Shadowland Page 6

  “I tend to pay attention when someone is trying to cut my head off!” Casanova said, a little shrilly.

  “Yes,” Jonas said. “Quite.” And then, “I think I may have it.”

  “Have what?” Casanova asked, before Cassie snatched the phone back.

  “You know what happened?” she asked. They were almost out of time, and there was no way of knowing if Jonas’ epiphany would strike him again next go around.

  “I know you said you cannot remember, Cassie,” he said gently, “but it would be very helpful to know if you focused the spell on yourself…or if you perhaps left it open.”

  Cassie gripped the phone tighter. It was slick with sweat and kept threatening to shoot out of her palm like a bullet. “And if I did leave it open?”

  “Your power might have thought you meant to include everyone in your vicinity.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Everyone near you at the time.” Casanova looked confused, but Cassie felt her stomach drop. This was starting to sound terribly familiar.

  “When a spell doesn’t conclude, there are usually only three possible causes,” Jonas continued. “It was cast improperly, someone is blocking it, or an element is missing. We know the spell was cast properly, because it is working—repeatedly, in fact. And I do not see how anyone can be blocking you when no one else realizes you are looping. We are therefore left with the third option: something, or in this case, someone, is missing.”

  “Wait. Wait, wait, wait,” Casanova said, catching up and stealing back the phone. “Are you telling me that the spell can’t complete itself until that little prick gets back?”

  “If you mean John, yes,” Jonas said, sounding disapproving. “And Rosier, too. They were both in the vicinity when the spell was laid and are likely vital parts of it.”

  Casanova broke into a string of Spanish curses and Cassie grabbed the phone again. “But…if we keep going back in time, why isn’t Pritkin here? He should be downstairs, buying me a donut, but he isn’t. We’ve looked!”

  “You aren’t going back in time, Cassie,” Jonas explained patiently. “Your power removed you from the regular time stream. You’re on that island we discussed earlier. And without John’s presence, you have no way off it.”

  “But he got off it!”

  “Yes, by transitioning to the demon realms. And time doesn’t function there the same way as here. They are like Faerie, with their own, separate time line. Therefore, when John entered the Shadowland, he left the island, removing him from the spell temporarily and causing the problem we have now.”

  “Great,” Cassie grumbled, and felt around for another chocolate. Only to find out that she’d eaten them all. No wonder she felt queasy.

  Well, that and the whole death thing.

  “What about Marco?” Casanova demanded, wrestling back the phone. “If your theory is right, he should be looping with the rest of us.”

  “It is an interesting question,” Jonas agreed. “If a spell is cast on a possessed person, whom does it affect: the person or the spirit possessing him?”

  “Both, obviously!”

  “Ah, but magic is rarely obvious. It has its own rules; even when a spell is carefully thought out and rigorously tested, unexpected events can arise. And Cassie’s spell was neither carefully planned nor perfectly executed. It wasn’t even completed. Under the circumstances, it is possible that the spirit possessing Marco, in this case Lord Rosier, was caught in the spell instead of the body he was using. But, like John, he left for the demon realms shortly thereafter, and is thus unaffected—for now.”

  “For now?” Cassie asked, worriedly.

  “All right, all right, but what about the Allu?” Casanova persisted. “None of this explains why they’re here.”

  “They are under the council’s control, are they not?” Jonas asked. “And Rosier is a member of council. Perhaps he had them along as backup, as it were, in case something went wrong.”

  “Then why aren’t they waiting for the big explosion? Instead of making mincemeat out of us?”

  “Because something did go wrong,” Jonas pointed out. “From their perspective, Rosier disappeared without warning, and John along with him. Perhaps they think John detected the demon’s presence and attacked him. Perhaps they think that their master is dead, or that he fled to the demon realms with John in pursuit—which is, in fact, what happened. Either way, it would be enough to engage Plan B—”

  “—with Plan B involving our heads on a platter!”

