Chapter 7
SEVEN
ATLAS
I jerk awake, my skin instinctively hardening to stone in response to a sharp sting on my wrist that my conscious brain barely has time to register.
“Ow,” Cas hisses. “You nearly broke my fang. Do you know what a bitch it is to have to grow one back?”
I’m still groggy, the effects of the sleep potion clinging to me for several long seconds, making me feel like I’m wading through waist-deep sand. The protective stone lingers in place while I struggle to peel my eyes open and claw my way out of the void where I was just face-to-face with Rune.
“Why’d you bite me?” I mumble, my brain finally catching up to Cas’s complaint about his fangs.
“To wake you up like you asked me to. Last favor I do for you if that’s the thanks I’m going to get.” He runs his tongue over his teeth to check that they’re okay.
Now that I’m conscious and my body is aware there’s no danger, the stone starts to turn into soft, malleable flesh again.
I’m used to the warm feeling that rushes through me when my body turns to flesh and bone instead of cold, hard stone, but there’s a tingle in my fingertips that’s new.
I don’t know how to explain it, but it feels like Rune.
“How’s your man? Still in one piece?”
“He’s not my man,” I huff. “But they haven’t touched him. That’s weird, right? Why abduct someone if you don’t plan to harm them?”
He shrugs. “They obviously have a reason. That’s what we need to figure out.”
“Speaking of; you didn’t find anything out? I didn’t clarify before I crashed.”
“I dropped in on Emilia, queen of the largest and oldest vampire coven in Europe, and she hasn’t heard any rumblings of war. Not among vampires or anyone else.”
I frown. “That’s what my contact said too, but that doesn’t make any sense. There has to be something we’re missing.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand up. “Do me a favor and find out if anyone else got anything. I’m going to talk to Kallis.”
“Don’t forget an offering,” Cas shouts just as I slip into the void between the underworld and the human one.
“Thanks,” I call back, my voice getting lost in the darkness.
My body is squeezed momentarily, like I’m slipping through a pinhole, before I land with my feet on an uneven street in the middle of an outdoor market in Turkey.
The spicy scent of cooked lamb wafting from the nearest street vendor has my mouth watering, reminding me that I haven’t bothered to eat in at least a day or two.
Maybe longer. Gargoyles don’t die of hunger, but if I were to go too long—weeks or months, I’m not sure and I’ve never cared to test it—I would eventually revert to my stone form and be unable to shift back without the help of magic or someone to feed me.
I should eat though. Keeping up my strength will only help me find and rescue Rune.
A strong sense of purpose pulses in my chest, and I head straight for the vendor selling doner kebabs a few feet away.
I hold up one finger to indicate that I just want one, and he tells me the price.
I don’t have to understand Turkish to be able to call on one of the helpful powers my contract with Auri has imbued me with.
I reach into my pocket and the correct amount in the right currency fills my palm immediately.
I pull it out and hand it over, giving him a thankful smile.
I groan out loud as soon as I bite into my food.
Rune said they were feeding him okay. Did he mean that or was he putting on a brave face?
He has so much damn pride, it’s impossible to know with him.
I smile to myself as I chew the savory meat and walk through the market in search of the offering I came here for.
Rune is more than just prideful, he was downright arrogant when I met him in person.
Aware of his power and cocky with a sense of invulnerability.
It shouldn’t have been endearing, but for some reason it was.
Even fully awake, I still feel a vague awareness of him, like we’re connected somehow.
It must have something to do with the magic woven into the pages of his journal.
I can’t think of any other explanation for it.
A niggle of guilt fills the back of my mind.
I should have been honest when he asked me if I knew why I’d dreamed about him in the first place, but it felt too weird and creepy to admit that I’ve been reading his journal.
I finish my kebab just as my gaze lands on what I came here for, a vendor with an array of fruits, including a large basket filled to the brim with fresh, ruby red pomegranates.
I approach and point to the basket, trying to work out how to ask the price for the whole thing.
I’m about to resort to an embarrassing round of charades when the tingle in my chest and fingers intensifies and the words pop into my head in Rune’s voice.
“Nar sepetinin tamami ne kadar?” My accent leaves something to be desired, but the woman seems to understand just fine. She rattles off a price, and again, I reach into my pocket to conjure the amount, then thank her in Turkish. “Tesekkürler.”
Fortunately, I spot a bottle of honey that will work as an additional offering, and the vendor simply gives it to me; a gift for buying so much of her wares. I thank her again and continue my journey.
Since when do I know Turkish? Did Auri add in a new perk without telling us?
On-the-spot language translation instead of an end-of-year bonus?
I’ll have to ask the guys if they’ve suddenly found themselves speaking a language they don’t know.
I’m not going to worry about it right now though.
The important thing is that I got the offering for Kallis, and now I’m going to get some answers.
I slip into the alcove of a doorway so I’m out of sight, then close my eyes and venture into the void again. The spot on my palm where Meravis scrawled with his fingertips tingles and pulses, guiding me to where I can find her.
I step out of the void to find myself in the middle of a metropolitan North American city.
It’s too generic for me to bother trying to figure out which one, and it doesn’t really matter.
Tall buildings, foot traffic, lots of buses—none of it is what I came here for anyway.
I turn on the spot for a minute, looking for any clues as to where I can find the witch.
If Meravis’s information was right, she can’t be far.
Then my gaze lands on a sign on the sidewalk in front of a small brick building sandwiched between two much larger ones. There’s a picture of an eye in the middle of a palm and a list of services: palm reading, tarot, spirit guide communication, custom spell work, and more…
The shop name is generic, but that has to be it.
