The Warrens inhabitants had stored their food in metal containers to keep the rats out, and hidden them in the darkest corners of the labyrinth so sewer workers passing through the area wouldn’t find them. If those supplies were still intact they might provide Isaac with enough to keep him going for a while. Or so he hoped. But when he reached the first such cache—a rusty locker tucked underneath a maintenance platform—he discovered to his dismay that the raiders had gotten to it already. Packages of food that he’d helped steal from aboveground were all torn open, cans crushed and split, jars shattered. The rats must have had a field day.
Staring at the mess in utter despair, he felt the sharp bite of hunger in his gut. The food stores in the Warrens had been his last hope. If they all failed him, he had no idea what to do next.
The next two caches he visited were as useless to him as the first. Clearly the Lord Governor’s men had wanted to send a message to anyone who survived the raid, that they shouldn’t even think about coming back here. And the message had clearly been understood. In all his wandering, Isaac saw no sign of another human presence. The Warrens were like a tomb.
Finally, just as his last fragile strand of hope was about to give way, he found a cache where not everything had been destroyed. Maybe the raiders had gotten tired by the time they found it, so they didn’t notice when a few cans rolled under a low-slung utility pipe. Trembling with hunger, Isaac squeezed under the pipe to retrieve them, then searched for something in his collection of household items to cut them open. By the time he finally managed to tear half the lid off a can of baked beans, his mouth was so dry he could barely swallow the contents. The cold beans were clammy and dreadful, but they seemed a veritable feast, more delicious than anything he’d ever tasted. In less than a minute the can was empty.
Leaning back against the pipe in exhaustion, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Right now he wanted nothing more than to open all the cans and feast—he wanted it desperately—but this was the last food he might find for a while, and he needed to ration it carefully. He reached for his bag so he could pack the unopened cans for later use—
—and suddenly he was aware of another presence in the tunnel. Maybe it had arrived while he was eating, and he just hadn’t noticed it, but there was no mistaking it now. A soft, almost inaudible moaning filled the tunnel, rising and falling in volume like the breath of a dying animal. He didn’t think the spirit making the noise was a high-order wraith, but it didn’t feel like a mere soul shard, a fractured remnant of a human spirit too far gone to think or act on its own. It had a faint aura of volition about it, and Isaac wondered if it had been drawn to him because of his Gift, as the dead so often were, or if it was here for some other reason.
“Who are you?” he asked hoarsely.
The spirit didn’t respond.
Probably he should banish the thing. Only the undead could afford to let unidentified ghosts hang around them, and the ritual used to banish bothersome spirits was one of the first things an apprentice was taught. But Isaac lacked the energy to perform any rituals right now, and perhaps he also lacked the will. This ghost wasn’t hurting him. Who was he to decide where it was or was not allowed to go? Maybe it was seeking refuge here, like he was. God knows, enough people had died down here recently; there was probably more than one spirit bound to this place. If the wraith left him in peace, then he would leave it in peace.
That decided, he leaned back against the pipe and shut his eyes, savoring the feeling of fullness in his belly. He was safer here than he was going to be anywhere else. Maybe he should take a few hours and sleep.
Free.
His eyes shot open.
Free.
The primitive thought seeped into his brain without words, but its tenor was jarringly familiar. He knew that spirit’s voice.
Free.
“Jacob?” he asked.
Silence.
The presence felt like Jacob; there was no mistaking that. But the murdered boy had been a high-order spirit, capable of complex conversation, repeatedly trying to communicate with Isaac. It made no sense that he would be here now, further from Shadowcrest than any bound spirit was allowed to travel, and barely capable of voicing a single word.
Then suddenly Isaac realized what must have happened, and for one endless, horrified moment he could do nothing more than stare at the place where the ghost was standing, unable to speak. “No,” he whispered at last. Forcing the words out. “Please, please, tell me they didn’t do that to you . . .”
The Shadows must have discovered that Jacob had helped Isaac break into the Chamber of Souls. Any wraith who was capable of acting against his Mistress’s interests was too dangerous to keep around, so they’d condemned him to final death, performing the ritual that was commonly used to destroy malevolent spirits. Normally that would tear an unwanted soul into so many pieces that not a single sentient fragment remained. But Jacob must have survived it somehow. Maybe it was his link to Isaac that enabled an echo of his identity to cling to the living world while his mind was ripped to pieces. Or maybe the boy had simply been stronger than the Shadowlords gave him credit for. Either way, he had paid a terrible price for his freedom. Even Isaac’s apprentice-level Gift could sense that the entity standing in front of him was little more than a hollow shell, his mind so fragmented that he probably didn’t even know his own name. The best such a ghost could hope for in the wild was to wander endlessly without language or purpose, driven by emotions he could no longer name, mourning the loss of an identity he no longer remembered. Truly, it was a fate worse than death.
The wraith spoke again, this time more strongly. Free.
