Shaman Rises. C.E. Murphy
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protective tomb, then gave me an arch look. “Worse than that?”
“Yeah.” I looked skyward, too, then drew a sharp breath through my nostrils. “Unless you trust me completely.”
“With my life,” Annie Muldoon said with such simple clarity that I nearly wept.
Then I drove my sword into her heart.
It was hard to tell who was more surprised, Annie or the evil thing hungering for her soul. Her mouth and eyes turned to enormous circles, but she remained silent. Silent, when somebody had just stuffed a sword into her. Silent, which told me it probably didn’t hurt, which was what I’d expected. We were in the much-depleted garden of her soul, but it was her soul. I wasn’t attacking her physical body, but the sickness inside it. Still, being stabbed was the sort of thing that might instinctively cause a person to scream, and she didn’t.
Nor did the vortex, not yet. I clenched my stomach, wondering why, wondering what I had missed, and it came to me with absurd clarity. Of course there are vampires, Annie had just said to me, and everybody knew you didn’t kill a vampire just with silver. It took wood, too.
I reached inside my coat and took out the hair stick I’d discovered over New Orleans, clasping it against the hilt of my rapier and infusing the silver with ash.
The vortex became a sound of pain and rage so great I could barely comprehend it. Tornadoes and tearing metal, cats fighting and fingernails on chalkboard, on and on in outrage and fear. A breath escaped me, not quite as triumphant as laughter. Just a breath that acknowledged my stupid-ass idea had some merit, if the howling darkness was so angry at the action.
Because swords—my sword in particular—cut both ways. It was a weapon, by its very nature meant to kill, and there was something here to kill, a creeping illness that ate and tore at Annie’s life. I saw that sickness punch downward, gathered by the rapier and stretched, rather than torn, by the complex weave of ash wood inside the silver blade. It came out beside her spine, the rapier driving it through and then out of Annie’s body. Mostly out: threads, scraps, still clung inside her, hooked ends catching in the bronchi and alveoli and holding on. Annie shuddered, though she still said nothing, wildfire-green eyes intent on me. Trusting me, which was so brave as to be madness. But her father had dreamed me, Gary loved me, and she had spent years wrapped in Cernunnos’s land, protected by a god who knew and coveted me. I was a stranger, but not unknown. I gave her my best smile and a confident nod, and released the sword’s other edge within her.
Killing, yes. That was what a blade like this was made for. But scalpels saved lives, too, and my sword, like myself, had accepted its destiny and heritage. A killing thrust to pierce the sickness, but also to drive healing magic through Annie’s center. Silver and blue split apart, burning through her veins faster than any heart could send it. It lit her up from within, racing back and forth, up and down, crashing into itself and splashing waves of gunmetal where it merged. Sizzling heat turned to flashes of silver fire where it encountered the Master’s invading power. As fast as I saw it, it was gone again, leaving only my magic in its place. My power split again, chasing the sickness and glowing with heat of its own, like molten silver.
Molten silver. I had watched Nuada, the sword’s maker, turn his own living silver flesh into this blade, and for the first time I wondered if some part of the elf king was part of this battle, too. If he reached through time in his own way, lending a whisper of elfin immortality to the fight against the Master. It would never make a mortal live forever, but its inexorable age might lend a little more light to the path Annie had to tread.
Because I couldn’t get it all. I should be able to, in the heart of Annie’s garden, in the lingering warmth of Cernunnos’s cocoon. I’d fought so many battles in spirit realms that I’d almost thought it was going to be that easy. That I was going to save Annie Muldoon here in the heart of her garden, and cast the Master out forever.
But from here, watching and feeling the threads of his power burn and hiss, I could tell they reached back into the Middle World. He’d had his fingers dug into Annie’s ordinary human life so deeply and for so long in the Middle World that maybe I could never have won this fight purely in the spiritual planes. More than that, though, the Master finally had a host in the real world: Raven Mocker was out there somewhere, anchoring him. That meant the Master was more strongly entrenched in the world now than he had ever been in my encounters with him, and I was pretty sure winning a real-world throw-down would tie him to the world far more strongly than any kind of spiritual battle could. After all this time and effort, he wasn’t going to settle for second best.
And the truth was, the body he’d taken for Raven Maker was second best. I wasn’t kidding myself. Odds of the Master sticking with Raven Mocker’s original host body, a guy named Danny whom I’d known as a kid, were vanishingly rare. Annie had called him a vampire, and there were two things I was certain vampires did: kill people, and make more like themselves.
And into that, Annie Muldoon had shown up. Honestly, on every level, I knew the smart thing to do would be to cut the last threads holding Annie to life, and to let her go free. I was pretty certain her soul, if not her body, could escape the Master’s claws now. There were shadows inside her, thrown into sharp relief by the sword’s brilliance, but they were nothing like the weight of sickness that had brought her to—and beyond—death’s door. They were a toehold, a place to start again, not something to forever condemn her soul. I should, on any kind of smart bet, let her go now.
I was demonstrably not the type to take a smart bet. Not when faced with the woman Gary and Cernunnos had bent time to bring to me for healing. Not, when I got down to the crux of the matter, when faced with any kind of impossible odds and the slightest chance of setting them right.
“We have to go up,” I said quietly. “Right into the maw. It’s been chewing its way down through your garden—your soul—to the core of your being. Cernunnos has been protecting you, and that gave me a chance to burn most of the sickness out. But we’ve got to take it back, Annie. We’ve got to take your garden back. We have to go through the darkness to come out the other side.”
Annie took the shallowest breath possible around the rapier’s blade, just enough for a weak question. “How?”
“With this.” I nodded at the sword, not wanting to wiggle it and hurt her. Not that it should hurt, but wiggling it just seemed cruel. “It’ll be just as much of a shock coming out as it was going in, but it’s going to be carrying some of your essence, too, when it comes out. Between you, me and it, we’re going to punch right through to the Middle World. We’re going home, Annie. I’m bringing you back to Gary.”
I yanked the sword out before she had time to brace herself.
Power cracked open the sky. My power, Annie’s power, Cernunnos’s, maybe a touch of Nuada’s, too. Cumulative white magic for the second time in a morning, this time born from within. Far above us, far beyond the edge of the cliff I’d dived off—a cliff now illuminated by roaring magic—far up there, the blackened and corrupt roof of Annie’s garden suddenly shone, sloughing off the first sheen of dark magic. I wrapped my arm around Annie’s waist like I was Errol Flynn and she was Olivia de Havilland, snugging her against my body. The roaring power focused by the sword contracted, swinging us in a cinematic arc toward the breaking sky.
Annie finally did shriek, laughter coming out as a high-pitched shout. That had to be a good way to start back on the road home, with laughter and excitement. I focused on it, adding it to the upswelling of magic, and chunks of blackened sky started to fall away. We leaned together, swinging around them, always climbing, scrambling, hurrying upward. There was no vortex left, its spidery legs withdrawn or so quashed within Annie’s body and soul that it had no strength to stop us. Part of me thought, It can’t be this easy, and the rest of me, sounding rather like that little voice that had recently slipped away, said, What the hell about any of the past year has been easy?
We ricocheted past the cliff edge I’d leaped off, still careening upward. Above us, not nearly so far above us anymore, the sky split the width of a hair, then broke apart to let a torrent of white magic come pounding in.
It