The Undercity was an ugly place, dark, damp, and claustrophobic. Alistair Coventry hated it with a passion. The walls were rough-hewn stone, or crazily skewed ruins of buildings that the surface city had razed and covered over with towers of steel and glass. There was no wind, save the ghost of a breeze born through cracks in the looming ceiling.

Alistair’s back was still stiff from where Jason had struck him. His hunting pack was depleted, as well. That could be attended easily enough. The wounds given to his pride would take longer. The raid had been useless, a waste of blood and effort. Gwenivere had escaped. The Swordbearer was missing. Derdrie was off who knew where, and Elysia’s whelp wouldn’t quit giggling.

“Silence, fool,” Alistair snarled.

“But Uncle, it was so much fun. We almost killed Jason Valentine. I could have finished him if you hadn’t stopped me.”

“Aye, and spent the rest of your wretched life as a Goblin’s slave.”

“You don’t really believe those stories, do you?” the boy asked, incredulous.

“Have you ever seen anyone come out of the Market after the sun rose?”

“No, but I still don’t think the Goblins keep them all as slaves.” The boy left off for a while. Then, just when Alistair was beginning to believe he would shut up, he added, “I think they eat most of them.”

Alistair kept a careful check on his temper, digging his fingers into his hand tight enough to break the skin. Vincent fed on pain. The more he hurt, the stronger he was. If Alistair wanted to strike the boy, he’d have to kill him, and the boy’s mother would object.

Elysia’s part in this affair worried Alistair. He understood his own role, and Dominick’s, even if the incompetent fool didn’t understand it himself. Alistair was leading the troops that would take the Undercity and collect the various Foundries that kept the collection of tunnels viable. Dominick’s role was to provide support from the Mundane world. What was Elysia doing, though? For that matter, what was Derdrie doing? Father had never trusted the girl, and now she was on some sort of mission for him.

Two of Alistair’s men met him at the gate. One wore the black uniform of the Coventrys. The other was dressed in a crazy mismatch of clothing stitched together mostly with cord and twine. The outer layer might once have been a royal blue coat, but now it was so tattered and torn that it was almost unrecognizable.

“Lieutenant?” Alistair asked coldly.

The officer stroked his moustaches nervously and swallowed. “Mr. Catch said he wanted to see you, and that you’d be coming this way.”

Catch was a Finder, once a member of the Traveler’s Guild. He had been stripped of his membership for reasons he chose not to reveal. Alistair suspected that he’d taken work from one or another of the groups the Traveler’s spurned.

“What do you want, Catch?” Alistair asked, allowing irritation to color his voice.

“I don’t mean to trouble you, Milord. I only what you promised.” Catch was not quite defiant. “I have another commission, and I need my coin.”

Alistair didn’t answer, allowing the silence to draw out. Patience was a weapon.

Mr. Catch began to pale. “I led you through the twisted Ways into the Undercity. No one else could have done it. I only want what you promised.”

Vincent snickered.

“I daresay I might have found another. You did, however, fulfill your end of the bargain. The lieutenant can give you your pay.”

“Thank you, Milord.” The fallen Traveler gulped in surprise.

Alistair’s lieutenant nodded and turned with military precision. Catch followed him with lanky, swaying strides.

“You could have killed him,” Vincent said. “You should have let me kill him.”

“You’re a vicious child.” Alistiar almost laughed. “What purpose could be served by killing him?”

“He was disrespectful.” That, of course, explained everything.

“Your mother might kill everyone who shows her the slightest disrespect,” Alistair said. In truth he knew she sometimes did far worse. “I, however, am a hunter. I take my prey when I need it, not before.”

“Gwenivere Valentine was your prey, and you didn’t take her.” Vincent was standing carefully out of reach.

Alistair suppressed a snarl. He would not dignify the boy with an answer. Sensing its master’s anger, one of the remaining Hounds moved to flank Vincent, growling low. Alistair reached down to scratch it between the ears.

They passed through the looming tunnels to the Coventry base of operations. Alistair’s troops had cleared off most of the dead. The bodies would be burned soon. Alistair’s officers had taken over a house near the center of this vault. A valet was waiting for him at the door.

“My Lord,” the servant acknowledged. “Master Vincent.”

Elysia’s child bristled at the diminutive honorific.

Alistair gave him no time to take umbrage. “Who is here?”

“Lady Elysia has taken rooms. We of course set aside the master suite for your use, My Lord.” The servant bowed to emphasize his loyalty.

“Naturally,” Alistair agreed. “Go find your mother, Vincent. She’ll have missed you terribly on your adventure.”

“Lord Dominick paid a call, but left shortly. Lady Derdrie said she would find other lodgings.”

Vincent laughed derisively as he ascended the stairs.

“Father has not come,” Alistair mused.

“No, My Lord.”

That was as he expected, in truth. Mordakai Coventry rarely left his own home, or even his own suite or rooms. His power was such that he did not often need to travel far.

