Thief of Light (55 page)

By the Horned Lord,
yes
!

But the Necromancer laughed, folding his arms. Flickers of a familiar acid green sparkled over his shadowy form, and the flows parted around him, leaving him untouched.

Cursing, Erik flung out a hand. A furious purple cable of air arced across the garden and coiled itself around a stone sundial set in the center of a parterre bed. With a sucking groan, the sundial came free of the soil and shot across the garden with blinding speed.

The Necromancer skipped aside at the last moment, but the stone edge caught him across one hip before thudding to the ground, half buried in the lawn.

Crouching behind a cedderwood tree, Prue was almost certain she heard the crunch of bone, their adversary’s sudden intake of breath. The Necromancer’s outline wavered and a garden bench came hurtling from the opposite direction, striking him squarely across the small of the back with a sickening crack. Emitting a strangled scream, he spun head over heels in the air.

Cautiously, Prue came to her feet. Erik stood, panting, sweat matting the hair on his chest, the talisman gleaming like pale ivory.

When she would have moved forward, he held out an arm, barring her progress. “Not yet.”

“Siblings preserve us!”

Prue whirled around. Behind her stood three servants, their faces white as paper. A weather-beaten man with a spade over his shoulder and two girls carrying stout wicker baskets. Probably on their way to the kitchen garden.

The man took a pace forward. “What are ye doin’ here? What the hell
is
that thing?”

“
Shit
!” said Erik.

Her stomach curdling with dread, Prue turned. The Necromancer was regrouping, steadying, his shadow spreading like a foul stain over the garden. “I am a god.” The sexless voice was bell-clear. “What makes you think you can kill
me
, boy?”

Erik clenched his fists. “Someone has to.”

One of the girls gave a stifled shriek. “Sister, it’s a demon!”

Without moving her head, Prue said, “Run! If you value your life, run! Get help.”

An empty basket bounced past her feet. The spade hit the path with a clang. Three sets of feet beat a hasty tattoo up the path.

The Necromancer swelled horribly, pulsing. “I am Death,” he hissed, and this time, it sounded like simple truth rather than melodrama. “I am made of its emptiness, as near dead as makes no difference.” He swooped closer and Erik inhaled deeply, setting his feet and raising his hands again. The winds rose, shrieking. Then they reversed, creating a howling vortex.

The Necromancer’s sibilant chuckle raised all the hairs on Prue’s body. “Forget it, wizard. You cannot pull the air from my lungs. There is none.”

Prue wrapped her arms around the cedderwood and hung on with all her strength.

The darkness drifted forward, inexorable as the slow advance of black ice down a mountain. Erik’s hands moved and a cloud of dirt and twigs and crushed flowers whirled all around him.

Chuckling, the Necromancer surged straight through it. “At last,” he hissed. “All is accomplished. You are mine—
mine
!” Her eyes stretched wide with horror, Prue watched him inflate, expanding until he was twice Erik’s height and width.

He swooped. Erik stumbled backward and fell.

The Necromancer cried out, a high eldritch shriek of triumph and greed, but Erik roared.

She’d never heard anyone make a noise remotely like it before—a dreadful, full-throated bellow of utter revulsion, terror and pain. The sound catapulted her into action. Before she knew it, Prue had seized the gardener’s abandoned spade and darted forward.

She was too focused to waste her breath on a shout. With a grunt of effort, she set her feet and swung the spade like a scythe, straight down at the writhing form of the Necromancer. The edge of the implement sliced into his dark substance and connected with something both fleshy-soft and solid.
Thunk!

The Necromancer gave a choking cry. Prue growled her satisfaction and stepped forward for another swing. As she did so, her bare foot came into contact with the trailing edge of the Necromancer’s shadow.

Completely without warning, Erik was wrestling on the grass with a plump little man with a fringe of white hair, his spectacles all askew.

Prue’s jaw dropped. Time slowed, and stopped.

The man turned his head, his faded blue eyes boring into her, burning with hatred. “Should have killed you, bitch.”