The ritual must have shattered his binding along with his mind, Isaac realized. Whatever fragment of Jacob Dockhart had survived now owed allegiance to no one. Would the boy have chosen such a fate over eternal slavery, had he been given the choice? What mattered more, one’s mind or one’s freedom? Just asking the question made Isaac queasy. God willing he would never have to make such a choice himself.
“What a pair we make,” he muttered. Though the spirit was too mentally damaged to offer any meaningful companionship, talking to him made Isaac feel less alone. “Hiding in the sewers with no purpose, no future . . . true soul-mates.”
The spirit said nothing.
With a sigh Isaac pulled his backpack toward him and untied the top flap. His scavenged items from the Warrens were on top, along with the things he’d taken from home. He took them out and put them aside. After a moment’s consideration he also took his clothes out of the pack and the toiletries case, so that the heavy cans could be placed at the bottom of the bag.
But as he picked up the toiletries case he paused. It was smaller than he’d thought, and flatter. Maybe it wasn’t what he had assumed. There was a zipper running around three sides of it, and he opened it carefully, not wanting anything to fall out.
Inside was money.
A lot of money.
Spreading the case open like a wallet revealed a thick stack of bills. He stared at them for a moment in disbelief, then took them out and started counting them. Half the bills were of small denominations, the kind of money one might use to buy small items in a shop, but the other half were larger than that. Much larger. All told, there must have been at least a thousand pounds in the case. It was a veritable fortune to someone in his circumstances, though God alone knew where he could spend it.
His mother must have put this in the backpack, but why? Money alone couldn’t save him now. Surely she would have realized that. Was this merely a ritual gesture, meant to ease his parents’ guilt as they cast Isaac to the wolves? Surely if they really cared about him they would have chosen a different punishment and not sent him away forever.
Tears came to his eyes and he blinked them away, not wanting to break down in front of someone. Even a ghost. As he did so, he noticed there was a photo in the case, tucked in
to a side pocket. Taking it out, he saw it was a family picture, of him and his mother and father standing in some sunlit place, all smiling. It must have been taken years ago, because his father was alive in the picture, and Isaac was just a child. He no longer had any memory of what his father looked like as a living man, so he stared at the image in fascination, startled to discover how much he resembled him.
“Why would they give me this?” he whispered hoarsely. “They threw me out. They cut all ties between us, forever. Why would they think I even wanted something like this? So that I could pretend I still had a family? So that I could remember what I lost and feel even more pain?” There was a murmur of curiosity from Jacob, so he turned the picture so the ghost could look at it—
—and he saw that something was written on the back of it. In his mother’s hand.
Startled, he moved the note closer to the lamp so he could read her message.
V wanted you killed.
His hand trembled as he lowered the note.
What? the spirit pressed. What? What? What?
Why had Virilian wanted him dead? Because Isaac had broken the rules one too many times? Because he’d corrupted a spirit belonging to a powerful Shadowlord? Or maybe Virilian suspected that Isaac had played a part in the destruction of the Gate. Whatever the reason, if the Guildmaster condemned Isaac to death, no one in the Guild would dare challenge him. Isaac’s fate would be sealed.
His father must have protested that judgment. No one of lesser status would have the standing—or motivation—to pull off something like that. Isaac tried to remember what Virilian had said to his father, when the Domitor finished her work. You have my permission to exile him. He’d thought at the time that his father wanted to get rid of him, but what if that wasn’t the story at all? What if the Antonin patriarch had asked for permission to send Isaac away as an alternative to Virilian killing him? In order to save his son’s life?
The Guildmaster would never have allowed that unless the pain of Isaac’s banishment was so extreme that the boy would wish for death. Agreeing to anything less might have been viewed as an act of mercy, and a Guildmaster of Shadows was not supposed to be merciful.
“That’s what this was all about,” Isaac whispered, staring at his mother’s note. “The lifetime banishment, the mark of shame . . . he was trying to be harsh enough that Virilian would agree to spare my life. That’s what my mother was hinting at when she came to my room. She couldn’t tell me outright, not with all the dead watching.”
Tears were flowing down his face, and he couldn’t stop them. He didn’t want to stop them. The dam inside had finally crumbled and emotions were pouring out, all the feelings he’d been struggling to deny since leaving home. Pain, fear, hopelessness, despair . . . but no anger. Not anymore. Shadowlord Antonin had dared to challenge the Guildmaster himself to give his son a chance to survive. Even though the odds of that survival were slim to none. And even though it meant the Shadowlord would never see his son again. Because the alternative to that was death by Virilian’s order.
Lowering his face into his hands, Isaac wept.
27
BERKELEY SPRINGS
WEST VIRGINIA
JESSE
HOME. The word felt strange on my tongue, especially in reference to a house I had only lived in for a week. But it was good to be heading back in Berkeley Springs. The people that I loved were there, and I hungered to rejoin them.
Seyer offered to drive us home, and despite my desire to separate myself from everyone and everything connected to Alia Morgana, I did need a way back from Pennsylvania, so I accepted. So did Rita. I would be relieved when we finally parted company; the stress of feigning friendship with her was wearing thin. But the day might yet come when I would need someone with access to Morgana’s circle—besides Seyer—so I did the best I could to make her believe that nothing was wrong, even while I fantasized about wringing her neck.