With Vincent safely out of earshot, Alistair asked, “Where did Derdrie go?”

“We do not know, My Lord. She left with Lord Dominick, however.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know. Find out.” Alistair did nothing to keep the anger from his voice.

The functionary backed away from his lord’s wrath. “Yes, My Lord. Our efforts are hampered by the fact that your brother can cross the Threshold so easily.” he paled as Alistair’s eyes narrowed. “We will find a way, though. Not all of Lord Dominick’s servants are loyal to him. Perhaps one of them may be turned.”

Alistair brushed past the simpering fool. “See to it.”

He took the stairs in long strides up to the manor’s living quarters. The master suite was easy enough to find. His belongings had already been moved in, and one of his pack had taken a position near the door. The beast lifted its head when he entered.

He stripped off his cloak and armor and threw the grimy mess onto the floor. His powerful shoulders flexed gratefully without the constraining weight. His demon-touched blood was still racing from the day’s exertions, and he longed to find an outlet for the pent up energy, perhaps amongst the prisoners.

First, however, there was business to attend to. Alistair opened a black case and drew out several items: a red candle inscribed with occult symbols, a shallow silver basin, and a number of crystal shards. The items were all charged with Sorcerous energy. Alistair’s powers were limited. His knowledge of the Sorcerer’s art was rudimentary at best. With these, though, he could forge a connection across the barriers between Domains and communicate with his father.

He arranged the candle in the middle of the basin and poured water from the bedside pitcher to half-fill the container. The candle, he lit from a straw stuck into the room’s brazier. The flame flickered a bit, then flared into sickly green light when Alistair dropped in one of the small crystals. The next part, Alistair always hated. He stuck his hand over the flame, feeling a thin needle of pain shoot up through his palm. The burning sensation numbed the rest of his arm. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, but held his arm steady.

As his vision darkened, the room around him seemed to shift. Suddenly he was back in Covenshire, standing in the middle of one of the circle wards engraved into the floor of his father’s workroom.

The old man sat in his wicker chair, Anastasia hovering behind him. “Report, my son,” Mordakai ordered.

“We have taken the Dutchman’s Foundry. As you suspected, the Simonites did not have one. We destroyed anything of value, and abandoned that position.”

“Survivors?”

“If so, they are of no importance. The Skin-Dancer remained behind. The Valentines, or the Circle Knights will send someone, and the creature will provide a warm reception.”

“What delayed your report? The first village was taken hours ago?”

Alistair suppressed a growl. One of the others had reported already. This was not unexpected, merely annoying. “I had the opportunity to engage some of the Valentines. The encounter was not entirely satisfactory.”

“Have they returned to the city? This could cause difficulties.”

“I saw Jason.” Now Alistair could not disguise his anger. “Gwenivere is here, also. None of the elders appeared.”

“Gwenivere escaped you.” Mordakai nodded knowingly. “You must not let your obsession with her interfere with your duties. The Green Witch will not fall easily, nor will the Piper.”

“Gwenivere has the Sword of Glass, Father.”

Mordakai chuckled indulgently. “I am aware of that. Steps have been taken?”

“What steps? Is Derdrie involved?” Alistair had long since given up on finding all the sources of his father’s seeming omniscience. He hoped the old man might let some information slip, though.

“Your sister’s activities are not your concern. The Foundries are. There are five major Foundries in the city, and I want them all.”

“Of course, Father.” The pain was becoming intense. Alistair’s voice would not remain steady.

“Go, Alistair. Be about my business.”

Alistair withdrew his hand gratefully. The skin of his palm was red, with angry blisters. His demonic blood would heal the injury soon enough. He withdrew a small jar of salve and a long strip of linen from the black case and tended to the wound.

“Gwenivere is my business,” he said to the empty room.”

* * *

Roderick Kildare sat behind his table. Colwynn tried to relax in the chair across from him. The little girl Gwenivere had called Key was asleep in another chair. Jason just paced.

“I believe the situation has become serious.” Kildare’s infuriatingly calm voice almost drove Jason over the edge.

“That’s an understatement.” Jason did nothing to hide his scorn.

“The Coventrys have taken the Dutchman’s Village. From there, they control considerable resources. My agents tell me they are fortifying the position now. It is clear that they have more objectives in the city.”

“So what do we do?” Colwynn asked.

“We find out what those objectives are.”

Jason interjected, “No. First, use your Gift. Find Gwenivere.”

“I disagree,” Kildare said, still calm. “We need to learn more about what the Coventrys are doing. Even with your assistance, Lord Valentine, we do not have the forces to meet them in open battle. We must, instead, discover their true purpose. Widespread conquest in the Netherlands is impossible. No one can close all the doors or maintain supply lines over such shifting ground. They have another purpose.”

“I don’t care what their purpose is. I want to find my sister.”

“Family loyalty is admirable. I have graver concerns, however.”

