Tell (3 page)

Wystan and Eban were bloody, bruised and slouching, but neither of them looked ready to give in.

“Join me,” Tell said. “Join me and we'll rule the world.”

It was Tell, but at the same time, the thing inside him was something else entirely. It radiated hatred and evil.

“Piss off, Tell.” Wystan spat at his brother's feet. “When I get loose, I'm going to gut you from balls to throat for this.”

“My name is not Tell!” The words came out as a roar. “You know my name. Speak it. Speak it, you cowards. You will respect and fear it.”

The circle of watching demons drew closer. Their shadows stretched thick and bulky, swallowing the sunlight.

“Go kiss a goat,
Tell
.” Wystan bared his teeth in a snarling grin.

“There is no escape, Wystan. Only the power of Hell and its new master.” Black veins throbbed beneath Tell's face. His skin crackled with electricity. “Your problem is that you're still so fucking human. What did that get you?”

He bent, picked up a broken skull and studied it for a moment. The dark, empty eye sockets reminded Sylvie of the angel statue.

“Last chance. Join me or…” He crushed the bone into dust with his hand.

Eban lifted his head and through cracked, bleeding lips said, “Never.”

“I asked nicely. So be it. My first order as Hell's king is to wipe the remaining Heckmasters from the face of this godforsaken, pitiful excuse for a world.” He threw a fireball at his brothers' feet and flames rose up around them.

Sylvie jerked away from Meacham and stumbled into a table. She pressed her hand against her chest, willing her heart to stop pounding so hard. “What was that?”

“That's the future, my dear. If you don't accept my help.” Meacham patted the crate again. “I'm afraid your sweetheart's bad side is about to come out.”

“Not Tell. He'd never do that to his own brothers.” She shook her head. “They don't always get along, but he'd never kill them. Or everyone in town.”

She shuddered as she thought about the piles of bones in the street and the demons crawling all over them.

“The sad fact is his sister once placed a name curse on him. While Wystan and Eban have their…nasty sides, shall we say, Tell is capable of destroying everything. If his name is uttered, you can bet the world as you know it will go down in flames.”

Sylvie folded her shaking hands together. “Then we have to make certain no one says his name. It can't be that hard. No one has for this long.”

“I already told you, someone knows it.” Meacham narrowed his eyes. “The day is fast approaching that Tell is going to lose complete control. It's slipping.”

“How do you know? Why should I take your word?”

A little smirk formed on Meacham's lips. “Why indeed? Could it be that I foretold of your arrival here? That I correctly predicted that your sister and Wystan belonged together? That Eban would be the one who opened Berner's gates to humans? This is no different. Your destiny awaits, Miss Duke, like it or not.”

“Why me?” Why not anybody else? She was a seamstress, not a miracle worker. “What the hell are you, Meacham?”

He laughed. “Perhaps I'll tell you someday.”

“According to you, we may not survive this. You should tell me now.”

“According to me, if you do as I say, we might.” He drummed his fingers on the crate. “Open it.”

He wasn't giving her much choice. Open it and save the world—more importantly, Tell—or send him away and damn everyone.

“All right. Let's see it.”

He gave her a key and stood back.

She fumbled with the lock a moment then set it aside. The hinges squealed as she lifted the top. Inside, folded bolts of rough, dusty cloth filled the crate to the brim.

“What is this?”

“Dreadnaught cloth.”

As though those two words explained everything. Sylvie frowned. “What's it for?” She brushed her hand over the top piece, then drew back as the coarse material scraped her palm. “Good lord, is it made from porcupine? This is the worst material I've ever touched.”

“It's nearly indestructible. Fire resistant, difficult to cut with anything except the scissors you'll find in the box, impenetrable except for the special needles provided. This material is going to save the Heckmasters. You have to mold it into protection for them.” Meacham's smile was gone and his round face was deadly serious.

Her palm stung from the contact with the cloth. Her skin was red, inflamed, like she'd grabbed a nettle. “How?”

“You'll know what to do when the time is right. I hope it will be enough.” Meacham donned his battered felt hat. “Good day, Miss Duke. And good luck.”