  “Cassie is the target,” Jonas demurred. “You’re merely in the way. But otherwise, yes.”

  “In the way?” Casanova blinked. “You mean…if I get away from her, I’m not going to die every five minutes?”

  “Every one hour and fourteen minutes.”

  “And twenty-nine seconds,” Casanova added automatically. And then he grinned, huge and euphoric. “Who cares? It doesn’t matter anymore!”

  “I am afraid it does, old boy,” Jonas said grimly, as Cassie wrenched back the phone.

  “So you’re saying what? We just have to wait for Pritkin to get back?” she asked hopefully.

  “No, that is what we cannot do. At the moment, John is outside the spell. But once he returns to this time stream, he will be caught in the same loop as everyone else who was in that room—unless he returns with Lord Rosier. Only once all components are back in place will you be able to access your power and end the spell.”

  “Then we have to go get him,” Cassie said. The Shadowland wasn’t her favorite place, but right now, it was looking pretty damned good.

  “There is no ‘we’,” Jonas said, his voice sharpening. “Once you leave the loop, the protection it offers is left behind as well. If you die outside this time stream, you will stay dead. As bad as it may seem, you are better off where you are. Casanova can go.”

  The vampire in question was halfway to the door at this point, but supernatural hearing had him whirling in outrage, nonetheless. “Casanova can do no such thing! I had nothing to do with any of this!”

  “Perhaps not,” Jonas agreed. “But you are involved now, trapped on that island along with Cassie, in a hotel filled with homicidal demons. And you will remain there until you retrieve your missing pieces, and their corpses will not do. You need them in the same shape they were in when the spell was cast. If either succeeds in killing the other before you reach them, the spell will never complete itself.”

  “And we’ll be stuck,” Cassie said numbly. “We’ll be stuck here forever.”

  Chapter Nine

  Well. It looked like he’d finally found the right place, John thought, as a familiar blond came crashing through the door in front of him, staggered out into the street and hit a wall on the other side. Hard.

  John smiled.

  He’d already been in ten of these dumps tonight, looking for Rosier in the last places anyone would expect to find him. He’d begun to think the Rakshasa had been playing him, as he checked off possibly venues, one after the other. He’d left this street for last, since it was considered beyond the pale even by the kind of places that knifed you in the side for a hello. He’d assumed his father had better taste.

  He should have known better.

  He started forward, but before he’d taken two steps, something else came out of the door. It was huge, yet moved in a blur of speed that left it little more than a pale smudge against the night. Until it grabbed their mutual prey by the throat.

  “Unhand me this instant, you cretin,” Rosier spat, a lock of the pale hair he wore longer than John’s falling into enraged green eyes. “How dare you put a hand on a member of council!”

  The creature—a ten foot tall demon of a type John didn’t recognize, but which looked alarmingly like a huge, yellowish snake--did not seem impressed. “You pay,” it rumbled, twining the end of a tale as thick as a wrestler’s torso around Rosier’s legs.

  “I’ve already told you. I didn’t remember to bring my purse. I was in a bit of a hurry
!” Rosier said scathingly. “Now release me, and I’ll send someone back with—”

  That was as far as he got, before the creature flicked the tale, throwing Rosier off his feet, and then slamming him face-first into the wall again. It looked like the bouncer didn’t believe him, John thought idly. Or maybe it just didn’t understand the language.

  Not too surprising around here, where half the denizens probably weren’t even literate in whatever tongue they called their own. The brothel seemed to bear this out, lacking even a name over the door. Of course, that would have been hard, since it didn’t have a door anymore, either. What it did have was a hole in an old brick wall, a straw-strewn, dirt-floored room on the other side, a rickety-looking set of stairs, and a pungent mix of grime, sweat and sex.

  Charming, John thought. Right before he was grabbed from behind.

  “Hello, handsssome.” The sibilant voice went with the off-white, scaly flesh on the hand that slipped onto his shoulder. And then splayed on his chest. “Niccce,” was hissed—literally--in his ear.

