Sorcerer's Luck (28 page)

“Nils!” Tor vibrated the name like a chant. “Come here! I summon you!”

I heard a scream, a distant throbbing wail. At first I thought—no, I hoped—I was only
hearing a siren from outside, a fire engine maybe or a police car, but the
scream came again in a mixture of rage and terror, louder this time. Tor called
out words in Norse. The scream echoed through the room. Between Tor and the Ice
rune at the north a mist formed. I could see a mask-like face and the furious
blue eyes that glared out of it. The dog-ghost got to her feet. I heard, very
faintly, her growl.

Tor raised the blood-smeared knife and continued speaking. The blue eyes looked this way
and that in desperate evasion. The mask of bluish mist tried to turn away. Tor
spoke again, and the mask held steady. Slowly Tor raised his left hand and
grasped the spear-point of Tyr's justice that hung over his head. He clasped
the tang as if it were as tangible as metal and brought it down, pointed it at
the mask, and held it out in front of him. He spoke. I understood not one word,
but it sounded like a list of charges or perhaps the tolling of a bell, a
death-bell in slow grim strokes.

Through the mask Nils tried to speak. He gibbered, his eyes darted from side to side, he
tossed his head. Tor held the glowing point of the spear rune steady and said
one last word. The mask began to burn. Nils screamed as the mask disappeared in
flames. A shadowy blue image of his naked body stood in its place. With another
growl the dog-ghost leapt for its throat. Nils screamed one last time and fell
backwards as the pair of them, locked together, disappeared.

 Tor stamped three times on the floor, then slowly turned his way around the circle.
As he did, the eight runes at the circle points winked out one by one. He held
Tyr's Mark above his head, and for the briefest of moments I saw another hand,
huge and glowing white, reach down and take the fiery red rune from him.

“Done!” Tor said.

I caught my breath with a sob. I was shaking too hard to stand up. Tor knelt and laid the
knife down in the center of the circle. For a long moment he stayed kneeling,
head bent, as if in prayer. He got up, walked over to me, caught my hands, and
pulled me to my feet. He threw his right arm around my shoulders to support me.

“He'll never be free of the dog until he dies himself,” Tor said. “And for all I know,
she'll chase him halfway to Hel even then.”

“Is he dead?” I said.

“No. But he's about half the sorcerer he used to be. The dog will keep draining his
power, harrying him.”

“I thought you wanted her to run free. That day on the hillside, you said —”

“She will, once Hel claims him.”

I looked up and saw him smiling, not at me, just smiling in satisfaction at a job
well-done. What have I fallen in love with? That was my first thought. The
second was, It doesn't matter. I have.

The smell of his released élan became irresistible. I bent my head and licked blood from
the back of his left hand. He smiled and kissed me. The taste of his blood
became our bindrune.

By morning the long cut on Tor's arm had scabbed over, although it opened again when he
took a shower. Blood oozed. I treated the cut with an antibiotic ointment, laid
on thickly. Tor stood yawning while I tended it.

“Does it hurt?” I said.

“A little. Nothing I can't ignore.”

 To keep the wound clean, I put soft gauze over the ointment layer and taped it down at
strategic intervals.

“It should be okay,” I said. “But you look exhausted. I could go to the hospital by
myself.”

“No, I don't want you to go alone. I'll bet Nils is totally wiped out this morning.
I'm hoping he'll stay that way for days. He should. But let's not take any
chances.”

Tor put on a long-sleeved shirt to hide the bandage, and this time he took a jacket. I
took my sweater. Roman's blood had stained my denim jacket and Tor's flannel shirt
so badly that we left them downstairs in the sink of that flat's kitchen.

We arrived at the hospital just before noon. Brittany gave us a quick rundown of their
night—nothing untoward had happened, except she'd barely slept thanks to the
noise—then took off to look after her grandmother. In a web of IV tubes and
monitor cables, Roman lay on his side in the hospital bed, propped and
bolstered with pillows to keep the pressure off his wound. The drugs had left
him wide-eyed, a little sweaty, and comfortable enough.

“It still hurts,” he told me, “but with this stuff in your veins, you don't care that it
does.”

The doctor, a younger man than I was expecting, arrived on his hospital rounds and talked
about ‘the prognosis', which was good. He repeated that the bullet had missed
the spine and, surprisingly, Roman's vital organs. There was secondary nerve
damage, but that, the doctor felt, would heal with physical therapy. The
hospital administration wanted to move Roman as soon as possible into a VA
hospital, but budget cuts had closed the big facility in San Francisco. He'd
end up too far away for Brittany to visit easily, especially with our college
year so soon to start.

“I've told them,” the doctor said, “that they can't move the patient yet. It would be entirely
too dangerous. Eventually the committee will take a hand and overrule me, but
we've got a while before that happens. I'd like to get him into convalescent
care somewhere near by.”

“Let me to talk with them,” Tor said.

The doctor grinned. “From what Admissions told me, I was expecting you to wear a horned
helmet and carry a sword.”

Roman caught my glance and winked. Tor and the doctor left together, talking in low
voices.

“Quite a guy,” Roman said. “Thorlaksson, I mean.”