“Like the Sword of Glass?” Jason asked.

The Sword of Glass was his trump card. Old legends of the Knights of the Circle said that the Lady of the Lake used the Sword of Glass to give the first Knights their mandate. A Knight who could produce the sword would instantly be the leader of the order. Kildare had almost lost the holdings he had now in one bid for leadership.

“If Alistair has the Sword, it becomes our first priority.” Kildare turned to Colwynn. Jason hated the way her eyes softened. “Colwynn, can you Find Alistair Coventry?”

“Maybe. I don’t know him well. I was still a kid when everything happened.”

Jason kept to himself the opinion that she was still a kid now.

Colwynn concentrated, closing her eyes and putting her hands to her temples. A minute rolled by, then two. “He’s hard to feel.” She said. More time passed. “I have him. He’s down there somewhere.”

“Good. One of the vaults to the south. We know the Coventrys took the Dutchman’s Village, which is to the south.” Kildare was so smug when he was right. “Now try to Find the Sword of Glass.”

Colwynn sounded unsure. “I’m not so good with things. I’ve never seen the Sword of Glass.”

“Why don’t you try to Find Gwenivere?” Jason suggested.

She brightened. “I can do that.” Finding Gwenivere took far less time. However, Colwynn’s manner was uncertain. “I’m not sure where she is. She’s with a Finder. Space is all screwed up around her. She keeps moving. I won’t be able to follow her until she stops.”

“That is sufficient. We can query the Travelers at our leisure,” Kildare smiled. “Prepare yourself. We will start for the Simonite holding as soon as you are ready. If you wish to accompany us, you may do so, Lord Valentine.”

“That doesn’t prove anything. We have no idea what happened to Gwenivere, or the Sword. The Coventrys could be anywhere. They could have a Finder of their own. Why would the old man only send Alistair?”

“You’re right, Lord Valentine, we do not know what the Coventrys are doing or where they might be, other than the Dutchman’s vault. We cannot rule out the idea that one of the Travelers would have abandoned the guild’s solemn promise never to lead Mordakai Coventry or any of his household. We do, however, know that they attacked the Simonite Monastery. Any investigation has to begin there. Besides, it is possible, though unlikely, that there are survivors.”

“That still leaves the last Prime Worlder,” Jason said.

Honestly, he had only a vague, intellectual concern for Sabrina’s missing tagalong, but looking for Max Duvall served his goals. Sabrina might be anywhere, in any condition, but one place Jason was fairly sure she wasn’t was the Simonite Monastery. He wanted Colwynn in the Netherlands with him looking for their missing sibling, not traipsing off half way into the Far Countries with Kildare.

“Do you mean to suggest that he is more important than discovering the Coventrys devices?”

“Are you saying he’s less?” Jason returned. “He was under my protection, so I have to find him, and I need Colwynn to do it.”

Kildare stared at Jason, trying to read past his challenging gaze. Jason returned his stare.

The Lord Knight did not drop his gaze. “You might be right. At any rate, I do not require a Finder to lead my men to the Monastery. We three can follow the boy’s trail and I can send subordinates to the Monastery to begin the investigation.”

That was something of a victory, if not a perfect one. Ever since Jason had found his little sister keeping company with Kildare, he’d been looking for a chance to talk to her alone. So far, Kildare was not obliging him. The old man was so subtle, though, that Jason couldn’t tell if he was doing it on purpose or not.

Kildare picked up the small spray canister and handed it to Colwynn. “Find the boy,” he urged.

Colwynn cradled the sprayer uncertainly in her hands and closed her eyes. “I found him…I think.”

“You are not certain?” Kildare sounded imperious, as though he was not accustomed to any uncertainty, and did not enjoy it.

“He’s somewhere hard to see. I think we need to get to him fast.”

* * *

Sabrina was afraid. In fact, over the last few hours, she had gone beyond fear into a sort of frozen calm. Now she was in the hands of Derdrie Coventry. Gwenivere Valentine, her only link to any sort of sense in this strange world, was incapacitated. Gabriel was gone, taken by Derdrie into the back of a black limousine. Sabrina’s calm had shattered into icy shards, and the only reason she didn’t completely panic was because she thought she’d die or go mad if she did. She clutched the wolf medallion. For some reason the Coventrys hadn’t taken it when they searched the prisoners. Perhaps they didn’t realize it was valuable.

Perhaps it wasn’t valuable. If Sabrina had ever needed protection, she needed it now, and the medallion wasn’t doing anything she could detect.

Gwenivere moaned weakly. When Derdrie’s hired thugs had thrown her into the van, she had landed face down.

Sabrina gently turned her over, leaning the woman’s body up against her own. “Gwenivere?” she asked quietly.

The woman didn’t answer. Her breathing was shallow, except for laboring gasps. It was as if she had to marshal her strength just to breathe. In the dim light of the van, she looked deathly pale. Her eyes wouldn’t focus either.

