CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 8

Lucas not only forces a promise out of me, but he gets me to agree to go downstairs for food - and air and light. My room was becoming a tomb. Before pulling on my boots and following him out, I take a glance down at the still open grimoire. The pages have shifted again, this time landing on a helpful healing spell, something for closing wounds. I take a quick glance, close the cover, and shove it under my pillow.

Downstairs, the shop is in its sleepy Saturday afternoon rhythm. Customers are settled into their usual spots on the mismatched, haunted house-vibe furniture. A group of students sit on either side of a low table, textbooks and laptops spread out between them, mugs and glasses filling the few free spaces. Other people sit alone or in pairs in the different corners, talking, reading. One couple is all over each other on the red Victorian sofa in the corner. I start to wrinkle my nose at the excessive contact and consider how to disinfect the area when I notice something familiar. Miranda and Graham. Naturally.

“They were putting up Valentine’s Day decorations earlier,” Lucas explains. He seems less grossed out than I am, but he’s not related. “Perhaps it made them feel particularly...romantic.” He tilts his head analyzing the angle of what’s going on over there. “Are they often like this?”

“Every damn day. Ugh. And I just ate.” I press a hand into my full stomach. “Come on,” I instruct. “Let’s go back upstairs.”

Lucas is still staring however. “Yikes,” he says, responding to some move of Miranda’s. I laugh.

“What?”

“You. I can’t figure you out. One minute you’re all medieval knight and the next minute you sound like a teenager. How old are you exactly?”

He shrugs. “Once again, I fear my answer will disappoint.”

“Let me guess, you don’t know?”

“Technically, I’m eighteen.”

“Technically?”

“You have seen my driver’s license.”

“True. Your age?”

“Right. It seems that each time I am finished with one assignment, a reset button of some sort is hit and I start over at eighteen. I fear…”

He looks back at Miranda and Graham, but I don’t think he’s focusing on them any longer. “I fear I am much, much older than that.”

His age, in itself, doesn’t matter, of course. He can be eighteen or fifty or a hundred and fifty. What matters is how well he knows his job. Still, it can’t be easy going through a life over and over like that, losing the last person you were bound to, slowly forgetting them. I suppose he’ll forget me one day, too.

I elbow him in the side. “You look pretty good for an old guy. So what now, Watcher?”

He turns his attention to me again. “You have much to learn, Seeker.”

“I should probably warn you,” I say looking up at him, “I’m a crappy student.”

“Then you are in luck, for I am a very good teacher.” He smiles down at me. I bet.

“Perhaps we should learn how you can defend yourself.”

“I thought you were going to defend me.”

“Of course, but you should be prepared nonetheless.”

“In case you get conked on the head. So you get knocked out - not very impressive, by the way - and then I’m alone with the Ripper.”

Something flickers across Lucas’ face, like he wants to say something but isn’t sure if he should.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

Lucas could try saying “Nothing,” in return, but since we’ve been bound, I find myself more or less on the same wavelength. If he lies, I’ll know it. I wonder if that works the other way around.

“I think…” he frowns. “I think you’re under some misconception.”

“No doubt. But what are you referring to?”

“There is not just one Ripper, Tristan. There is a hierarchy and one who rules above them all. But Rippers don’t work alone. You have seen more than one already, no?”

I think back to the couple staring at me from the alleyway next to Gino’s.

“I think so,” I answer.

“There are a few Rippers of incredible strength,” he explains, “but there are others as well - worker bees of a sort. In fact, many of them aren’t Rippers at all. They are more - slaves, I suppose - and there are...many.”

My heart picks up. “Many?” A fully formed image of dozens of mini-Rippers and their black auras swarming me unhelpfully fills my imagination.

“Many. But the good news is they are fairly weak, shells really. You would have no trouble at all dispatching them.”

I nod but the image is all I can focus on. “Dispatching?” I mutter. “Like decapitating?”

“No, no. Not at all. That is reserved for the most powerful of all. There are things you can do using magic as well as other more traditional forms of self-defense.”