Chapter Three

Tell hunched down in the straight, cane-back chair on the jailhouse porch. From here, he had a pretty good look at the main streets in Berner. Another chance to spot Sylvie when she walked home.

“Where the hell have you been?” Eban bounded up the steps. “I've worried myself sick looking for you, you idiot.”

“I'm fine. Leave me alone.”

A spark of anger flared in Eban's eyes. “I don't think I need to remind you that I sewed several pieces of you back together yesterday. That I rearranged a handful of bone that used to be two ribs. That I strongly advised you
not
to get out of bed and yet here you are gallivanting around Berner.”

He wanted to tell Eban to kiss his ass, but in all honesty, Tell felt like shit. Worse than shit. Maybe shit that had been run over by a wagon carrying the carcasses of two dead horses, four dead cows and a partially decomposed cat for good measure. But he'd be damned if he'd let Eban know. “I'm sitting, to be exact, and I'm fine.”

“No one who's calling fire at will is—” Eban stopped. He leaned closer. “I wanted to talk to you about it first thing this morning, but oh no. You had to up and disappear. How long have you been able to do that?”

“Disappear?” A perfectly innocent question, but the look Eban gave him would have scorched grass. “We better go inside.”

He pushed himself out of the chair, grateful for Eban's steadying hand on his shoulder. The moment his brother shut the door, Tell sank down on Wystan's desk.

“I never could before. Last night, that cyclops was beating the holy hell out of me and something just… It was hot. Hotter than I've ever felt. I knew I could use it to save myself. Didn't have to think about it. One second there was an ember in my chest and the next, I was shooting flames at a cyclops.” He lifted his hands. Before he blinked, fire danced above the tip of each one. “See?”

Eban's mouth worked soundlessly. Tell flicked his wrists and the flames vanished. “I don't know how. Or why. Of all things, why now? It's been eight months since I last saw a demon that needed killing. Nothing like this happened then. I shot it with a bolt and burned it using matches, but I don't think that had anything to do with the cyclops.”

“What does it feel like?” Eban was in his doctor persona. That never-ending quest to find out the why and what-for behind everything. He picked at his cuticles as he stared. Some people had annoying habits, but that was the one that got on Tell's nerves more than anything. There were times when Eban was so preoccupied with something, his fingers bled from the constant picking.

It could have been worse—he might have been an obsessive nose-picker.

“It doesn't hurt. Sort of hot in my chest and it runs through the rest of me, but it doesn't leave a blister or a mark. When it goes away, my hands are cool and steady.”

Eban narrowed his eyes. “You're not dizzy, uncertain of where you've been, nauseated?”

“Nope.”

“You need to talk to Father.”

Tell flexed his fingers and his fingertips lit up again. He shook his hand and a line of flame shot out and caught a stack of wanted posters on fire. “Shit.”

Eban grabbed Wystan's blotter and beat out the flame. “This isn't normal, even for us. You need to go to the Gray Lands. Maybe Father knows a solution to this.”

Tell shuddered. “You know I hate that place.” If whining didn't make Eban back off, nothing would. “All those clouds and things jumping out of the mist. It's all I can do not to kill every demon who crosses my path there.”

“If anyone can help, it's Father.” Eban crossed his arms and put on his I'm-older-and-big-enough-to-make-you-do-it face.

He hated being the youngest when Eban and Wys tried to push him around. “He could come here.”

“
Tell.
”

Just once it would be nice to hear his real name spoken out loud instead of that stupid nickname.

“Maybe it'll go away.” He flexed his fingers and the tips lit up again.

“I'll get Wystan to help me drag you to the Gray Lands if you don't go on your own.”

It wasn't an idle threat. Gentle as Eban was when doctoring or playing with his kids, he had a mean streak.

“Fine, I'll go. But if I get eaten, this is your fault. I will be back to haunt you, savvy?” Tell jabbed a finger at him.

“I'm scared.” Eban's voice was dry as the desert wind. But he hadn't stopped picking at his cuticles.

“You gonna follow me to make sure I go?” He felt like a child being sent to his room instead of a grown man who usually did as he pleased.

“I trust you.”