Sabrina took one of the woman’s hands. Gwenivere’s grip was weak, but she did react to the touch.

“Where are you taking us?” Sabrina didn’t really expect an answer.

One of the men in the front seat turned, smiling coldly. “A long way,” he said.

Shadows moved across the tinted windows of the van, intermittently killing what little light got in. Sabrina began to notice a change in the quality of the light. At first, the lights of the city pushed their way through the tinted glass in sharp bars. Then, after a stop where Sabrina thought she might have heard a door open and close, things started to change. There was a glimpse of the Lincoln Tunnel mouth, but there were no lights inside. The world seemed to lurch, shifting in a way Sabrina couldn’t define. A drive through the tunnel that was too short opened into an only marginally lighter sky. Beyond the cold metal walls of the van, the sound was all wrong. New York had a dull roar; one Sabrina was so accustomed to that she only noticed it by its absence. Whatever country the black van was riding through, a place with very rough roads, was ominously silent.”

“Gwenivere, you have to talk to me.” Even more than fear for her own safety, Sabrina feared that if Gwenivere Valentine fell completely unconscious, she might never wake up.

“...tired. hurts.” Gwenivere’s voice was almost inaudible, a shadow of the strong tones Sabrina remembered.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

Gwenivere took a long time to answer, needing to gather enough breath. “It’s the chain.”

“What about the chain? The metal? Does iron really stop magic.”

“...stupid.” Gwenivere chuckled once, a movement that seemed to cause more pain. She seemed to rally some of her strength, though. “There’s iron in the blood... ‘less you’re Spock.” After a bit more effort, she added, “its Sorcery. A demon, bound to the chain. As long as it’s locked to my neck, I’ll be like this, maybe worse.”

“How can I help you?” Sabrina asked.

“Nothing you can do now. Have to wait and see what Derdrie’s doing.”

The van continued to roll down the bumpy road in the darkness.

* * *

Mr. Catch sat nervously in the front of the limousine. Even though the glass partition between the compartments was raised, Derdrie could smell his...commonness. The little man was a sniveling coward, not even worth transforming into one of her pets. He was useful, though. Through a rare conjoining of circumstances, the man had been born with the Gift of Finding, and he had, later, been cast out of the Travelers’ Guild. Now he served Derdrie’s father, guiding Coventry soldiers across the barriers between worlds. He also served Derdrie.

“How much longer,” she called over the intercom. Technology had improved greatly outside of stagnant, dying Covneshire.

“Soon, Milady,” Mr. Catch was quick to answer. “It’s hard to connect land over water, but I think I’ve found a way.”

“Don’t think it. Do it.” Derdrie’s snarl was more from habit than intent. If your lessers weren’t afraid of you, they might put on airs.

She returned her attention to the candy she’d stolen from Gwenivere. He was beautiful. Blond hair hung in wavy locks past his shoulders. They were damp with sweat that smelled of spicy fear. His eyes were blue like a virgin sky, darting back and forth between Derdrie and the servants who held him immobile.

Her little boytoys were mindlessly stupid, but they were very strong. The pretty boy was in excellent shape, and had a will like tempered steel, but he couldn’t pull his arms free with no leverage.

“Struggling just makes them hold tighter, angel eyes,” she told him. “Struggling always makes it worse.”

Languorously, she uncoiled from her seat and crossed the passenger compartment to be closer to her captive. Instead of taking the seat next to him, she straddled his lap and leaned down so her dark hair framed his face, blocking out distractions. She didn’t sit still, but shifted her weight from leg to leg as she moved into position, feeling the boy stiffen under her involuntarily.

“What do you want?” His voice held a mixture of fear and defiance that was more succulent than peaches and ice cream.

“Everything,” she answered with a husky whisper. “For now, though, I want you.”

He pulled back, crawling away from her inside his skin, but unable to move in the grip of his captors.

Derdrie smiled, letting her tongue caress the edges of her slightly parted teeth. “This doesn’t have to be unpleasant. Gwenivere is my enemy. You’re just an innocent bystander, caught up in things you can’t control.” She caressed the firm, not quite trembling line of his jaw. “I don’t really want to hurt you.”

“Are you this hospitable to all your guests?” The defiance was a little stronger now.

Derdrie sat up, straightening her back, which gave her prisoner an interesting view of her corset. “That’s not very fair,” she chided, voice full of wounded recriminations. “You have no idea who Gwenivere Valentine is, or what her family has done to mine. Until I know I can trust you, why should I treat you as anything but an enemy? Why should I even let you live?”

“We never did anything to you.”

“Of course not, since we’d never met. But Gwenivere’s family swore to destroy mine. They almost killed everyone in this city trying. For all I knew you were mercenaries she’d hired to finish the job. Do you have any idea what that sword is? What it can do?”

“Gwenivere told me your family were all evil sorcerers.” Even he realized the fallacy of that argument.