I hurry across the street and into the shop.
A little bell over the door chimes as I step inside, and the strong smell of incense and magic tickles my nose.
If it weren’t for the distinct scent, this place could be mistaken for any run-of-the-mill, tourist-centric spiritualist shop.
There are shelves full of tarot decks for sale, bundles of sage, candles with cards explaining what each color is for, and all the books you would expect to find in any store catering to humans interested in Wicca.
I wonder if Kallis’s customers know she’s a true, born witch.
“Hello?” I call out. There’s a soft rustle of fabric as a curtain behind the counter is pulled back, and a woman steps out.
I’ve met enough witches in my life to know that it doesn’t do any good to stereotype.
They come in all races, ages, and genders, they all have their own style, and no two are alike.
But Kallis looks like a witch in the most classic sense.
Her gray hair is pulled up into a bun with a few tendrils framing her face, her nose is long and slightly crooked like it’s been broken before and never set properly, and her blue eyes have a cloudy film over them.
She looks me up and down suspiciously, her thin lips puckering, creating deeper wrinkles around her mouth.
“How can I help you?” she asks, but her tone is a lot more “get the fuck out” than a genuine offer to assist.
“Are you Kallis?”
She narrows her eyes.
“That depends on who’s asking.”
She pulls her floral cardigan more tightly around herself and glances at the basket of pomegranates and the honey I’m holding. I thrust them towards her.
“These are for you. Offerings for the goddesses Persephone and Hecate.”
She stares at me a second longer, cocking her head slightly like she’s listening to someone I can’t see. Then, she croaks out a laugh that’s anything but jovial.
“What kind of help could a gargoyle possibly need?” She snatches the basket and the honey and disappears back behind the curtain.
Am I supposed to follow her?
I look around helplessly for a second, as if one of the books is going to jump off the shelf and instruct me on proper etiquette when seeking help from a hostile witch.
“What are you waiting for?” she calls out.
I guess that answers that. I hurry around the counter and through the heavy velvet curtains.
RUNE
Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve finally had a decent meal, but I’m feeling slightly less helpless than I have been for the past week.
There aren’t any clocks in here, but I’ve been paying attention to the shadows cast by the slivers of sun through the tiny, high window so I know when to expect Elvira.
I might not have access to my magic, but I’m Rune motherfucking Delaport, the most powerful mage of the century, and magic is more than the energy we learn how to harness and conduct inside our bodies, it’s all around us.
Even in a dank, lifeless prison like this, where all the energy is stagnant and refuses to flow, it’s still there.
Kneeling on the small patch of concrete between my bed and the bars, I keep my ears pricked for any sound of footsteps while I use my finger to make a circle in the dust and dirt.
In my mind’s eye, I can picture the page in my most well-used tome with the drawing of a proper snare.
I close my eyes and use my finger to draw the symbols at the four points, murmuring the incantation under my breath.
I can feel the weak stir of the magic in my veins, fizzling and useless.
But I have to trust that the symbols have power of their own, even when my magic is impotent.
Inside the circle, I scrawl the Latin words of the spell, pushing every last bit of flickering magic I have into them.
When the circle works properly, any living thing that means to harm you will be captured as soon as it steps inside, unable to move until the circle is broken.
The trick is going to be getting her to step inside of it.
Once I have her, I’ll have a bargaining chip, then maybe my captor will show their face, and we can have a proper chat about what the fuck they want from me.
The familiar sound of heavy footsteps echoes down the hall right as I’m finishing.
Now I just have to hope that they need me alive. We’re about to find out.
I quietly scramble onto my bed, lying face down and making my body as limp and still as possible.
The footsteps get louder, along with the smell of something sweet and savory—another unmistakable childhood favorite, if my nose is right.
Squash soup. My mother used to make it when I was sick…
before she realized how much power I really had and started to worry less about my favorite foods and childhood comforts and more about how I could be useful to her.
My throat tightens with the threat of rageful tears, but I force myself to stay still and silent, making my breaths as shallow as possible so they won’t be noticeable in the dim light.
“Food,” Elvira grunts.
I don’t move.
“Food,” she says again.
Limp, barely breathing… Put the pieces together, bitch, and come check on me.
She’s quiet for a second, and then I hear the bars rattle.
“Wake up. Eat.” She grunts again, and then I hear the metallic clang of a key in the lock.
Still. Still. Still. Don’t get excited. She clomps heavily into my cell, closing the door behind her. There’s no way for her to get to my cot without stepping right into the circle.
Please work. Please work. Please work.
Her large, icy hand clenches around my shoulder and she gives me a rough shake.
“Wake up,” she commands again, and then she leans in close.
The fetid stench of rotting meat reaches my nose, covered by the scent of lavender.
There’s no hot breath against my face, even though she’s inches away, studying me closely.
“You are not dead,” she says decisively before letting go of me and backing away.
The bars rattle again and her footsteps disappear.
Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. It didn’t work. I sit up with a growl, raking my fingers through my dirty, matted hair. Why didn’t it work? Maybe I overestimated the power of the symbols themselves.
I stare at the circle, barely visible, but there.
It’s possible there’s another reason it didn’t work.
The rotting smell, the cold skin…
“Fuck,” I groan out loud. Whoever has me hostage is a nasty motherfucker if they’re messing with necromancy.
This shit just keeps getting better and better. As much as my pride would take a hit, I really fucking hope Atlas finds a way to get me out of here, and soon.