Bloodstone

Page 19

That Myrddin was a prophet and bard who’d gone mad with grief when a devastating battle slaughtered his lord, along with most of his army. After witnessing the carnage, Myrddin tore off his clothes and ran screaming into the woods, where he lived like a wild animal. Later, he foretold his own triple death: by falling, drowning, and impalement.
Myrddin Wyllt was crazy, wild, and as dangerous as a hungry predator. And my host had picked him as a role model.
“I’m not in any mood for riddles, ‘Myrddin.’ So why don’t you just tell me what you want?”
Another face appeared over me and snarled, revealing vampire fangs. This one was gaunt, with bruise-dark circles under his eyes. “Where’s Juliet?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”
He slapped me, hard. I couldn’t turn my head to dissipate the force of the blow. My cheek burned and throbbed.
“Peace, Piotr, peace.” Myrddin placed a calming hand on the vampire’s shoulder. “We’ll know soon enough. Pryce will give you whatever information you require from this one.”
“Pryce is here?” Juliet had said the Old Ones called him “the sleeper.” This “Myrddin” must be the wizard they’d allied themselves with.
“Here, here—is Pryce here? In a manner of speaking, yes. Although I’d hardly say that half-corpse of a man is ‘here.’ Poor lad can’t even open his eyes and say, ‘Welcome back, Papa.’ ”
Pryce’s father. There was a family resemblance, as long as Myrddin kept his mouth shut to hide his bad teeth.
I searched my memory. Some stories claimed Merlin was the child of a demon father and a human mother. A demi-demon.
“Pryce doesn’t like to admit it,” Myrddin went on, “but there’s a touch of the Cerddorion in him, as well. Of course, there’ll be more soon. Much more.” He rubbed his hands together and giggled again. The sound, plus the stench of his breath, washed over me in a nauseating wave. “You’re going to help wake my sleeping son, you see. By donating your life force to him. I’m eager to see which parts of you will manifest in Pryce. He’ll know the contents of your mind, of course.” He tapped my forehead with a long, thick fingernail. “There may be a useful tidbit or two in there, although I’m not expecting much. He’s already a better swordsman than you, so you’ve nothing to offer him there. But shapeshifting . . . Now, there’s something that could be quite useful to a demi-demon. Our two forms, demon and human, are so limiting, you know.”
He turned to the IV bag. “I need a little more time to prepare for the transfer. Hence this drug. It’s a mild sedative to prevent you from concentrating enough to shapeshift. But doubtless you’ve already discovered that.”
His words extinguished any last glimmer of hope I held. He must have seen the despair in my face, because he smiled.
“Victory. An odd name for one so completely defenseless, is it not? I’ve been watching you for years, you know, even though I couldn’t come out to play. Pryce misread the prophecy, thought you were fated to bear his sons. No, no, no.” He wagged a scolding finger. “You’ll join with him in a different way. In just a few hours, I’ll transfer your life force to my son. You’ll be number three of the required five. Soon Pryce shall walk again, and Victory shall be no more.” His insane giggle ricocheted around the room. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
12
I WASN’T USED TO FEELING AFRAID. UNCERTAINTY, WORRY, anxiety—those were emotions I knew well. But not fear. I didn’t like fear. It tingled under my nails, convulsed my limbs, sent adrenaline charging through my veins. Fight! Flee! Whatever you do, don’t just lie there!
I willed my heart to calm its wild beating. I would not lie in this room, stewing in fear. If Myrddin’s sedative prevented me from shifting, I’d make it work for me instead. I’d rest. I’d sleep, even. And I’d use the dream phone to contact Aunt Mab.
The Cerddorion can communicate psychically through the mental pathways that open in sleep. A dream phone call would require some concentration, but not nearly as much as a shift.
I didn’t know what time it was, but Mab was powerful enough to detect a dream-phone call even while awake. I needed to talk to her. I had no hope Mab could do anything to help me. I was beyond help—alone, immobilized, and without the vaguest clue about the location of this dark, locked room. Still, I wanted my aunt. I wanted to say good-bye.
The sedative stroked at the edges of my consciousness like a calm lake gently lapping the shore. I relaxed into the sensation, let myself sink into sleep. In my dream, I wasn’t strapped down; I was free. I drew upon the image of the lake, picturing myself sitting beside still water. The day was sunny, the sand was warm. Thick woods grew around the lake, and the air was fragrant with scents of grass and pine. I leaned over and drew my hand through the water. It was warm, like bathwater, and I made patterns with the ripples. Tiny, rainbow-colored fish, attracted by the movement, followed my hand.