This time.

Eban didn't need to say it. He was worried or he wouldn't have suggested a trip to the Gray Lands. None of them liked going there, even if it was their father's realm now. It was spooky and smelled like stale air. And the trip there was less than pleasant.

Tell grumbled all the way to the old church where they'd held the ceremony to raise three demons lords when Beryl was possessed by Rosemar. The building hadn't been repaired and a few of the humans had complained that it was unsafe for children. Wystan and Eban promised someday they'd get around to tearing it down, but it proved too powerful a place to remove. It hadn't gotten any prettier over the years.

More vines and weeds climbed the crumbling stone walls and dead leaves cluttered the corners. Slumping pews created obstacles he had to step over to reach the stained glass window depicting Jesus praying in the garden at Gethsemane.

“Afternoon, Jesus.” Tell removed his hat then nodded at the image. “Doesn't look like anything has improved for you since the last time I visited. Sorry, friend.”

On the sill beneath the oversized glass creation, a big, smooth, black stone shone in the colorful rays of light pouring through Jesus.

“Hell.” He'd half hoped someone had stolen the damn rock. It bore a swirling sigil that opened a portal to the Gray Lands. Tell lifted it from the sill and the air in front of him shimmered. “Double hell.”

The human part of him had no use for travel by portal. Even the demon side had some reservations about it. He sucked in a breath before he stepped through. The floor dropped out from beneath him and his stomach jumped into his throat.

He landed with a bone-jarring thud and wheezed at the jolt to his ribs. He opened his eyes, but the landscape wasn't anything to brag about. The Gray Lands were exactly that—a foggy, gray world with little light. Not exactly a warm and welcoming place. It reeked of demons, although they swore fealty to Seneca Heckmaster, and vowed not to harm humans.

A shuffling creature stuck its head above a swirl of fog.

“Master Tell. We are honored by your presence, O great and wondrous warrior.” It scuttled closer and pounced on Tell's leg.

Wrinkled, warty gray skin stretched over the imp's bony frame. It had a bald tail like a possum's and three-digit hands with dull yellow claws. Tiny black eyes beamed with pleasure. Its lips pulled away from its teeth, revealing an underbite beneath its pointy nose.

“Get off me, Dochi, or I'll kick you from here to Hell.”

“As you please, brave master.” Dochi loosened his hold and backed away. “You are here to see your father, the great lord of the Gray Lands?”

Dochi's behavior made Tell want to vomit as much as portal travel. He didn't understand how Seneca put up with the groveling imp for more than a minute. “Yeah, if he's not busy. If he is, I can come back another time.”

“Dochi will take you to him, O valiant savior of humans.” Dochi grabbed Tell's pant leg.

“Wai—”

A pop filled Tell's ears and the floor vanished again.

Another pop and he was standing on solid ground.

“O kind and magnificent lord, Dochi has brought your handsome and strong young son for a visit. He is most eager to see you, great one.” Dochi bowed so low his nose brushed the floral patterned carpet.

Seneca turned away from the bookshelf he was perusing. A warm smile graced his face. The hair at his temples was silver, but the rest was as dark as midnight. Fine lines framed his mouth and eyes, but Seneca managed to turn heads when he visited Berner. Those visits were few and far between since he'd accepted the responsibility of managing the occupants of the Gray Lands.

“Tell. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Not as much as you might think.” He crossed his arms and braced his feet a shoulder's width apart. “I need to have a talk.”

Surprise overtook Seneca's face. “Shall we sit?”

“I'd prefer to stand.” Tell glared at Dochi. “Can you send the rat away? This is a personal matter.”

Seneca nodded. “Of course. Dochi, you may go. Thank you for delivering my son here safely.”

“It is my pleasure to serve you, magnificent ruler.” Dochi blinked and his entire body trembled as he attempted a smile. “Please call for Dochi again soon, noble leader.” He vanished with a pop.