“Yeah. I think he's pretty special.”

Roman smiled, a tight little twitch of his mouth. “I'm going to pass out,” he said. “Sorry.”

“It's okay, but hey, before you do, thank you.”

“For what?”

“Covering me like you did. Taking the bullet meant for me.”

“You're the only family I've got in the world. Fucking right I did.” He sighed, yawned. “We
can talk later. But you're welcome.” He closed his eyes, sighed again, and
slept.

In clean clothes, her hair freshly washed, Brittany returned before Tor did. Everything
was fine at home, she said. She'd brought a tote bag with her, a needlework
project to pass the time. Tor came back with the news that the hospital was
beginning to see reason about not moving Roman.

“There's a fight ahead of us,” he said to Brittany. “We may have to call your congresswoman.
But don't worry, we'll win.”

For some hours that afternoon I watched Roman sleep and Brittany embroider. Tor slumped
down in a chair and drowsed at intervals. I kept looking at his shirt sleeve to
check for blood seeping from the cut, but it stayed clean. I should have
brought a sketchbook, but in my worry about my brother, it had slipped my mind.
Eventually Brit pointed out that there was nothing more that Tor and I could
do.

“I'll be here,” she said. “Maya, I don't want to see you exhaust yourself. You know how
tired you get.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I do.”

“I'd like to get over the bridge before rush hour,” Tor said. “If something goes wrong,
we can come back.”

“Nothing's going to go wrong.” Brittany spoke with calm certainty. “I'm here to make sure
of that. So okay. Go!”

Before we left, I kissed Roman on his sleeping cheek. Getting out of the stuffy room was
a relief. Although I wanted to drive home, Tor insisted that he felt fine.

“I'm wide awake now,” he said. “I'll drive.”

“How's your arm?”

“It's fine.”

“Yeah, sure!”

“The pain is part of the ritual. A vitki's got to learn to shove the pain out of his
mind.” He grinned at me. “I need to practice.”

Once we got into the car, I noticed him wincing whenever he reached for the turn signal or
moved the wheel in a way that put pressure on the left arm. I stayed on alert
and watched the cars around us. I never saw any sign of Nils. I figured that if
Tor, the victor in their odd battle, had drained so much energy, the loser must
have been exhausted. I stopped worrying, although I knew that sooner or later,
we'd have to confront Nils again.

“Do you want to eat out tonight?” I said. “So you don't have to lift frying pans and
stuff?”

“Good idea. I'll have a beer. The cut's starting to ache a little.”

A little! I thought. I could see blood on his shirt sleeve, not a solid line, just a fleck
here and there, but a bad sign anyway, that it would seep through all that
gauze.

We stopped at a Japanese restaurant near home, a tiny place tucked into a strip mall, but
nice inside with real wood tables and fabric-covered walls. It also offered a
full bar. Once we were seated, Tor had a double shot of scotch with a beer
chaser—one whole bottle of dark beer, that is—before the food even reached us.
He drank a second beer with his meal, and finally a third “for dessert” he
said. Since he hadn't eaten all day, the alcohol hit him hard, as I tried to
point out.

“I'm fine,” he said. “It's just beer.”

“And scotch, then a lot of beer. I'll drive.”

“Are you\ saying I'm too drunk to drive?”

“Yeah, that's exactly what I'm saying. Oh god, it's been a totally awful day, Tor.
Let's not get into an accident on top of everything.”

“I'm not going to get us into an accident.”

I might have made things worse by snapping at him, but luckily the waitress arrived
with the bill. Tor had trouble getting his credit card out of his wallet. I
clamped my mouth shut and looked away. Finally he got the bill settled and left
a tip in cash on the table. When we got up, he walked steadily instead of
weaving around, but he was sweating in the hot night, and I could smell the
beer oozing out of his skin.

As soon as we stepped outside, the fresh air slapped him in the face. I saw it in the way
he took a step back and caught the wall to steady himself.

“Okay,” he said. “You can drive.”

“Thanks. I really mean it: thanks.”

“I should have used the men's room. Let me just go back in.”

While he did, I waited outside the restaurant, then decided to walk out to the car. The
sun had just reached its setting point, and the sky blazed with golden light. We'd
left Gretel at the far end of the narrow parking lot near a scatter of other
cars. I was thinking about Roman, worrying about whether or not he'd make a
full recovery, not paying attention to much else. I trusted in the daylight and
the presence of other people just some twenty yards away in the restaurant. It
seemed perfectly reasonable to go wait for Tor in the car.

Later I realized that I'd been summoned.

As I walked up to Gretel, an arm flung itself around my neck. That's what it felt like,
that the arm had suddenly appeared, even though I knew a man had grabbed me
from behind.

“Hold still,” he hissed. “Or I'll shoot you.”

I felt cold metal laid along the left side of my face. He had a gun.

“Nils.” I managed to choke out the word.

“Smart girl! You're coming with me. You're just the bargaining chip I need.”

Tor!
I cried out in my mind.
Help!

