Hellforged

Page 17

“Now it has approached you?”
“Twice in two days. In dreams.”
“And it spoke?”
“The first time it passed through my dream, laughing. It destroyed a watch I’d misplaced. Tonight, it appeared in a client’s dream. It spoke then.”
“A client’s dream? Are you certain it wasn’t a Drude?”
“Positive. It was the Destroyer itself. My demon mark flared as soon as it appeared, and my marked arm turned to rubber.”
She pursed her lips, thinking, and reached for the teapot. “What did it say?”
“That a new order was coming. Something about a king and a couple of Welsh words I didn’t recognize. Uffern was one.”
“Uffern means Hell. It’s not surprising that a Hellion would speak of it.”
Okay, that made sense. We’d both been talking about Hell. “The other word was Morfran. ‘The Morfran emerges’—what’s that?”
The teapot shook in Mab’s hand, but she steadied it and kept pouring. Steam billowed out. No, not steam. It was too dark—black and oily and opaque. Behind Mab, the oven belched more smoke, and so did the old cooking fireplace across the room. Thick, choking clouds filled the kitchen.
“Mab? Mab! What’s happening? Are you okay?”
I saw her mouth move, but a loud buzz obscured her answer. Then the smoke covered everything, and I couldn’t see her at all.
My heart pounded as I waved at the clouds, trying to fan them away. But I was dreaming, and my frantic movements had no effect. I focused again on Mab’s colors, trying to rein in my panic, willing the black, greasy clouds to lighten to blue and silver.
The smoke dispersed a little. I made out a dim shape.
“Mab?”
The hideous face that pushed its way through the smoke was nothing like my aunt’s.
“I’m sorry,” said Difethwr. “Your call has been disconnected.”
The Hellion clapped its hands, and a thunderbolt shoved me out of my dream.
I WOKE UP ON THE FLOOR BESIDE MY BED. MY BODY FELT bruised and broken, like I’d tumbled down several hundred feet of rocky slope to get here. I had no idea what time it was. From where I sat, I couldn’t see my bedside clock, and the blackout shades left the room in complete darkness. I rubbed my aching head, trying to get my bearings.
Mab.
Mab’s kitchen, filling with thick smoke.
I scrambled to my feet and ran to the kitchen. I flipped on the light switch and squinted as the harsh fluorescent bulb buzzed to life. The wall clock read a little past nine. Two in the afternoon in Wales.
I snatched up the phone and dialed the number for the pub in Rhydgoch, the village closest to Mab’s house. It took me three tries to remember how to place an international call, but finally I heard the burrr-burrr burrr-burrr of a British ring signal. Pick up, damn it. Again I saw Mab’s kitchen, clogged with smoke.
Someone answered mid-ring. “Cross and Crow, Wales’s most haunted pub,” said a jovial male voice.
My words tumbled out in a rush. “I need you to send someone to check on my aunt. There might have been a fire.”
“Who’s this?”
“I’m Mab Vaughn’s niece. I’m worried—”
“Mab’s niece? Is that Vicky, then? It’s Lloyd Cadogan. How’d you like the way I answered the phone?”
“Very nice, but—”
“We’ve joined the Haunted Britain tour. Run by a company from your side of the pond. Out of New York, I believe it is. Do you think lots of Yanks’ll come?”
“Mr. Cadogan, please listen. I’m worried about Mab. Can you send someone, Owen or somebody—”
“Owen? Didn’t your aunt tell you? Our Owen’s at university in Cardiff, reading history. His ma and me, we wanted him to study something useful, but—”
“It doesn’t have to be Owen. Anyone. Send anyone. I need to know that Mab is okay.”
“Well, now, speak of the devil. Here’s the lady herself, stepping through the door. Mab, you won’t believe this, but your American niece is on the phone.”
In the background, Mab said something. I couldn’t make out her words, but I recognized her no-nonsense, suffer-no-fools tone. I sagged with relief, sliding down the cupboards to sit on the floor.
“Vicky?”
“You’re all right.”
“Yes, yes. But you must—”
“Everyone’s all right?”
“Yes, of course. Jenkins drove me into Rhydgoch as soon as …” I pictured her turning away from Mr. Cadogan and cupping her hand around the mouthpiece. “As soon as we were cut off. Listen, Victory—”
“And Maenllyd?”
“My house? What about it?”
“All that smoke in the kitchen. Wasn’t there a fire?”