  John turned his head to see a body that matched the hand—vaguely humanoid, with an impressive set of curves, most of which were currently on display. But they weren’t compensating for the slit of a nose, the hairless, reptilian head or the black, forked tongue that slithered out to graze his cheek. He managed not to shudder—just.

  “Looking for something in particular?” The madam asked.

  “Found it,” John said, watching Rosier peel himself off the grimy wall.

  The madam looked back and forth between John and his doppelgänger, and then she smiled. “We could possibly make that happen,” she offered.

  “Oh, yes?”

  “He owes a debt,” she confirmed. “Came in here not two hours ago and drained half my girls. And then demanded the other half!”

  “And, of course, you demanded payment first.”

  A scaly shoulder raised in a shrug. “Naturally. The girls he finished with won’t be any use for days. I couldn’t have the rest in the same condition, not without more than a councilor’s promise.” She hissed the last contemptuously; apparently, people around here had about the same respect for the council that John did.

  “And now you want him to wash dishes to pay for his supper,” he guessed.

  The madam didn’t look like she understood that, but she didn’t get a chance to answer anyway. Because Rosier had spotted him. “Emrys,” he gasped, hitting the ground again.

  He was dressed in a suit that a self-respecting bum wouldn’t have worn, with frayed lapels, a dirty shirt and holes over the knees. Like the rest of the city, it was an approximation, designed to go with the mental image his brain had settled on for the evening’s activities. But the fact remained: he was looking rough. Yet his usual air of faint disgruntlement, caused by a world that inexplicably failed to acknowledge his greatness, remained.

  The madam said something to the bouncer, who had started toward the deadbeat again. Didn’t want to damage the merchandise if there was a potential buyer on hand, John assumed, as his father started crawling over the stones toward him. “Emrys! What are you doing here?”

  “Accepting your invitation.”

  “What? What invitation? Have you gone mad?”

  “Possibly,” John growled, wondering if he should just let the snake finish him.

  It was alarmingly tempting.

  “Oh, never mind that now,” Rosier said peevishly, flailing about in a puddle. “Help me up! We have to—”

  “How much?” John asked, glancing at the madam. Because if he looked at his father for another second, he was going to simply walk away. And that wouldn’t do.

  That would be too easy.

  She named a figure and John snorted. “He’s not worth that.”

  “Stop messing about!” Rosier demanded, tugging his now quite filthy trouser leg off whatever it had snagged on. “Pay the creature what she wants and let’s get out of here! You have no idea what I’ve been through!”

  John felt his fists clench involuntarily, and closed his eyes. He needed to remain in control, or this would be over far too soon, and he couldn’t afford that. He wanted some answers first. He wanted—

  “How much to finish him for you?” he rasped.

  “What? What are you talking about?” Rosier squawked.

  “You think I’m a fool?” John opened his eyes to find the madam looking at him contemptuously. “You’re an incubus, too. Think I can’t feel it? You pay me a fraction of what he owes and then drag him off, saying you’ll finish him, only to set him free! Then where will I be?”

  “Good point,” John said, turning to look at Rosier. Who had opened his mouth, to make another demand no doubt. Until something in his son’s face caused him to shut it abruptly.

  “Emyrs?” he asked, unsteadily this time.

  “What about if I do it here?” John asked softly.

  * * *

  “Augghhh!” Casanova breathed, trying to push his body into the scant cover afforded by a crack in a wall.

  That didn’t work very well, even though the “wall” gave slightly in a way that real brick never did, hugging his back like warm pizza dough. He tried to not think about it, which turned out to be astonishingly simple. Maybe because what mind he had left was focused on the writhing mass of huge warriors just down the street.

  They were standing at a junction where five roads met, where he’d desperately tried to lose them a few moments before. He didn’t know what they used for senses, but sight didn’t seem to be foremost. They reminded him more of bloodhounds on the scent—or at least he hoped so.

