The Master (31 page)

Zee sat bolt upright in bed, fighting off sudden dread and trying to understand where the fear was coming from. She wasn't in danger. Nor was Nick. Not yet. But . . .

She waited, concentrating fiercely. Breath left her body, and breath returned. Nothing bad happened. No monsters jumped out of the closet. Nothing growled from under the bed. Life went on— normally, if such a word could apply while in the shian—in spite of her misgivings about her situation and uncertainty about her place in the order of things.

Love went on, too, she thought, her heart contracting. She could turn away and pretend she didn't feel; she could play deaf and mute, but her feelings were still there—stronger than ever. Denying them had not made them disappear; they only clamored louder now that Nick had gone. And she was discovering that for some things there was no analgesic, no forgetfulness. The love she had sought had been found. And that love had disassembled her defenses and left her naked to new kinds of worries and pain. And she would remain unclothed and vulnerable until she acknowledged her emotions and knitted up some new reality that encompassed the truth of her love.

That was terrifying.

But
necessary
.

So, it all came down to faith. She had to trust— trust that Nick wouldn't hurt her, that he wouldn't reject her when they left the protection of the shian because of what had happened, because of her being pregnant and having goblin blood. And she had to trust that if he did not love her yet, he would eventually. And that he would love their child, too. There was a purpose in their lives—that's what all the Goddess's people said. Their feelings were guided by something greater and were not just random acts of chaos—and the Goddess was not just some fey deity doing what was expedient.

Zee hugged Nick's pillow to her face and breathed deeply, and a shiver of pure elation passed through her. Grateful, she held the pillow tighter. It was weak of her, but she needed this tie to Nick, to feel that he was close.

Because she was still afraid?

Yes, and the fear was growing. And not just the fear of what Nick would say or do. Something dangerous was on its way. Something huge. It would be there soon. She had to prepare.

I should have told him about the baby. I should have told him that I love him.

With hands that trembled, Zee pushed the covers away and got out of bed. She didn't know what she could do to protect Nick, but she had to do something. It was time to begin.

The entire rescue party except Farrar wore dark leather and looked a bit like something out of a Hollywood movie set in a trendy s & m bar. Nick had never worn leather before—not right next to his skin. But the clothes were remarkably comfortable, so long as he had no idea what animal the skins had come from and he wasn't inclined to ask. He was glad to have something sturdy and non-absorbant between his skin and the caustic atmosphere.

He was also glad of the nifty little nose filter that he had been given, though it felt a bit odd having something jammed up his nostrils. The air around him looked and felt thick, and he was certain that it was semi-toxic.

Welcome to the lutin empire
, his ghost muttered.
Please enjoy your stay and come again soon
.

The others were serious and quiet, but Farrar at least seemed disposed to enjoy the hunt. And why not? He was already dead and didn't have a lot to lose. Anyway, how often did one get to reprise one's life's most fabled role.

And how do you feel? Are you ready?

Distracted really—not focused on the task at hand, Nick answered:
I'm thinking about Zee
.

It was strange: At the moment he'd allowed himself to consider the notion of a life with a wife, kids and a cottage with a picket fence, he'd also discovered that he was fey, his lover was half-goblin and their potential children were—well, who knew what they'd be? And that cottage with a picket fence wasn't looking too likely, either. Not if he and Zee were now on some goblin hit list. Living in the human world might not even be possible anymore.

And what about his sister? The thought of the sorts of explanations to his family and friends that such a drastic change of lifestyle would entail was daunting to consider.

And yet, even with all this, he didn't regret what had happened. He was ready—anxious, even—to get on with things.

But first he had to survive the next few hours. And keep the world from going to war. Which meant he needed to get his brain in gear.

He had to push Zee from his thoughts.

“Qasim needs the ceremonial ax,” Nyssa said abruptly as she entered the room. Her eyes were wide and her voice breathless. Zee, recalling her dream of the hobgoblin, couldn't repress a shiver. “It's in a chamber about half a mile from where the children are being held. It won't open until the eclipse begins. He'll either have to fetch it or bring the children there—either way, we have time. We can get the ax first.”