Seneca perched on the corner of his highly polished desk. The room, like its occupant, was glossy and refined. It screamed of masculinity from the dark curtains and drapes, the almost black stain of the desk and rich brown velvet of the wingback chairs. A small fire crackled in the black marble fireplace. A few sconces were spaced across the silk wallpaper and shadows danced around the short flames. A plate of incense burned on the desk, filling the air with a spicy, woody scent. It was dark here, but cozy. The most disturbing thing about it was there didn't seem to be a door. No way in, no way out without an escort.

The feeling of being trapped made Tell's throat tight. He clenched his fists. This was a stupid errand and he hated himself for letting Eban threaten him into coming here.

The silence stretched between them.

Seneca cleared his throat. “Trouble in Berner?” He gestured to Tell's face.

“Cyclops. You know, it's nothing. Sorry for wasting your time.” He dropped his hands to his sides. “I'd like to go.”

“I have the feeling that's not quite the case or you wouldn't have come. I understand the Gray Lands disturb you, son, but there's nothing to fear here.”

“I'm not afraid of anything.” Why wasn't there a damn door? Even the outline of a door? A drawing of a door. He ran his hand through his hair and paced the wall. The ember in his chest throbbed hotly. His skin crackled. “Can you summon one of your minions to get me out of here?”

Seneca snapped his fingers. A window appeared in the wall next to Tell. Sunlight poured through the sparkling glass. Outside, a rolling field filled with wildflowers and gamboling antelope made a cheery scene.

“Not helping because I know it's not real,” Tell snapped.

“It is somewhere.” Seneca shrugged. “You prefer a storm to match your mood?” Another snap and the sunlight faded, giving way to black clouds, flashes of lightning, and driving rain.

“That'd be impressive if I was ten, but the parlor tricks aren't doing much for me just now.” He flexed his fingers and flames burst into life. “I have my own tricks.”

Seneca stared.

Tell lifted his hands. The flames turned blue and the heat of them warmed his face. “Guess the cat's out.”

“That's incredible. When did you learn to manifest fire?”

“Last night. I needed a weapon against the cyclops. My knife and crossbow weren't handy.” He curled his fingers. The flames died. “Why now? Wys and Eban can't do it. So why me?”

“Do you mean you were able to burn a cyclops by touching it or did you shoot fire at it?”

Annoyed, he flicked his pointer finger at a book lying on his father's desk. The edge of the book lit up.

Seneca beat the flame out with his hand. “Impressive.”

“It's not. You know why? Because I never did this before and I don't want to do it anymore. I'm a little old to be manifesting new demon talents.” His voice was almost drowned out by a boom of thunder from the lying-ass window next to him. “Can't you shut that thing up?”

His fathered nodded and snapped his fingers. The window disappeared. “I agree, gaining a new…shall we say
talent
at your age sounds unusual, but you have to consider that men and women of your heritage are also very rare. We don't advertise who and what we are, so how can we be sure there aren't plenty of half demons walking around spewing fire?”

“As master and commander of the Gray Lands, isn't it your job to know things like that?” Tell's heart was pounding and every thud brought a new stab of pain in his ribs. Why was it taking him so damn long to heal anyway?

“It's much less simple to manage a place like this and watch demons in the rest of the world than you can imagine, Tell.” Seneca sounded tired. “Snapping at me isn't going to help your situation.”

Tell sneered. “Spoken like a true demon. Eban sent me here because he thought you might be able to help. Can you or not? Don't you have some kind of resources, some minions or something you can assign to my
situation
?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I'm more than willing to help you because I love you, even when you're acting like a two-year-old instead of a grown man.” There was a hint of annoyance in his father's tone. “But you'll have to be patient and you might even have to learn to live with your new skill.”

Tell clenched his jaw. “Fine.”

Seneca nodded. “Dochi.”

The imp reappeared and bowed again. “Wisest master, how may Dochi serve you?”

“Please retrieve Akhar and Nebo for me.”

“Of course, your excellence.” Dochi was gone in a blink.

Tell paced. “Don't you get sick of him?”

“In my experience, having loyal minions makes things a little easier. Dochi is the perfect example. Willing to please, incapable of arguing, and he never fails to do my bidding.” Seneca rose from the desk. “I need good, loyal demons at my back. There are plenty who would like to see me stuffed back into a hole in Hell. Dochi is useful.”