“Like a knee to the groin? I can do that one.”

“No doubt.” He smiles. “Perhaps just a bit more sophisticated. Come,” he stretches out his hand. “I will show you.” He tugs me along behind him and heads for the stairs. “We should probably do this in a more discreet location.” We begin climbing up to the apartment and he looks back, grinning. “Besides, I have a gift for you.” The possibilities for double entendre are endless here, but I will undoubtedly be disappointed.

Late afternoon sunlight pours into the living room, casting a golden glow on the worn furniture. Lucas begins shifting things around, pushing the couch and coffee table aside, moving my great-grandmother’s rocker to the corner. Apparently we really are going to wrestle.

“Have you ever been in a real fight before?”

I consider the numerous bloody noses I’ve both given and received in my seventeen years. I’m not sure that beating up a snotty ten-year old on the playground counts as a real fight. There’s also a more recent incident with an idiot in my gym class who decided to redefine the term contact sport. He was absent for two days and had a hard time sitting down for a week.

“A few? Just some bloody noses and hurt feelings. Nothing major.”

“We’ll start with the step right above nothing major, then, the kinds of things you can use on a drone creature.” He steps over to the garbage bag in which he had presumably transported his belongings yesterday.

“How did you do that anyway?” I ask. “How did you convince me that I saw what I thought I was seeing?”

“A trick of your aunts.” He digs through the bag.

Sounds about right.

“And the aura? How do you do that?”

“I can’t tell you all my secrets, can I?” he asks. He finds what he wants in the bottom of the bag and pulls it out. “Let’s just say,” he adds coming to stand in front of me again, “that in my line of work, announcing my presence with an aura is counterproductive. Here.”

Lucas holds up two items, a sort of worn leather belt and a dagger. More daggers.

I instinctively clasp my hands behind my back.

“I thought we were done with the cutting for today.”

He smirks. “We are.”

Lucas lifts my extra long sweatshirt and wraps the belt around my waist, securing it with an ornate brass buckle. It looks like it has had many owners before me.

“In the event you hadn’t noticed, not wearing pants.” I gesture to my black leggings.

“That’s just as well as this is not for holding up trousers of any kind. It is meant to hold this.” Lucas holds up the dagger. “Legend has it that this is the head of the mythological spear, Gáe Buide. It is said that the original weapon could inflict wounds from which none could survive.”

I know the story, Gáe Buide , the spear of Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, a kind of Romeo of his day. “And what am I supposed to do with it?” I ask.

Lucas looks down at me. “Let’s worry about one thing at a time, eh? Let’s see how you move.”

“Do you have weapons?”

“Indeed.” Intriguing. Maybe that’s what he’s hiding under the sweater he’s suddenly started wearing.

“Like now? Can I see them?”

He steps back. I step forward.

“Tristan…” Lucas puts out a warning hand. I try to duck around and come at him, grabbing a handful of sweater. He very efficiently grabs both of my wrists in his, swinging me off my feet. I land painfully on my knees.

He laughs, short, just once, but even though we were just playing around, I suddenly feel a surge of magic, a violent burst of energy that has me lashing out. Without realizing I’m moving, I jump to my feet, power flooding me, and throw out my hand. A bolt of silver white magic hits him square in the chest, knocking him to the floor.

Lucas sucks in a breath and jumps to his feet. Before I can see what he’s doing, his right hand pulls something from his left sleeve, a blade that he’s been hiding. In two giant strides he closes the space between us. I lift my hand again, but he grabs my fingers and forces me to my knees. I find the razor sharp tip of a blade under my chin. His gray eyes bore straight into me and the power pulls back so quickly it leaves me dizzy.

“I’m so sorry.” I can’t believe I just jolted him with magic. How did I lose control that completely? “Lucas…”

He smiles, slowly at first, then amusement breaking out across his face.

“Well done, Seeker.” He lowers the blade and pulls me to my feet.