“Can you contact Abrial?” Bysshe asked, putting down her teacup. Zee followed suit.

“No.” Nyssa's brows knit. “I think that he's shut me out because he doesn't want me to see what happens to Qasim. He's put up a wall between me and Farrar as well.” She looked at her mother. “I have to go.”

“No!” Bysshe said immediately, her lips flattening. “Your time is too close. Tonight is the darkening of the moon—”

Appalled at the thought of the very pregnant Nyssa attempting a journey through goblin caves, Zee heard herself saying, “
I'll
go. I'm used to goblin hives.”

“Thank you, Zee,” Nyssa said, smiling at her. “But no one else will be able to find this place. I can't maintain a psychic link to either of you and also keep tabs on those children. Mother, I'm sorry, but you know I'm right. This is our chance to stop the slaughter without anyone getting hurt. I have to go.”

“He'll just use something else,” Bysshe objected, her worry plain. “And how can you say that no one will be hurt? What of your baby?”

“I don't think he will use something else,” Nyssa answered. “I don't believe this is just about starting a war between the lutins and the humans. I believe—I
know
—that Qasim intends to resurrect his hobgoblin brethren tonight. I can
feel
that he means to do this. He's going to turn his kind loose on the world.”

Bysshe paled, as Zee suspected that she herself did. She knew that the childhood tales she'd heard of hobgoblin terror were probably exaggerated, but the thought of more hobgoblins being released into the world was petrifying.

“He's going to observe the ceremonial magic. We have to get that ax before he does.” Nyssa took a deep breath. “There's no one else to do it. Abrial has closed his mind off from me. Lyris, Cyra and Io have already gone. That just leaves us and Chloe, and she . . . She had best stay with the children.”

Nyssa was right. Fragile Chloe would be no help.

“Then we all go,” Zee said quietly, rising to her feet. She was glad that her legs held her up, because her knees felt very weak. “And we had better go before the moon rises and the eclipse begins.”

Nyssa and Bysshe nodded.

 

The wind was moaning, and Nick fancied it as miner's ghost lost forever in the caverns where it had died trying to liberate the giants' gold. In the Underground, this abandoned goblin world, the wind was a living thing; it carried with it an acrid taint that Nick could not identify, but he smelled it even through his nose filter. It coated his tongue and furred his throat, making it difficult to swallow.

Occasionally the rescuers heard a rustling noise, like leaves disturbed by a wind or the careless footfalls of a large beast crushing shrubbery as it passed. And once in a while there was another sound— again like wind, but one that chirred and croaked and whispered up from the dark swamps of the world. The cumulative noise had an effect on Nick, making him both restless and nervous.

Thomas, seeing his unease, had volunteered that it was the smell and sound of an old goblin lair waking. He didn't seem concerned, so Nick tried to remain sanguine in spite of the hair rising on his arms. He didn't like the place, though. It was anathema to him, and he wouldn't voluntarily return. His body and spirit needed air and light. It completely rejected this dark, dank hole.

The group had flashlights but didn't use them, choosing instead to rely on the uneven green phosphorescence that coated the walls of the tunnel and caverns they traversed. It struck Nick that, though they were on what amounted to a military mission, this team had no general, no one who wore braid and medals and would direct the troops into battle. They each took turns, silently leading when their talents were needed. Yet they constantly moved in synchronicity, as if given the same commands.

Abrial was point-man now, and he led them surely and swiftly down Unseelie roads, making only one detour.

“Quicksand,” he said softly, his nose wrinkling. Nick had the feeling that the words were spoken aloud for his benefit; the others likely recognized the smell.

“Quicksand?” Nick repeated. It smelled far worse. Perhaps it was quicksand where many, many things had died. Nick had smelled ghastly things in the ER—ruptured intestines, gangrene, rot of many kinds—but this was unlike anything in his experience. It was offal mixed with chemical waste . . . and something else, too, a sort of miasma that caked the membranes of the throat and perhaps the mind as well.