Derdrie relinquished her seat on the boy’s lap and crossed her legs primly, once again across the passenger compartment from him.

“Of course she did. She wants to kill me. Look, I don’t even know your name. I feel as though I’m at a disadvantage.”

The sudden change of tone caught him off guard. “Gabriel. Gabriel Rider.”

Leaning forward, she placed a hand on his knee. “Well, Gabriel, I don’t see any reason we can’t be friends.” Her hand slid up his thigh “Possibly even very good friends.”

Suddenly, the boy’s eyes hardened into steel. Something had changed his confused resistance into cold resolve. He no longer struggled against her two servants, but somehow he was still escaping her.

Derdrie levered herself up on her outstretched hand, deliberately filling the distance between them again. “What’s wrong, beautiful eyes?” she asked. Her occult senses told her that his anger wasn’t directed at her so much as it fed on something within himself.

“You’re feeling all guilty,” she purred. “I can almost taste it.” To illustrate, she let her tongue flicker past his lips.

“Leave me alone.”

“But you’re not alone,” her voice was somewhere below a whisper. “There’s someone else in there, and she’s hurting you more than I ever could.”

“Leave me alone.” He was harsher this time.

“So strong, so determined to cling to the jagged shards of what was lost, when there’s something so much more comfortable so close.” She almost kissed him, teasing his lips as he pressed his head into the upholstery.

“Leave me alone.” Gabriel’s voice was a horse roar as he wrenched around, dragging one of Derdrie’s pets out of its seat with his arm.

The muscleboy fell into its mistress with a startled grunt. Derdrie was knocked off balance. She landed unceremoniously in the floor of the limousine.

Rising carefully, she looked at her prisoner with narrow eyes. The other slave had swiftly subdued him, hammering a blow into the Prime Worlder’s stomach and clamping a meaty hand around his throat. The other one scrambled back into place, and they soon had him confined again.

“Silly boy. The dead care nothing for the living.”

Gabriel returned her gaze with a hot, angry stare.

Derdrie ignored him, calmly pouring herself a glass of wine and calling to the front again. “Mr. Catch, I’m growing bored.”

“We’re almost there, Milady. If you’ll look out your window, I believe you’ll see familiar territory.” Relief colored his glib reassurance.

Derdrie pressed on the window control to reveal a dark, forested mountainside. If she craned her neck just a little bit she could see the spires of her home. The sounds were familiar as well. The trilling of night birds was occasionally interrupted by howls that sounded, almost, like the cries of wolves.

“Ah, it’s good to be home. The big city is all well and good, but I prefer to sleep in my own bed,” she said. Addressing her guest again, she added, “you might learn to as well.”

* * *

Max’s head hurt. He couldn’t exactly remember what had happened, or exactly how long ago, but something had slammed into the back of his head. Before that, there was an impression of big, snarling teeth. Before the fangs, there was an impression that the evening had been considerably more enjoyable than now.

He opened his eyes, or at least he thought he did. He was somewhere dark. It took a minute to pick any images out of the gloom. Figures moved across his field of vision, unidentifiable shadows. The only light came from a flickering stub of candle behind a solid shade, really doing nothing more than delineating the edges of the darkness.

“What were you thinking?” The voice was female, sultry, and somewhat tense. The shadow associated with it moved in tight, back and forth motions, pacing. “Peter will never let you keep it.”

“It’s mine. I saved it from the dogs. I can keep it if I want to.” This one was female, too, possibly younger, and petulant. “Peter owes me. He killed the last one.”

“Peter doesn’t owe anybody anything,” the original voice answered.

Max tried to move. Other sensations dawned. Dull, burning pain throbbed from his right arm, reminding him of those sharp teeth again. His head felt like it was full of cement, but he managed to sit up. He then realized he was tied to a bed. That was not an altogether new experience, but usually he wasn’t in the bed alone.

“Uh…hello,” he said.

“It’s awake,” the second voice said. She sounded happy. That was probably a good thing.

“I’m getting Peter,” said the second. That probably wasn’t.

One of the figures moved closer to him as the other left the room. There was only a slight change in the quality of the light when the door opened and closed.

“You’re awake,” whispered voice number two. “I’m glad. I would have hated it if I went to all the trouble to save you and you died anyway.”

That wasn’t exactly right. He remembered her now, one of the dancing girls. “But I was saving you…”

She laughed. He could see her pearly teeth glint in the dim light. “I didn’t need saving. I appreciated the effort, though. That’s why I took you with me.”

“Where did you take me? Why did you tie me up, for that matter?” The bonds were tight enough to be uncomfortable. Max pulled against them.

“In case your wounds drove you mad. I wasn’t sure what the Hound’s bite would do. It might have been contagious.”

Logical enough, Max supposed. It wasn’t any weirder than Gabriel getting a lightsaber from a little girl or bringing home a witch he’d rescued from muggers in Central Park.

“Well, can you untie me now?”

