Undead for a Day (34 page)

Over their heads, a black blur flew by, low in the sky. It was followed by another black shape, and another, until the area became filled with nearly invisible entities squawking like crows.

Tris was watching this. He finally said in a sad tone, his gaze sliding to hers, “This isn’t the ending I had in mind.”

They swayed on the rolling roof, separated from each other by space that wouldn’t have been an issue earlier. Izzy’s sigils burned with heat that rapidly reached the temperature of real flame. Scalding hot, the sigils sparked like never before, bursting with the colors of fresh, cascading lava.

Tristan jumped the chasm. His hands, gripping her arms, should have been branded and steaming, but Tris remained motionless. In his touch Izzy felt a coolness that was as welcome as it was soothing.

The dark shapes over their heads swooped down, crying their baleful song. Gargoyles gathered in the corners, beneath the falling roof, the sheer number of them outrageous to behold.

The wall of the gallery overlooking the square beneath the cathedral finally crumbled. Huge chunks rained down on the public square, where the surprised voices of people diving out of the way kicked up a clamor.

Tris opened his arms. Unsure of what else to do, Izzy went to him. He had confessed. He was sorry, and she understood. She had to understand because she loved him so very much, and because she would have done the same thing in his place. She would have moved the earth to stay with Tristan, who had given up his place in the clouds...for her.

More sounds zoomed in.

Wooden wheels screeched loudly over the racket of the dark blurs swimming in the sky. For the umpteenth time that night, the irregular noise of hooves striking stone filled her ears.

Her head rested against Tris’s wide, burlap covered chest. His heartbeat, still tucked behind his rib cage, pounded with an anticipation that ricocheted through her as well.

Both she and Tris turned to look for the source of the sound. Over the lip of the section of fallen wall a galloping team of raven-black horses appeared, pulling the black death coach that had driven straight up Notre Dame’s sides as though it was some kind of supernatural spider. And the weight of the thing, or maybe the implausibility of its path, was shaking the cathedral to pieces.

“No!” Izzy shouted as the coach morphed to adapt its shape to fit the crumbling gallery walkway. “You have no right to be here.”

Suddenly terrified, she looked to Tris. “It can’t have come for you.”

His eyes met hers. “It’s not for me. I can feel that.”

“Then who?”

The large wooden door to the gallery clanged open. A figure came running, barely managing to avoid falling through the missing section of the floor. It was a woman in a pink sweater.

Tris looked as surprised as Izzy felt at first. But as Izzy glanced from the death coach to the running figure, she realized at least part of what was going on.

“It’s come for her,” she said to Tris. “For the witch.”

“Here?”

“It goes where it has to, lured by the souls on its list.”

The dark flying creatures in the sky swooped again, diving at the coach repeatedly, causing the wood to splitter. But the damage did not stick. The misshapen coach regenerated in seconds, and screeched to a halt in front of Izzy and Tris.

For some reason, the entities in the sky did not want the coach here. Izzy suddenly realized why. That coach was a sign, an omen, a portent of what was to come.

“I volunteer,” the witch said to Tris.

“For what?” Tris asked, looking back and forth from the coach to the witch.

“Whatever will save me from having to get inside that thing,” the witch replied.

Tris put a hand to his head, as if to try to force this new information into a recognizable shape.

Izzy turned to the witch. “Done,” she said clearly.

She faced Tris. “Accept the trade. Do it right now, Tris.”

He wore a stunned expression.

“She is willing. She is volunteering. It was her all along, don’t you see? You felt her out there. This is why our paths crossed. She wants to take your place here. She wants a chance to live for a while longer.”

“What kind of life will it be?” Tris said to the witch.

Izzy smiled a knowing smile. “It’s a
chance.
It’s a sacrifice. Somebody might realize this and intervene on her behalf.”

“The way they have intervened for us?”

Izzy shook her head. “Not the same. We had each other. We chose our paths in order to be together. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Tris said. “That’s right.”