When my dreamscape felt real, I was ready to make the call. I pictured Mab in various contexts, as if I were paging through an old photograph album. Mab dressed in her fencing outfit, practicing swordplay on the back lawn at Maenllyd. Mab at the kitchen table, pouring a cup of tea. Mab reaching for a book from the top library shelf. And the image that always arose when I thought of my aunt: Mab sitting by the fireplace in her library, a book open on her lap. I recalled lightly—no anxiety, no straining—that Mab’s personal colors were blue and silver. And I let those colors tinge my mental image of her. They formed a mist across her image, rising up in billows of blue and silver that swirled across my mind’s eye, and then subsided. Mab sat in her wing chair, a fire crackling beside her, just as I’d imagined.
She put a finger in the book to hold her place as she closed it. Her gaze was alert as she waited for me to speak.
“Mab—” My voice cracked as the fear rushed back. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Mab, I’m in trouble.”
Her expression didn’t change, except for a sharpness in her eyes. “What is it, child? What’s happening?”
“I’m being held captive—I don’t know where. There’s a man. He says he’s Pryce’s father.”
The book slid from Mab’s lap to the floor. “Myrddin.”
“That’s what he called himself. He . . .” I swallowed. I had to stay calm, keep fear from throwing me out of my dream. “He’s going to transfer my life force to Pryce.”
“Child, you must get out of there at once.”
“I can’t, Mab. I can’t even move. I’m strapped down to some table, and Myrddin has given me a sedative so I can’t concentrate enough to shift.”
Mab jumped up from her chair and paced in front of the fireplace, both hands pressed against her face.
“It’s okay, Mab. I’m not expecting you to solve this for me. It’s hopeless. I called you because I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. To say good-bye.” I paused. “To say I love you.” Those were words I’d never said to my aunt. Love wasn’t part of the vocabulary of our relationship, even though it was something I’d always felt for her. Not long ago I’d thought Mab had died, but even after I got her back I still hadn’t managed to say the words. Saying them now gave me a measure of peace.
Mab didn’t reply, but that didn’t matter. I wasn’t finished yet. “I want you to end your feud with Gwen. I don’t care what caused it—you and she are family. It looks like Maria might become a shapeshifter. If she does, she’ll need guidance. Promise me you’ll give that to her.”
Mab paced silently.
“Give Jenkins and Rose my love. And . . .” I took a deep breath, thinking about Kane. For a moment, he was next to me in the dream, his lips nuzzling my neck, his warm hand covering mine. His image faded. “Please contact Kane for me. Please tell him—”
“Stop it!” Mab’s sharp voice cut me off. “Just stop. I don’t want your farewell messages, because I am not going to let you die. Do you understand?”
“There’s nothing you can do. So don’t go blaming yourself.”
“There is something I can do. However, it would be dangerous to you. And I’m not certain it will work.”
Did she mean it? My aunt’s expression was dead serious—and deeply worried. But a spark of hope flared inside me. “Whatever it is, let’s do it. I’ve got nothing to lose.”
She pressed a hand to her chest and spoke softly, as if to herself. “If you didn’t survive . . . and I were responsible . . .”
“If we don’t try it, I won’t survive.”
Mab gave me a long, searching look, like there were things she wanted to say to me and didn’t know how. Then she nodded briskly. “All right,” she said, sounding like herself again. “I’m going to get you out of there by pulling you through the dream.”
“You can do that?”
“In theory. I’ve never attempted it in practice.”
“Why not? You could’ve saved me a fortune on transatlantic plane fares.”
“This is no joking matter, child.” She put a hand inside the neck of her dress and pulled out a necklace. She reached back and unfastened the clasp, then let the pendant slide from the chain and drop into her palm. “Now, pay attention. I’m going to test the process by sending you this bloodstone.” She held up the pendant. It was an oval stone, about two inches long, highly polished but irregularly shaped. The gray stone, mottled with spots of green and dark red, didn’t look like jewelry—more like something a jeweler would toss onto the reject pile.
“Hold on to the bloodstone,” Mab continued, “and whatever happens, don’t let go. Do you understand? Do not let go. It will guide you safely through the dream regions.”