It was hard to tell in the shadows, but his rescuer looked apprehensive. “That will be for Peter to decide,” she told him.

“Who’s Peter? Someone reasonable, I hope.”

“I’m sure he will be.” The girl didn’t sound very sure. “He owes me.”

The door opened again, letting in a little more light.

“What, exactly, do I owe you, Debbie?” The new voice was masculine, but young. Over Debbie’s shoulder, Max got the impression of a thin young man with blond hair.

“You would be Peter,” he guessed.

Debbie backed away as the boy advanced. Max could see that he was wearing a pair of black, wrap-around shades. An earring pierced his left ear. The boy looked maybe sixteen, if Max was being generous. He was obviously in charge, though. Debbie acted like she was afraid of him.

“Hey,” the boy smiled. “I know you. You were in that band…”

Max had been in several bands. He had the misfortune of choosing a lot of confederates who got real jobs, or went to jail. He just smiled back and nodded. “Yeah.”

“You guys sucked mud,” Peter finished. “What are you doing here?”

In the stillness of his heart, Max had to admit that at least one of the bands he’d played with had sucked mud. “I’m not really clear on that…”

“Shut up.” Peter’s manner was getting really obnoxious. “Deborah, why is there a strange human in my guest bedroom?”

The term ‘strange human’ raised several warning flags in Max’s much abused consciousness. Peter’s voice had a dangerous edge to it, too.

Debbie, who Max could hardly see anyway, backed further away, toward the door. “I met him last night. Isn’t he cute?”

A certain cast to Peter’s face made Max hope the boy agreed. He wasn’t even sure why, but he sensed that Peter was someone to fear.

“Cute?” Peter thought about it. “You’re making me jealous, babe. I thought you said I was cute.”

“You are, Peter, really. I didn’t mean... I just thought that Max was cute, too, and...”

Peter turned on Debbie. “And you wanted to keep him?” The dangerous edge in Peter’s voice had become a serrated blade.

“Yeah.”

Max sensed something dangerous a moment before Peter exploded into action. They adolescent flew across the room in a flicker of shadow. His arm drew back and he slammed his hand, spearfinger style, into Debbie’s stomach.

She made a wet sound, and a salty, tangy smell filled the room.

“My god, what did you do to her?” Max asked before he realized that drawing attention to himself might not be a good idea.

Peter spun around to face his guest, not seeming to mind that Debbie was scurrying from the room with one hand clutched to her abdomen. His right hand was covered with dark thick blood. The fingers were distended into long, wicked claws. He licked the blood off of one finger, grinning maniacally around the talon.

Max laughed. He couldn’t help it. Peter’s theatrics were just like something from a bad movie.

“You find something funny?” Peter’s voice had gone up an octave. His other hand was curling into a claw to match the right and his cheekbones were stretching. The whole process looked painful.

Max remembered seeing a big, pale creature battling the dogs from before.

Suddenly, Debbie was there, slamming into Peter and bearing him to the ground. Max could only barely see in the darkened room. Both combatants seemed to ripple under their clothing, putting on muscle mass and warping into alien shapes. Debbie was a little faster. She threw a kick that caught Peter in the throat and the boy fell back, gurgling raggedly. Debbie lashed out with a talon and cut the rope binding Max’s left arm, the uninjured one.

Her voice was inhuman. “I’ll hold him off. Get out of here.”

Easier said than done, Max realized. He struggled with the knots on the other side, fingers sliding against the slick nylon rope. Couldn’t evil monsters use old fashioned hemp anymore? He fished through his pockets, looking for the pocketknife he suddenly remembered that he’d left in Gabriel’s kitchen. Instead, his hand closed on a disposable lighter instead. Max had given up smoking over a year ago, but he kept the lighter because you never knew when you’d need to be able to start a fire.

Peter was up. His elongated skull could no longer support the face blades. They fell off as he charged at Debbie. Max saw him squint his inhuman eyes for a moment. Could he really be that sensitive to light?

Max decided to find out. “Hey, Petie”

The larger of the creatures turned in his direction, revealing a mouthful of fangs, and a pair of dark, bloodshot eyes.

Max flicked his Bic.

Peter screamed. That was the only word for it. If someone had rammed a red-hot poker into one of Max’s eyes, he might have made a sound like that. Probably not, though. The creature backpedaled furiously, as if the light was literally driving him from the room.

Debbie laid into him with a banshee wail, keeping her back to the light.

Max used the distraction to wrench his hand free from the slightly loosened ropes. The two monsters were a chaotic, furious heap in the corridor floor. He edged past them. Neither seemed to be paying much attention. The hall was dark, with thick carpeting. Heavily shaded oil lamps hung from sconces on the walls. Their glass was frosted red, and their light only picked out the edges of shapes. Max didn’t recognize the place. Still, the hall reached a junction up ahead, and there weren’t two big monsters fighting there.