And you thought I was a bad haunt to have around
. The ghost sneezed.

I'll never complain again,
Nick promised, following Abrial despite his misgivings.

Nick had always been cautious by nature. For him, prudence was like breathing. But he and his old reality were no longer compatible. He was now on the endangered species list, and the group he was sharing the crisis with was of the fortune-favors-the-bold school. No one was going to be deterred by a smell. Nor could he afford to be; the stakes were simply too high.

“Remember not to look too closely at things,” Thomas cautioned. “We don't want this to be a flip trip.”

“Flip trip?” Nick repeated. Then, figuring it out: “Oh. Are we likely to be flipped out by something we see down here?”

“Not really. We're all fey—though not Unseelie, of course, except for Jack and Abrial. We'll be fine. Still, there's no need to dawdle with any of the shades lingering here.”

Nick had no intention of dawdling—especially not with these smelly shades.

The tunnel broadened again into another cavern. The sight of a pile of dirty brown-and-white bones with an enormous red-handled sword shoved through them didn't please Nick, either; though at another time, he might have liked to examine the jumble mounded on the rock ledge serving as a sort of bowl for the abused skeletons. It was obvious even at a casual glance that the bones had suffered trauma. Most were shattered, were so splintered that he could only think that some giant animal had been at them, perhaps sucking out the marrow. And a strange hairy lichen had begun to grow.

“What the hell is that?” he whispered.

“Bone salad with a side of mold,” Roman suggested.

Jack paused for a moment beside the skeleton. He was clearly troubled but wasn't able to identify the point of the mass grave. It had been a pyre. He shook his head, then suggested Nyssa could come here later to talk to any ghosts that lingered.

Nick shook his head, wondering why she would want to. The mound was made up of many different kinds of bones—human, fey and goblin. He supposed that was fairly unheard of, all races having an aversion to spending eternity resting with one another, and who were traditionally very careful to separate their dead. Still, nothing they had to say would be positive, and it would probably be variations of
Get these other smelly bastards off me!

Thomas said it looked like a dragon's larder, but no one could explain the giant sword that topped the pile like a cherry on a particularly sinister sundae. They all agreed it was an old grave, though. Whatever had made it was long gone. Or should be. They moved on.

After that, Nick found himself looking behind him with increasing regularity. Paranoia had found a crack in his psyche and was systematically looking for a chance to blossom into panic.

As they drew near the next fold in the mountain where the tunnel turned abruptly, Nick could see that the stone was not as smooth as it first appeared. In places it was fissured with sharply angled clefts, and it looked a bit as if it had been hewn open by a giant ax and then carelessly refilled with rubble— was the creation of some insane creature who cared little for engineered stability.

Could this be the work of the hobgoblin? Nick had no idea. He actually didn't know anything about the creature they were going to rob and possibly fight to the death. How had he not asked earlier?

“What is he? Qasim, I mean,” Nick asked quietly. “I mean, I know he's a
hobgoblin,
but what is that exactly—besides big and ugly?”

“Big and ugly hardly covers it,” Roman answered. He added, “Best not to use his name down here.”

“I'm not sure this is the moment to go into this . . . ,” Thomas began.

“Yet, what better time?” Jack said. He glanced at Nick.

“Tell him,” Abrial agreed. “He has a right to know.”

“The hobgoblins were a creation of the first great goblin king, Gofimbel, and a terrible mistake that he was warned repeatedly not to make. But, of course, he did create them. It was inevitable really, given his arrogance.” Jack began.

“All the old ones were arrogant,” Abrial interjected. “The Seelie king, the Unseelie queen, the goblin court. Dynasty builders have to be ruthless visionaries.”

“Fair enough. But Gofimbel was something beyond arrogant or visionary. He repeatedly messed with the rules of creation—was an insane Prometheus really.” Jack fell back to walk beside Nick.