As soon as we got in the car I retrieved my cell phone and started texting, first to let Tommy know we were on our way home, then to check up on Devon. Apparently he had recovered from his strange bout of illness. No big surprise, if its sole purpose had been to keep him from travelling with us. Rita was in the seat right behind me as I texted him, so I had to be careful what I typed, but I did manage to send a quick warning while she was looking out the window. Rita was the spy. Details later. I wanted to tell him what I suspected about the source of his illness, including the fact that Rita might have played a part in arranging it, but this wasn’t the time or place for that discussion.
Is she with u? he texted.
Yeah.
Still friends?
Was he asking if I had decided to overlook the spy issue, or if I was pretending everything was okay? I waited until Rita looked out the window again, then texted, She thinks so.
What about ur mom?
Healer coming, I typed. Family only. No friends allowed. We hadn’t discussed his coming back to witness the healing, but some things don’t have to be said. Potter rules, I added. Sorry, I tried.
There was a long pause. I understand.
Their call, not mine.
Keep me updated?
K
As soon as Seyer pulled into the driveway, Tommy burst out of the house and bounded down the front stairs, yelling my name as if he’d never expected to see me alive again. When I got out of the car he hugged me so tightly that he squeezed all the air out of my lungs. For a long moment I just hugged him back, drinking in the essence of Terra Colonna through our contact. Then I saw Mom on the porch, and this time it was me who did the running. I hugged her like the world was about to end, and since she had no clue what I’d gone through the previous week, she was probably a bit confused by that. I buried my face in her hair so no one would see my face, knowing I could never explain to these people why coming home affected me so deeply. Not until I felt I had control of myself again did I let her go.
Seyer watched our reunion for a few minutes, then said she needed to leave. “It was a pleasure to have you as a guest,” she told me, with a faint ironic smile. “If you ever want to visit again, you know how to reach me.” I nodded politely and thanked her for the offer, and didn’t tell her what I was really thinking, a scenario that involved flying pigs and snowballs in Hell. Then Rita said that she should probably check in with people back home, would Seyer mind giving her a lift to the bus station? And so that final problem was solved.
It was surprisingly hard to say goodbye to Rita. For all my anger about her betrayal, she’d been by my side through some pretty harrowing experiences, and that made for a bond that even rage couldn’t banish entirely.
“Good luck with your mom,” she whispered. Then she got into Seyer’s car, and I watched as it pulled away, feeling a vast weight lift from my chest.
Of course Rose had to feed us all, and over a hearty lunch she made me tell her all sorts of stories about my imaginary week in the mountains. It was hard to make up enough stories to satisfy her, but eventually I was able to turn the conversation to my real business. I said that Seyer had introduced us to a healer who might be able to help Mom, and would they be willing to give that a try? I knew that Rose and Julian were New Age folks at heart, and the Fleshcrafter had coached me on how to present the matter to them. So when I explained that this was a New Age healer specializing in reiki massage, who thought that restoring the proper flow of qi to Mom’s brain might clear out some of her spiritual blockage, I was speaking their language. In truth I think they would have supported any activity that gave Mom a taste of hope, if only for an hour. As for Mom, she wasn’t into that kind of stuff, but if everyone else thought this was a good idea, she was willing to give it a shot. What did we have to lose?
After lunch I was finally able to get some time alone with Tommy. I filled him in on what I’d really been up to the last week, which was damn refreshing after hours of lies. He l
istened with wide eyes, surprisingly subdued. “Wow,” he said when I was done. “That’s just . . . wow.”
I sighed. It felt good to unburden myself to someone I trusted, but retelling the story just reminded me of how many things in my life still weren’t resolved. Some of which involved people who wanted to kill me. “Yeah. I know.”
“They’re never gonna let up, are they? Not as long as they think there’s a Dreamwalker out there. They may not know it’s you, but they’re gonna keep looking till they figure it out.”
I remembered Virilian’s reaction when the reaper appeared in his dream, and I could only imagine his rage once he realized that a Dreamwalker had been messing with his mind. “Yeah,” I muttered. “I’m afraid so.” Thank God I’d thought to disguise myself in that dream. It wouldn’t protect me forever, but hopefully it would buy me time to come up with some kind of plan.
“So,” Tommy said, “what can we do about that? I mean . . . there has to be something we can do, right?”
I sighed. Real life isn’t like a computer game, I wanted to tell him. There’s no finite, predictable universe filled with puzzles that have neatly scripted solutions, where all you need to do to defeat a powerful enemy is to assemble the right team and arm them with magical weapons. Real life is messy, and it doesn’t always have neat solutions. “If I could find other Dreamwalkers, they might be able to help. Maybe they would know how to destroy the reapers.” But the only other Dreamwalker I knew about had spent her last moments casting a tsunami at me, and I didn’t know if she was alive or dead right now. Even if others of my kind existed, how was I supposed to find them, when their lives depended on hiding their Gift?