Max ran. He steadied himself by holding a hand up against the walls, which were incongruously covered with green and gold floral wallpaper. As he did, he felt a moment of guilt. Debbie had defended him, maybe saved his life. On the other hand, she was currently a big, scary creature with teeth enough for any five wolverines. On the other, other hand, she was a real babe the rest of the time.

It was getting hard to tell the two monsters apart. They were both pale, fanged monsters. Scraps of clothing, torn or stretched by the transformation, were Max’s only clue. Even that was little help. They rolled around so much that Max couldn’t get a fix on one or the other. From what he could tell, Debbie was on the losing end of things.

“I hope this works,” he sighed, taking down one of the lanterns.

Debbie and her friend had not been overly bothered by the torches in the Goblin Market. Peter, on the other hand, had been repelled by the light of Max’s lighter. Max smashed the lamp into the wall in a spray of shattered glass, broken drywall, and burning oil. Even shielding himself as much as possible with his coat, he felt hot stabs of pain on his hands and face.

Both creatures shrieked as the dry, petrified wallpaper caught fire. The larger one, Peter, Max hoped, retreated from the flames, clutching his hands over his face. The other one seemed to ripple and shrink, emerging as a very battered Debbie.

“Run!” she coughed. “He’ll adapt soon.”

She was already setting deed to word, pelting down the hall in the direction of the T- junction. Max followed, feeling the fire spread behind him and smelling the smoke. The girl seemed to know where she was going. She led him to a stairwell and took the stairs down two and three at a time. Her gait had a stumbling component to it that worried Max a little, as if she was pushing herself forward so she wouldn’t fall. In the darkness it was hard to tell, but her wounds seemed to be healing as he watched. At the same time, her skin was paling even more, and the flesh under it was being consumed.

“What are you?” he wheezed out once when they stopped for breath.

“A child of the night.” Debbie sounded even worse than he did. “We have to keep going.”

“Like a vampire?”

“No, can’t stand them.” Debbie grinned despite her exhaustion. “I kinda’ dig werewolves, though.”

“So you’re not going to drink my blood.”

“I promise.”

“Good, glad that’s cleared up. Let’s get out of here.”

They were standing in a lobby that looked like it had been built during the 1800’s and never touched since. A hotel’s front desk stood beside them, partially destroyed. Thick cloth hangings had been draped over the windows. Some had been nailed up around the frames. The furnishings were opulent, but ancient and dusty.

Debbie went to the door and paused. “It’s daylight outside.”

“So?” Max had read enough vampire novels to know what was coming up next, but he hoped he’d be wrong.

“We’re Night Children. The sun spurns us. The older we get, the harder it is to resist the light. That’s why your lighter worked so well on Peter.”

“So we’re above ground?”

“There’s an entrance into the tunnels, but most of the others sleep in the basement.”

“And you’ll burst into flames or something if we go outside?”

“It’s not quite like that...” A stirring from behind her made Debbie break off. She turned suddenly.

Max followed her gaze to see Peter standing on the stair landing. Ugly black veins traced themselves from his eyes down the sides of his face and body. Debbie had been similarly marked, but most of hers had faded. The big creature howled triumphantly, extending its claws.

“Shallow learning curve.” Max decided.

He reached for the cloth hanging near the door. A sheet of red velvet had been slung over the curtains, with more fabric beyond that. Max pulled down the whole mass. The dry, brittle wood gave way around the curtain rod, and sunlight streamed into the room, diffused by a layer of dust.

Peter was driven back as though he’d run into a bulldozer.

Debbie seemed to shrink from the light, but Max threw the velvet hanging over her and bodily picked her up. He worked the door handle, amazed that the door hadn’t been locked, and sprinted out into the street.

“Wow.” Max had to blink a few times as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. He vaguely recognized this place as the city he’d seen last night. The place looked totally different in the light. For one thing, it was almost completely deserted. The carts and stalls that had lined the streets were gone now. The city was almost completely different. Max’s gaze was drawn upwards to the skyline, where huge vines and trees climbed the skyscrapers, creating a green shroud for the entire city.

A low, whimpering moan escaped the tight lips of his companion, reminding Max that he needed to find some shade. Keeping to the shadows as much as possible, he made his way down the street toward a building that looked like a church. It had a tall bell tower, and Max hoped that from there he’d be able to find the gate out of the city. He had no intention of trying to navigate the tunnels without a guide.

Debbie moaned again.

“Are you OK?” Max asked her.

“The fight took a lot out of me. I’ll be OK.”

Once they were in the shadows, she was able to walk on her own. Max left her under an awning and tried the door of the church. It was unlocked, especially after he booted the doorknob a few times.

“Uh...You don’t have any problem with holy ground, do you?”

Debbie laughed. “You read too much.”

“Won’t work on Peter then, either,” Max mused.

“Peter won’t go out in the daylight. We’ll be safe until nightfall.”