My magic seems to have a mind of its own and whereas I think I was on my way to an apology for zapping him, the power coursing through me has other ideas. With his hand still in mine, I push a shaft of intense energy along my arm and into my hand. The magic stuns him, knocking him down. He makes a move to jump up, but I kick him in the chest, knocking him flat onto the floor. As if that isn’t enough, I yank the knife from my sheath and jab it under his chin, the same way he did to me. Unlike what he did, however, I open a small slice. Lucas’ eyes open wide as blood begins trickling down his neck.

The blood, the expression on his face, all of it is enough to knock me back to my senses.

“Lucas.” I crawl beside him and press my hand against the bleeding. Instead of slowing the bleeding, it actually picks up, pouring between my fingers. “Lucas,” I can hear my voice shaking. “What’s wrong? I barely touched you. I mean I… I thought…”

I’ve gone from heartless assassin to the edge of tears in a split second.

Lucas closes his eyes, steadying his breath. “The dagger.” He’s gasping as the blood flows faster.

“What about it?”

What about it? Gae Buide. I wrack my brain for details of the story.

“It’s enchanted…” he whispers. “It won’t…”

It won’t. It won’t. “It won’t heal,” I shout, pressing harder.

But I have ways, power. There has to be something that I can do.

Lucas’ eyelids flutter. There’s a pool of blood under his head now. He won’t last much longer.

I will the magic back into my fingers, but it doesn’t help. A spell. I need a spell. My mind runs over the pages I’d looked at just a few hours ago. Warts. Cows. Water. Dammit. Why can’t I think of anything?

Lucas has stopped talking. His breathing is rapid, shallow.

Healing. I need a healing spell. Words and images flash through my mind. The last spell I looked at before leaving my room. What were the words? I try to call up an image of the page, the words, the sigils. I whisper the words I remember and etch the symbols across his throat. Nothing. I shake my head. Try again.

I etch the symbols again, willing the blood to stop, ordering the cut to heal.

The blood stops flowing.

I reluctantly remove my fingers, sticky with Lucas’ blood. His eyes are still closed, but his chest rises and falls. I lay my head against his sweater and listen to the steady beating of his heart. I’m so relieved, I do start to cry.

But why won’t he wake up? I shake him, gently at first, then harder.

“Lucas, can you hear me?” I jostle his shoulder the way they show in CPR class. “Lucas, wake up,” I order.

He groans and his eyes slowly open.

“Is it not enough that you nearly killed me with the dagger? Must you now rattle me to death?”

“Thank God,” I shout. I grab fistfuls of sweater and press my head to his chest in the world’s most awkward hug.

“Indeed,” he says. He coughs one, twice. “That was rather close,” he says.

I sit up again, wiping away tears with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” Now that he’s out of danger, I’m having trouble looking him in the eye. “I have no idea what happened. It’s like something took control of me. I mean, I have a temper, but nothing like that.”

Lucas pushes himself up to his elbows and, when he doesn’t pass out, lifts himself to sitting. He smiles gently and I do not deserve his forgiveness.

“It happened exactly as it should have,” he says, running a finger under his chin. It comes back clean.

“I was supposed to kill you? What kind of insane bullshit is this? Is this what I’m about now?” I’m rambling at full speed. “Well hell no. I am not going to kill you if that’s what you’re after.”

He laughs and, sadly, I feel like hurting him again. The moment has passed, though, so I do not, nor do I make any other plans to injure him.

“You were supposed to defend yourself. I surprised you. Attacked you. Your body, no, your power, automatically took over in a manner I’ve never encountered before. If anyone is to blame here, it’s me. I underestimated you. It was an unthinkable error in judgment.”

“You didn’t expect me to try to slit your throat. Yes, how stupid of you.”

He frowns. “Seriously, Tristan. If I’m to do my job well, I can’t make such amateurish errors. I apologize.”

Lucas pushes himself up and, in spite of what happened the last time, pulls me to my feet.