The coach’s door was opening. The walls and roof and floor surrounding the gallery continued to shake and crumble.

“Tris,” Izzy said, looking into his dark, troubled eyes. “That coach will take her if you don’t agree to the trade. She doesn’t want to go with them. Can you blame her? God, Tris. Listen. You can help her.”

He could help, yes, Izzy told herself, hating what she was doing, but having to go on. In the process of helping the witch avoid this kind of death sentence, Tris would also be helping himself. If he gave up his place on the gallery, he’d be giving her up, too. He would be sacrificing something he wanted very badly. Their love. In order to help someone else.

She couldn’t think about anything more than that. If she did, she would cry, and Hell would punish her doubly for the emotion. She was close to tears already. Her eyes were filling. Her throat felt tight.

She would let Tris go. Finally, the game, for Tris, was about to be over.

Please help him to agree,
she silently pleaded to whoever was listening in, with a brief glance up at the sky.
Please.

“Tris. Is that your name?” The witch stepped closer to them as the coach’s driver shook his head over the time this was taking, and the door further adjusted its shape to be able to open wider in the narrow space.

Tris transferred his gaze to the witch.

“It’s a favor I’m asking, not one I’m bestowing,” she said. “I’m going to die anyway. I’d like to take whatever chance I have by being here a little while longer. Will you help me do that?”

Tris nodded hesitantly, as if the decision pained him. This was the man who had cheated in this challenge by never actually searching for a replacement; a man who had not wanted anyone else to go through something like this. A being with empathy; caring, gentle, but so very strong in his convictions.

My lover. My love.

Izzy closed her eyes, feeling the first tear trickle down her cheek.

“Replacement accepted,” Tris announced in a steady voice.

Izzy heard a door slam shut. There was a great blast of unsavory air, a popping sound, and then the shaking stopped.

When she opened her eyes, the gallery was in shambles. But there was no black coach. There was no sign of horses, overhead hostile entities, or foul odors in the breeze ruffling her hair.

The night went quiet. The witch, whose name she had never learned, was gone. In her place stood a chimera, part goat, part human, part lion, leaning against the one gallery railing left intact. On that chimera’s face was a grin.

“Thank you,” Izzy said to Tris in a voice overflowing with emotion. What else could she say now that his replacement was a done deal? Now that she was going to lose him?

Tris didn’t have time to say anything either. Light clicked on. Light so bright, Izzy had to cover her eyes. It was the kind of beam that usually choked her, yet this time it seemed to calm her aching body and mind.

Tris was enveloped in it, and looking at her sadly. When he moved, it was to take her hand in his, and raise her knuckles to his lips. He placed a kiss there. His lips lingered.

No gesture could have said as much; not sex, or even a bottomless, drowning-deep kiss. This was a gesture of pure love, and of parting. It was good-bye. The last time they would touch. The last time they would meet. More tears tracked down her cheeks as Izzy felt her heart splinter into a million pieces.

She spread her wings, curving them to encircle Tris. He made a sound low in his throat. And then, with glistening eyes and a sternness she didn’t expect, he pushed her away, sending her forward and into the light. The bright beam of braided white light enveloped her, blinded her. His hand slipped from hers slowly.

“Tris?” she called.
“Tris!”

As quick as that, as she uttered his name, there were other hands on her; feather-soft hands with cool slender fingers. There were voices in her ears speaking in melodious tones that sounded like singing.

Angels had come to take Tris home. They were taking him from her. She couldn’t think, couldn’t fight. There had been no battle to speak of, no huge tug-of-war for Tris’s soul. The monsters were letting this happen.

“Tris,” she whispered, inhaling light that now seemed to tamp down her inner fire. Her wings fluttered, and began to feel weightless. Her head swam. She had lost Tris. A decision must have been made. All she could do now was close her eyes and let the rest of her tears fall.

As Izzy blended into the beam of celestial light, Tristan fell back against the wall, stunned.