Max led her into the church. There was a small room behind the lectern that was sufficiently in shadow that Debbie could rest comfortably. He got his first really good look at her. She couldn’t have been more than 19 years old, with dark hair. Behind her uncomfortable squint, she had brown eyes as well. Her pleasantly curved, but athletic build was hidden under folds of red velvet, but Max remembered that well enough anyway. What worried him now was that she looked so pale that he could see veins under her skin, and she seemed to have shrunk in on herself.

“So, why did you help me?” Max asked conversationally.

“You were nice, kinda' stupid, but nice. I wanted to keep you. I thought Peter would understand.” She sounded hurt and confused. Max had heard it before, usually from girls who should have been going out with him instead, and would have gone out with Gabriel if he didn’t live under a perpetual cloud of doom.

“Is he going to come after you?”

“He’ll try, but I have a place to go. We only have one problem now.”

“What’s that?”

Debbie took a minute to answer. When she did, she sounded scared. “I’m hungry.”

* * *

The Youngest flitted about reality, free as a bird. He wasn’t really free, of course. Mordakai Coventry still had his body trapped in a big crystal box. The old man was collecting Foundries in an attempt to marshal enough power to break the Magickal seals on the box. There were eleven seals, one for each evil, backstabbing, traitorous relative who’d stuffed the Youngest into the box after he had saved all the universe, almost single-handedly.

They were just jealous.

The Youngest giggled, determined to ignore the problems that beset him. If you ignored things long enough, they usually went away. He knew.

Covenshire was an interesting place, especially since the storms had begun. Mordakai had three Foundries. His were huge things spewing greenish smoke and stoked with the very lifeblood of the realm. Now Mordakai had turned two of those engines to other tasks. Without the Reality generated by the Foundries, things were breaking down. The climate was always the first thing to go. It would be the soil next, and the stone under that. Then bits would start falling off. First the little pub where you always stopped for a pint after work would be gone, and you wouldn’t even remember it going. Then your little sister wouldn’t be in her bed one morning because she was never born.

It was really sad, in a funny way.

Mordakai had turned his energies to a series of barriers around his private little kingdom. Once, Covenshire had been a real place, a city in upstate New York. There had been some excitement that ended in the Coventrys and their whole town being exiled to the Shards. The Youngest was omniscient, so it didn’t particularly bother him that he’d been trapped in a small, glass box during that time. It didn’t even bother him that the box hadn’t been big enough for him to stretch out, or that he’d missed all his favorite TV shows...once they’d invented TV.

He giggled again and flitted through the halls of Mordakai’s house. The study was always interesting. Mordakai had collected almost a complete set of the Simeon Grimories. The Youngest ran his fingers along the spines and pursed the open pages. In his present form he couldn’t actually touch anything.

The Grimories were the best source of real Magick in this or any other world, as far as they went. It was kind of sad that Simeon had gone completely mad and spent the golden years of his life believing he was a parrot. Mordakai must have gone to a lot of trouble to find as many volumes as he had.

Mordakai was talking to another of his children in his workroom. Elysia stood, shrouded in smoke, within a mystic circle.

The old man addressed his daughter. “Elysia, report.”

“Alistair is behaving exactly as expected. He and Dominick have yet to dissolve into open conflict, but I’m certain that’s coming.”

Mordakai smiled indulgently. “I’m certain. Don’t dwell on your brothers, dearest.”

“As you wish, Father. Derdrie is here as well. Was that part of your plan?”

“Everything is part of my plan. What of the Sword?”

“Alistair says he saw it again. Gwenivere has found a Bearer for it. I have begun to weave the net that will catch him.”

The Youngest followed the connection between father and daughter to reach the shining shores of the Prime Realm. Elysia Coventry looked much as she had before, holding her hand over a candle flame in a chamber decorated in Victorian opulence. The view was better from over here.

Mordakai didn’t look quite as sick from Elysia’s side of the contact. The old man was using Illusion to hide his true visage from his children. “What of your task?”

Elysia was beginning to show the strain of maintaining the contact. “We will have what we need. If you can find a way to bring the Box, I have found you a place to open it. I have also taken the time to size up our opposition. The Knights of the Circle are at a low strength. Rumors reached us, of course, but it is nice to have them confirmed. I have also spoken to Peter.”

“You know how I feel about the Night Children,” Mordakai’s tone was warning.

Elysia smiled indulgently for only a moment. “Nevertheless, we will not take the city without his complicity. I believe he is already acting in our interests now.”

The Youngest left the touching father-daughter moment and went on to check on the other Coventrys. They were really moving. Besides Mordakai’s three Foundries, his golden boy, Alistair had seized another one. Already, whole parts of the huge warren of tunnels under New York were falling to Chaos, and Alistair wasn’t through.

It was going to be a lot of fun.

To be continued next month . . .

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Changeling Seed

A Novel of the Side World

The First of the Valentine Chronicles

Copyright 2000 David Goodner

Continued from Chapter 4

Changeling Seed Archive