Erik recovered almost immediately. Wrapping his big hands around the man’s throat, he got to his feet, hauling the small, limp figure with him. “Fuck!” he grunted, staring, “I know you.”

His brow furrowed, he set the other man on his feet, looming over him, all muscle and power, his broad chest still heaving with exertion. “You’re, you’re . . .”

The Queen’s Knowledge bared his teeth. “Death,” he said, snatching Erik’s blade from the scabbard at his waist. In a single swift motion, he shoved it hard under Erik’s ribs and wrenched it out with a cruel twist of the wrist.

“No,” whispered Prue, light-headed with terror. “No.”

The Knowledge laughed, high-pitched and breathy.

Erik’s eyes went wide, then blank. He tried to speak, but blood bubbled on his lips. With an enormous effort, he turned his head toward Prue and half raised a hand.

“Erik,” she said, but no sound came out.

He swayed, steadied, then fell full length on the torn-up lawn.

The Knowledge pounced, his elbow drawn back for another thrust.

“
No-ooo!
” The spade struck him in the back of the head with a hideous, bone-cracking clang. “No!” shrieked Prue, advancing, berserk with rage and grief and terror.

The Knowledge reeled back and scrambled to his feet. When he touched the back of his head, his fingers came away bloody.

Another step. “No!”
Clang!

Holding his arms over his head, the Knowledge scrambled backward toward the low wall at the end of the garden. His mouth worked as if he were about to spit, but Prue was exalted by her fury. She gave him no respite.

“Kill . . .” she panted.
Clang!
“Kill you!”
Clang!

His back to the wall, the queen’s minister made a last desperate grab for the shaft of the spade. One eye was purple, half-closed, and his glasses had disappeared. They glared at each other, nose to nose.

The Necromancer’s gaze shifted to something over Prue’s shoulder. “Look, dear, he’s dying.” When he spat out a tooth, his bloody spittle sprayed Prue’s cheek.

Her guts iced over. Oh gods, no, no, no . . .

With shocking suddenness, the Necromancer strained against her. He was an old man, but he was a man nonetheless, ruthless and utterly desperate. He ripped the spade from her grasp, but before he could swing it, Prue struck upward, hitting him over the heart with the heel of her hand, bending her knees and putting the strength of hip, thigh and shoulder into the blow, the way Walker had taught her. The impact rang bright bells of pain all through her body, but the Knowledge staggered backward, his arms flying. The low wall caught him behind the knees and he wavered for an instant, before disappearing with a splash.

Out of the corner of her eye, Prue thought she glimpsed blue forms cutting through the water, but she couldn’t care because she was sprinting across the grass, back to Erik.

She reached him in a stumbling rush, falling to her knees at his side. “Erik,
Erik
!”

Vaguely, she was aware of voices, the rapid thud of many feet approaching, but Erik’s pale face filled her whole world. He was blue to the lips, his eyes half-lidded and glassy with pain. “P-Prue.” It was no more than a whisper.

Instead of wasting words, Prue lifted the blood-stained hand he’d clamped against his side and pressed the heels of both her hands against the wound.

Someone crouched beside her. “Here.” Holding a bundled-up shirt, calloused hands joined hers, applying steady pressure.

“Can’t . . . breathe,” rasped Erik.

“Sshh,” said Prue. “Don’t talk.”

The man at her side said, “A healer’s coming, Mistress. Hold on.”

“N-no air,” said Erik. The ghost of a smile curved his lips and his bloody fingers fumbled for her wrist. “. . . funny.” His touch on her skin felt like ice.

Prue leaned down until her breath stirred the matted blond lock that fell over his forehead. “You listen to me, Erik Thorensen. You will not die. Do you hear me? I. Will. Not. Permit. It.”

“B- bossy .”

“I will follow you to the depths of hell and drag you back. Got it?”

Erik lay quietly, and she had the sense he was gathering himself for some final effort. She wanted to scream her rage and frustration into his face.
No, no—a thousand times no!
But she didn’t. Instead, she set her jaw and pressed the reddening shirt harder against his side.