“You’ve obviously moved beyond the basics. Now we just need to learn how to harness your power appropriately.” He smirks. “You know, so you don’t kill me again.”

“Wow. A comedian. Also? I didn’t kill you. I checked. Your heart was beating.”

“I stand corrected.”

“That said, I think I owe you a new outfit.” While the actual bleeding has stopped, Lucas’ sweater is completely wrecked - as I will be as soon as Nana and Miranda get a look at the giant puddle that has seeped into the middle of the threadbare carpet.

Lucas begins digging around in his garbage bag again, pulling handfuls of clothes. “No worries,” he says, “being a Watcher gets messy sometimes.” He chooses a new sweater and pulls the bloody one over his head.

I gasp. Beneath the sweater, Lucas hides quite an arsenal. A holster of some kind wraps around his back and up over his shoulders. A knife handle protrudes from under each arm. Likewise, his forearms are strapped with leather bracers. A knife handle sticks up from one, the other knife no doubt the one he pulled on me before I tried to kill him.

Lucas catches me staring. I might as well ask questions. “Are those all the weapons you have?”

He pulls the sweater quickly over his head, arranging it so the material hides all the things that should probably stay hidden.

“No,” he answers.

I take a step forward and he puts out a hand.

“This is how we got started last time,” he points out.

True, but I move nearer nonetheless.

“Tristan…” he warns.

The door at the top of the stairs flies open.

“Holy…” Miranda steps into the living room, her eyes roving over the gigantic mess we’ve made. “What in the actual hell happened in here?” Her gaze catches on the black puddle in the middle of the carpet.

I open my mouth to supply a carefully crafted half-truth when she holds up a hand.

“I don’t want to know. I just came up here to tell you your friend is downstairs.”

I frown. Jannelis and company are the last thing I need right now. In fact, I’m not sure I can be trusted in their presence since this last little display of temper.

“Can you kick them out again?” I ask Lucas.

“Not them,” Miranda corrects, poking the toe of her stiletto in the drying blood. “Your real friend - and his boyfriend. They’re in the shop. Apparently you’re supposed to go out?”

Saturday. It’s Saturday night. How can I go out when there’s a killer following me? How can I go out when I can be a killer?

“For a variety of reasons, it’s best if you just continue your normal routine,” Lucas says. “I will have to be with you, of course.”

“And how will I explain that?”

Lucas considers. “Can’t you just say I’m your boyfriend?”

Miranda laughs. “Good luck with that. Also, clean all this up.” She waves at the carpet. “I’ll let Nick know you and your boyfriend will be down in a minute.”

Lucas starts dragging furniture across the room.

“So Nick. What should I know about him?”

Nothing. I don’t want Lucas to know anything about him. I want to keep Nick and Antonio as far away from this mess, from danger of any kind, as I can. Nick and I have made it together through every childhood and adolescent crisis with only minor damage. I can’t expose him to this level of risk. What if he playfully pushes me and I take a magical swipe at him? Worse, what if the Rippers choose a time when we’re hanging out together to pop up and wreak havoc?

And Lucas. If I show up with Lucas and announce that he’s my boyfriend, Nick will be understandably pissed. He’s told me everything about every crush from kindergarten to the present day. He thinks I am determined to remain alone with my laptop and my bad attitude. Suddenly popping up with a guy and saying we’ve jumped straight to boyfriend will crush him.

“You need to know that we’ve been best friends always. His parents own the Mexican place across the street, so we’ve been hanging out since birth - since the womb, even. Most of all, you need to know that nothing - absolutely nothing - can happen to him. I would die before I would let anyone harm a perfect hair on his head. Understand?”

“Understood. But Tristan? You, too, must understand something: you and only you are what matter to me. My entire reason for being is your survival. It’s not a responsibility that I take lightly.”

I blink at him wordlessly. It’s not every day I am someone’s reason for being. I’m not sure I like that kind of responsibility. I continue staring, turning the statement around in my head.

When it looks like he’s not going to get an argument, Lucas says, “Let’s go meet your friend.”