“No, child. All is quite well here, I assure you. But you must come to Wales.”
All is quite well. Beautiful words. I might not call as often as I should, but I didn’t know what I’d do if anything happened to Mab.
“You’re right. I’m way overdue for a visit. Maybe in the summer.”
“No, child, you don’t understand. You must come now. Immediately. Tonight.”
Tonight? She couldn’t be serious. “I can’t drop everything and go to Wales.”
“I’m afraid you have no choice.”
“But I’ve got clients scheduled. I’ve got things going on.”
“Cancel them. Jenkins is booking you a flight for tonight. You can pick up your ticket at the airport. The flight leaves at nine o’clock. Be there by seven. And whatever you do—this is important, child—don’t fall asleep until you get here.”
“Don’t fall—? Do you know how long it takes to get from Boston to Rhydgoch? I mean, if I were making the trip, which I’m not.”
“Don’t argue with me, Victory. You must come, and you must remain awake until you get here. I wouldn’t summon you like this if it weren’t urgent.”
“What’s urgent? Mab, I don’t understand.”
“It’s time for the next level of your training.” Her voice dropped to a tense murmur. “I only hope we’re not too late.”
11
OKAY, SO I WAS GOING TO WALES. TONIGHT. IN LESS THAN twelve hours, I’d be on a plane. And I’d be going without sleep for another twelve hours beyond that—if I made good time. Mab wouldn’t be so insistent without a reason; it took a lot to get her ruffled. In fact, I’d never seen my aunt ruffled, not even on the terrible night my father died.
I’d called the pub in hopes of easing my mind. Now I was even more worried.
I spent the morning making phone calls. I dialed Kane’s number first, staring at the dead roses and thinking I should throw them out. His voice mail picked up, and I suppressed a pang of disappointment. “Kane,” I said at the beep, “it’s Vicky. I wanted to let you know that I’ll be in Wales for … for a while. My aunt needs me, and she’s getting pretty old, so …” I let my voice trail off, giving him time to picture a frail old lady in a hospital bed. Never mind that Mab could take care of herself, me, and the entire village of Rhydgoch while whipping some serious demon butt. I gave him the number for the Cross and Crow and told him he could leave messages for me at the pub.
“Anyway, I’ll let you know when I’m back in town.” I pressed the button to end the call, then spent a minute or two wishing I could redo my message. I should have said, “Miss you” or “I hope work’s going well.” Or at least, you know, “Bye.” I thunked the phone against my forehead. Then I got up and dropped the dead roses in the trash.
Next, I went through my list of upcoming demon exterminations. My clients were furious, and I couldn’t blame them. Most demon victims are desperate by the time they’re willing to call me—and willing to pay my fee. The last thing they want to hear is that we need to reschedule, especially when I wasn’t sure how long I’d be away. The next level of your training, Mab said—how long would that take? I’d spent seven grueling summers in training with my aunt before she pronounced me ready to fight demons. No way was I going through all that again. I’d give her two weeks. Tops.
Upcoming jobs included two Drude exterminations, and one each for a Harpy and an Eidolon. Harpies are revenge demons, sent after the victim by some unscrupulous sorcerer for a fee. They’re known for their sharp, tearing beaks and talons—but not their smarts—so I advised that client to leave town for a couple of weeks. Moving out of the sorcerer’s range would confuse the Harpies; by the time they found him again, I’d be home. I hoped. Eidolons, guilt demons, look like giant maggots and gnaw the victim’s insides. They can be calmed temporarily by hypnosis, so I gave that client the phone number of a good hypnotherapist.
Drudes were most difficult for stave off for a couple of weeks. There’s not much norms can do to ensure they don’t dream. And when you’re infested with Drudes, any dream can turn into a nightmare. Those clients had two choices: pay a witch to craft a dream-catcher charm—which is expensive and quits working as soon as it fills up—or try avoiding nightmares the old-fashioned way: meditating, avoiding spicy foods and alcohol, and not watching scary movies or the news right before bed.
My last client opted for a string of highly colorful swear words instead of “good-bye,” and I wondered how many of these clients would want to hear from me when I got back. I could practically see dollar signs flying out my window and off into the sunset.
The phone rang, and I paused before answering. Maybe that last client had pulled out a thesaurus and wanted to share a few more cuss words. I picked up the phone, holding it a foot away from my ear, just in case.
Good thing, too. Because the screaming, whooping, and hollering that came through the handset would have deafened me for life if the phone had been an inch closer.