His eyes opened, intently blue on hers. “It’s not . . . so bad.” An otherworldly smile that chilled her blood. “Done . . . it . . . before.” He hissed, trembling under her hands. “Shit, it hurts.”

Prue laid her cheek against his. “Shut up,” she whispered. “You’re making it worse.”

“Promised I’d . . . p-pay . . . my debt.” Slowly, so slowly, he lifted his fingertips to brush her jaw. “P-pretty Prue. So . . . s-sorry. Love . . . you.”

His eyes glazed, then cleared, but his attention had shifted to someone behind her. “I’m here, Lord,” he said clearly.

His eyelids fluttered, then fell shut. Something rattled in his throat. Relaxing beneath her, he went still, his hand falling to the grass at his side.

“Mistress?” said the man.

Prue ignored him.

“Mistress, I’m sorry. He’s gone.”

Gods, she was a terrier, his Prue. Snapping orders, having him carried into the palazzo of the Queen’s Money. All the time, she kept her small, strong hands shoved hard against him, staunching the wound.

Refusing to let him go.

You did well
, said a huge voice in his ear.
She loves you truly.

How bittersweet, how appropriate, to be so intensely conscious of the transience of life now, in its very last moments. “Yes,” said Erik sadly, “she does. I was lucky.” He squared his shoulders, even though he couldn’t bear to look into the bright nimbus that was the Horned Lord. “But in all else, I failed You.”

The sense of another presence. Star-dappled fingers stroked his filthy hair.
How so
? asked the Lady.

Watching a flood of tears wash Prue’s aquamarine eyes with brilliance, Erik flinched. The room below was a huge kitchen. The household staff had laid him out on the scrubbed wooden table like a corpse.

“I didn’t save the city,” he said. “And I was so blind and stupid I didn’t see the entirety of your gift until the air Magick slapped me in the face. As for Inga . . .” He choked. “I tried so hard not to think of what I did, not to dwell . . . But in my heart, I’ve always known what You would require of me.” He couldn’t bear to look at Prue, to acknowledge her grief or his own. He wanted to throw his head back and howl. “My death is the price of atonement, and I will pay it.”

Bah
! said the Lady, and Her dark velvet voice rolled like thunder.
A fine opinion you have of divine love, let alone divine justice
.

So fucking what
? he thought savagely.
What does it matter to You what I think?

Screwing up his eyes, he caught Her gaze deliberately, falling into an infinity of cold, starry space. “Great Lady, You gave me the Voice,” he said, every word falling diamond hard into a tingling silence. “A power no living being should have over another, a burden only a god is strong enough to carry. The rest of the Magick, I could learn to handle, but that . . . Hell, I’m”—he caught himself—“
was
—only human.”

Clenching his fists, he waited for the final obliteration, his gaze filled with Prue. His last sight as a living man. She was bedraggled and blood-stained, her eyes puffy and her nose red, the tied-on garment hiked up over one smooth thigh. A dark-robed healer was busy at the site of the wound, which left Prue free to clutch the horn talisman in one small fist. With her other hand, she grasped Erik’s chin. “Hold on,” she was muttering, over and over, her voice low and urgent, “hold on to me. I’m here. I won’t let you go.”

Erik has You there, My love.
Unexpectedly, the Horned Lord laughed. In the sound was the bubbling of a mountain brook, the whisper of green grass in the wind, the screeching cry of a bird of prey.
Though I grant You, his songs were well worth the hearing.

The Dark Lady growled Her displeasure, and despite himself, Er ik’s bones turned to water, dropping him hard to his knees.

But in all else, Erik, you are mistaken,
the Lord went on.
Look
.

Erik stared down the long, bright tunnel as the kitchen door banged back and a new crowd of people surged in to join the dozen or so already there. Foremost among them was the Queen’s Money, clad in a brocade dressing gown, his face stiff with outrage. Erik strained to hear, but sounds were growing muffled, far away. When Prue spoke a few crisp sentences, the Money’s expression changed, at first blank with shock, then intent and worried. Gripping his gnarled hands together, the gardener nodded in emphatic agreement to whatever Prue had said.