long sleep someday.” Nebo's mouth moved as though he was chewing cud. “I've studied necromancy.”

Tell shuddered despite the sun. “Better leave that behind in the Gray Land libraries.”

“It has its uses. Perhaps a conversation with a dead girl brought down too soon?” His ears twitched. “She would have saved you later, had the parasite imp not taken her mind. It was foretold.”

Tell straightened. “By who? When?”

“Who and when are lost along with opportunity. What's foretold isn't always written in stone. Your sister met Death and changed the course of the world. The book of spells given to her vanished shortly after she branded your name a curse. Though she was quite clever, was she not? I saw her once, while passing through, before the parasite got her.” Nebo laughed, a bad blend of a moo and a human chortle. “I think she was the only one of you with any real goodness in her.”

“You're trying me, aren't you?” Tell shoved his hands in his pockets, but the fire burned in his fingers again. “You want me to agree to this necromancy thing, bring her up and force her to tell me where the book is. You're willing to help, but it's got a price. A bigger one than I want to pay.”

“I would never tempt you. The consequences might be too much for a centuries-old demon who prefers books to battles.” Nebo shook his head. “Better to let her rest in peace, if there is any to be had. Though I have a thought, Master.”

“I'm sure you do.” He couldn't ask Nebo to raise Sandra from the grave. Whatever came out might still have a parasite imp attached to it. He didn't want to face his sister's withered corpse and whatever evil clung to it. Nebo was right—let her rest. “What is it?”

“Have you searched the angels?”

“What?”

“I'm sure you must be aware there's a straight line directly from this angel”—he pointed at the little statue—“to the one in the town's center. If it is coincidence, you should be wary, for few of those are accidents.”

“Wystan and Eban arranged for this statue. I don't think they planned any paths from angel to angel. I think we'd know if anyone bothered to hide a book near one.”
You crazy bastard.
He held his tongue on the last part. Even though Nebo seemed mild, rile any demon enough and they could explode. “Next you'll tell me there are little angels all over Berner making up a pentagram.”

Nebo gave the unusual chuckle again. “It does seem farfetched.”

Tell moved in front of the angel and faced toward the center of town. “How far you reckon it is to the fountain?”

“Less than half a mile.” Nebo shrugged. “I can do the proper calculations if you like.”

“No time for that. Got some walking to do.” He left the stone angel behind and passed through the cemetery gates. Damned if he knew what he was looking for—and he was likely headed for a trap—but the way Nebo brushed it off without pushing the issue further piqued his interest.

Sylvie won't be happy.
The nagging voice buzzed inside his head.

She doesn't even need to know unless I find something.

He couldn't wait for her to wake up before he explored the line. It had to be
now.

Trouble was, he couldn't walk a straight path from the cemetery to the fountain. Buildings interfered and forced him to go around. The oldest buildings in Berner dated back to the 1830s. Most of them still stood, reinforced by the men and women who'd settled here after Astaroth's defeat. Plenty of the shops and houses were recent additions. None were over ten years old. A couple of the new ones stood in his way. If anything had been hidden there, it might have been destroyed.

He ran his hands through his hair, then clasped them together behind his head. “Shit. What does it mean?”

That I've lost it.

He blinked as the morning sun burned into his eyes. His first hope lay in the books Dochi had brought him. His last one lay with Sylvie and his brothers.

I could walk away right now. Spare them the trouble if some big ugly demon wanted an easy victim. No weapons, no reason to fight back. Nebo says predictions don't matter, then if I let something kill me, none of this goes any further.

The rocky red soil under his feet shifted as he turned. Demons lurked beyond town. Their twisted minds called to him and dug their sharp talons into his soul. Give up, they whispered. Weaponless and half mad, he wasn't any good to his family. And the relief they'd feel when they didn't have to deal with him, worry about him, fear him, would be worth the price of his life. It wasn't much of a life anyway, not after the things he'd done. Killing in his father's name, for the sake of banishing demons, but he'd liked it. He'd enjoyed taking the lives, spilling the blood of those monsters. In turn, it made him as evil as any of the creatures that dared cross him.

A thousand whispers filled his head. They affirmed his weaknesses, his uselessness, his bad behavior. Wetness dampened his cheeks. It wasn't right that he should live only to create misery among the people he loved. People who deserved better than the meager emotion he called love. His brothers, his niece and nephews, his wife, could all do better—would be better without him. He wiped away the tears pooling in his eyes.

They'll be happier without me.

For the first time in weeks, everything made sense. He only had to cross the town border, where Seneca's renewed magical boundaries separated true evil from the outside world, and let one of Hell's devoted slay him. The sacrifice would make up for the way he made his family's life miserable.

Tell trudged and each footstep seemed heavier than the last. His motions were minuscule, agonizingly slow, as though he'd fallen into honey and it glued him to the ground. The town border had never seemed so far.

“I have to get there.” The words dropped out of his mouth like stones. His muscles seized, going rigid against his will.

What the—

“Tell?” Sylvie's voice cut through the whispers. “Where are you going?”

His body trembled, but he managed to face her. “I can't.”

Storm clouds brewed across her face. “We agreed you wouldn't leave without me. You heard what your father said, you selfish, inconsiderate, thoughtless—are you crying? What's happening?”