  On Rian’s advice, he’d run up and down every street before choosing this one, leaving multiple, overlapping scent trails. Of course, the idea had been to be gone before they came across his sensory snarl, but he’d been too thorough or they’d been too fast and now he was caught. Like a rat in a trap, he thought, too panicked to be original while watching them poke into every nook and cranny.

  It’s all right, he told himself. He had super senses, too, but they didn’t work so well in the Shadowland, where smells seemed as malleable as everything else in this not-quite-real landscape. Maybe the trails he’d laid would be enough to—

  His brain froze as they suddenly stopped, all at the same time, some halfway through a step. And slowly turned as one being. And looked right at him.

  His eyes closed and his chest seized up, trying to hold a breath he hadn’t taken. He was in a shadow, but he never for a moment thought it would be good enough. He braced for the worst, since it wasn’t like he didn’t know what was coming.

  Only this time, there was no reset button.

  This time, he wouldn’t be coming back.

  He thought about running, but he couldn’t seem to move and anyway, he’d already tried that. Though a maze of narrow, dirty streets with high walls, shuttered shops, and swinging oil lamps shedding puddles of light Casanova didn’t need across the gloom. It only added to the insanity that, for some reason, his brain had settled on medieval Rome for this trip, despite the fact that he’d obviously never been there.

  “My bad,” Rian admitted, her voice a whisper through his mind. “It’s the Great Market. It always reminds me…”

  “Shut up!” he hissed, and then they were on him.

  He might have whimpered slightly as the mob surged into the confines of the alley, so closely packed that their scabbards scraped along the narrow walls. But his spine stiffened as he felt their approach, and his chin came up. He was the scion of an ancient house; he would die as one. Alright, not like that bastard of a father of his, God rot his soul, but he’d been a terrible drunk so Casanova didn’t know what anyone had expected. But he’d be goddamned if he went cowering like a little—

  Oh. Oh, God, he thought, as he felt them surround him on all sides.

  There was a wash of heat from the torches they carried in the hands that weren’t busy with those scimitar-like swords. One of which was placed under his chin a mome
nt later, forcing his head up even more. His eyes flew open involuntarily, and he found himself face-to-face with one of the warriors. Or rather, face-to-polished-bronze-faceplate, because he could finally see that there was nothing behind it.

  Nothing at all.

  What was it Nietzsche said? he thought dizzily. Some warning about looking into the abyss and having the abyss look back, although why he cared he didn’t know. Who took life advice from a man who died penniless in an insane asylum? That had never made sense to Casanova, who’d always had far loftier goals.

  Although he didn’t suppose it mattered now.

  Now, all his hopes, wishes and dreams had coalesced down to just one thing: managing not to soil himself before he died again. Although they really needed to hurry up with it or he was going to be denied even that small—

  He blinked, because suddenly the sword was withdrawn. And the Allu were on the move again, the wind of their passing ruffling his hair, the light from their torches splashing his face, the rough wool of their tunics brushing the fine linen of his jacket. As they just kept on going.

  It took him a second to realize that they weren’t attacking, weren’t breaking stride, weren’t so much as looking his way again, if ‘look’ was appropriate with nothing in the place of eyes. Just more of those creepy face plates, leaping with flames from the torch light, heartstoppingly dreadful if he’d still had a heartbeat.

  And it felt like he did. It felt like it was in his throat as they pounded past, iron tipped boots ringing off stones half buried in the muck. Until they were gone, as suddenly as they’d come, the sound of their feet almost immediately muffled by the height and thickness of the surrounding walls.

  Abruptly, the alley returned to darkness, to silence, to calm. And Casanova sank down onto all fours on the cold stones, hands shaking, chest hurting. And wondering if he needed new trousers.

  “I think they’re all right,” Rian said quietly, appearing like a lovely vision in front of him. She was suspiciously blank-faced, which could mean a lot of things, but which usually meant--