Her wings, now luminous and iridescent, sparkled in his eyes like an afterimage. Her tears were still wet on his fist. Her scent perfumed his lungs.

“It’s over, my love,” he said, his voice hoarse, his eyes moist. “Done. Finished. And no more than you deserve.”

Though Izzy had disappeared, the light remained. It grew, spreading to encompass the rooftop, and dripping over the sides of the building a death coach had recently tried to taint.

Every part of him wanted to seep into the light, at last. He wanted to give in, and bathe in Heaven’s spectacular glory. This light had taken Izzy, and he already longed for her. He was shaking so hard, he didn’t know how he would survive the separation.

But as the light winked, beckoning to him, Tristan stood his ground, and shook his head. “One good deed deserves another.” He spoke directly to the light above him. “That principle is one of yours, I believe.”

Behind the cascade of brilliant illumination, stars twinkled. The moon seemed larger than ever. Tris turned to the newest statue on the gallery, and gave the witch inside it a wave. “Thank you. I owe you one.”

As the light began to recede, fading to a dull white glow, he smiled faintly, and nodded to the witch in her stone cocoon. “So, I’ll see you next year. I’ll explain then what you’re to do.”

Sensing another presence, he searched the gallery wreckage. He knew this presence, and wasn’t afraid.

“Too late,” he said to the winged devil hiding from the light. “You’ve lost one. Lost
her.
Izzy was just too damn good for your side, and I know better than to hang around too long.
”

Picking his way over the rubble, Tristan found the big door that Izzy had repeatedly gotten him through. Carefully, he descended the stairs that wound through the cathedral like a great spinal column, not yet assessing how different this descent was from the last one, unable to think about anything having to do with Izzy.

He dropped through the hole to the marble floor below, and exited by the same door the witch must have used to get into the cathedral. This time, he closed it soundly behind him.

A night breeze reached him when he stood for a moment outside. Looking around, his gaze landed on something unusual, and he moved forward a pace.

Rubble littered the courtyard and the public square. A few late night revelers were milling about, wondering what had happened, and if there had been an earthquake they hadn’t felt. Several more people stood beside what looked like a fallen statue, completely transfixed.

Tristan joined them. He smiled when he looked down.

On the ground, on its gigantic side, with no damage at all that he could see, lay
Le Stryge
, as if the beast had been frozen mid-flight, and felled. Only he knew that Notre Dame’s vampire retained damage no one would immediately recognize, and what had caused that damage.
The Vampire
no longer looked like it was made of mottled gray granite. It had been bleached to a colorless marble, white as snow. White as angel wings.

“Thank you,” he said to sky, and the place where Izzy now resided. To
Le Stryge,
he added, “Sorry old boy. That’s what happens when the good guys close a deal.”

With his heart aching, his eyes welling up, and his burlap robe sticking to his skin, Tristan shifted his gaze to the ruined walls of the upper gallery, and then beyond it. “Soon,” he said to Izzy, in case she was listening. “Soon, my love, we will meet again. That’s a promise I intend to keep.”

With those words still on his lips, Tristan, after a hundred years, and filled with a love that would span a hundred more if necessary, left Notre Dame behind.

THE END

Linda Thomas-Sundstrom is the author of paranormal romance and urban fantasy novels and novellas, both dark and light, for Kensington, Dorchester, Harlequin’s Nocturne imprint, and GothicScapes. Fourteen of those stories are in the vampire and werewolf arena, with two in the Light vs Dark series. More Nocturnes will be out in the year ahead, and several more stories for GothicScapes. Linda is a teacher in her day gig, and when she isn’t writing, helps her family care for a big stretch of land in the country, where she says that rattlesnakes are not her friends. Creating fantasy is what Linda likes to do best. Connecting with readers is what the whole writing gig is about. You can take a peek at her work on her website:

www.lindathomas-sundstrom.com 

or reach her on facebook at:

www.facebook.com/LindaThomasSundstrom

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