Nils began to drag me backwards. Gun or no gun, I wasn't going to go with him and let him
kill me at his leisure. He could travel like Tor did, in big teleported leaps,
which meant I had only the briefest moment to get free. I raised a foot and
stamped on his instep as hard as I could.

“Hey!” he snarled. “Play nice, and I won't hurt you!”

For an answer I kicked backward and dug the heel of my shoe into his shin. He growled
and shook me. I have a weapon, I thought. He can't know, or he never would have
grabbed me. I could feel his élan. I began to gather it, pull it from him,
drink it in harder and faster than I'd ever done before.

His arm tightened around my neck. With every gulp, with every smidgen I felt slide down my
throat, I felt him grow weaker, but not fast enough. I had to distract him, or
as a sorcerer he'd sense what I was doing. I let my knees go limp. He
staggered, off-balance. I got my feet under me again and kicked backwards, hit
his shin and heard him swear.

“Bitch, hold still!”

His arm choked me, disgusted me, his naked arm, hairy, sweaty in a short sleeve shirt.
I twisted, stamped his instep again, and got my head just free enough to bite
him. He screamed. I sank my teeth in and locked my jaw tight. The blood
spurted. I fed, oh god it felt so splendid to feed myself, to drain red blood,
to strip the élan as it flowed from life's pure fountain!

Nils dragged me a few feet backwards, but I kept feeding, draining him. I felt a
weak surge of energy as he tried to leap away from the parking lot. Instead he
stumbled and nearly fell. Full of his élan, my mouth red with his blood, I had
power. I threw my weight backwards. Down we went, him underneath. The gun in
his hand flashed toward my face. I twisted and rolled. I dragged him with me
and on top of me. I fell onto my back and threw my arms around his waist. He
tried to use the gun to club me, but it only hit my upper arm. Although I could
have broken away, my terror made me clasp him tight against me.

If I let him go, he'd get up and shoot me. I was certain of that.
Faint,
damn you! Go under!
I felt him weakening, heard his heart pounding a broken
rhythm. I lay under him like a succubus and went on feeding.

“Let go!” Nils was sobbing. “Stop! I'll let you go! Stop!”

Someone yelled a word I didn't know, a string of them—Icelandic words. Big hands
grabbed Nils's wrist and twisted. Nils moaned and shrieked as bone cracked. The
gun went flying. A foot flashed into my side vision and kicked Nils hard in the
head. The foreign words sounded again. Nils went limp. I unlocked my bite as
Tor grabbed me and hauled me to my feet. I leaned against him and trembled but
not from fear. I could feel Nils's élan coursing through my blood. The parking
lot seemed to stretch out huge around me. The sunset light surged like water in
big bright waves of flame.

“Hang on!” Tor said.

I threw my good arm around his neck. He hugged me around the waist and leapt.

We stumbled to a stop in front of our house. Tor let me go and took his smartphone out of
his jeans pocket. I stood panting on the lawn and felt the world settle around
me, a normal sight again, because he'd siphoned my excess élan to make the long
leap. He looked perfectly sober, whether from absorbing the élan or producing
raw adrenalin, I couldn't know.

“I'll let you in,” he said, “and then I'll go back for Gretel. Where's your backpack?”

“I don't know.” I could barely speak. “I must have dropped it.”

“Shit! Let's hope no one finds it.” He tapped in the security codes. “Go upstairs! I'll lock
you in. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

I followed his orders because I didn't know what else to do. As soon as I got upstairs I
ran into the bathroom. I intended to examine my aching arm, but my image in the
mirror horrified me so much that I forgot the pain. Blood crusted on my lips
and chin. Drops of blood had fallen on my shirt and dried. Nils's blood. I
could taste it in my mouth. I turned to the toilet and vomited.

It took me some time to clear my stomach and flush every last bit of the vomit away. I
washed my face, then took off the filthy shirt and threw it into the bathtub. I
was going to take a shower, but my arm throbbed and burned just above the
elbow, where Nils had clubbed me. Since I could raise it despite the pain, I
knew it wasn't broken. A meat-red bruise marked the spot. When I looked in the
mirror, I saw blood spots on my bra. I took that off and threw it into the tub
with the shirt. My stomach had settled just enough to let me keep a couple of
pain pills down.

I left the bathroom and went into my room to get a clean shirt. On the writing desk the
image had changed to a skeleton holding up a flask of black liquid. I grabbed
the shirt and ran down the hall. In the living room I put the shirt on, then
flopped down on the couch. I stared at the empty fireplace and tried to forget
the taste of blood. My left arm hurt where left-handed Nils had clubbed me, but
my right arm and hand were unharmed. On the coffee table lay a sketchpad and my
box of Conté sticks. I picked them up and began to draw.

When I was a child and my parents were fighting, I drew pictures from fairy stories and
folk tales, princes and magicians and monsters and castles, horses who could
talk, cats who wore clothes. When I grew older I sometimes drew maps of the
magical places where all these beings lived. As a teenager I laid those stories
aside, or so I thought, and drew my friends, my family, the buildings where we
lived and where I went to school, views of San Francisco, flowers and trees.
Those pictures got my teachers' attention, and they earned me my scholarship to
a prestigious school I never could have afforded without it.