Blue Moon (25 page)

"What are you doing?” Sierra asked.

"This belongs to my son. The woman who lived here knows where he is. I will find her.” He walked out of the tiny bedroom and strode across the floor. A slender wrist and hand caught his eye. He grabbed an edge of the couch and pulled it forward.

"Oh, God.” Sierra whispered. “Who is it?"

The wrist belonged to a small, slender girl with strange red hair. She had crawled there, he realized, seeing the bolt that protruded out her back. Her head was bent at an odd angle, and her dull green eyes were distant. He reached out a hand.

"Don't touch it!"

Zorovin turned ice-colored eyes on her and asked, “How else do you expect me to find out what has come to pass?"

She was crying. “Please,” she said. “I think I already know."

Her tears made him pause, evoking another human emotion he rejected as his fist tightened around the pin he had given his son. “We must be certain,” he said, and she turned away.

He placed his hand over the dead woman's eyes, closing them, then pressing down gently.

He saw it all.

Libby grabbed the box and took off running. Sabin followed her, ignoring the woman leaning against the couch, a poker in her hand. It was a mistake. She put the force of her body, the force of her anger at the pain he had caused her into the swing. The crunch of contact of poker on bone was more than satisfactory.

Sabin collapsed, and she stepped over him and went outside. She stopped beside a man she knew as Alex, a man Zorovin recognized immediately as his own blood.

Libby headed for the woods, Dashiel keeping pace. The lightning cut a path for them, the shadowy figures withering to smoke at the merest graze of it. Sweat poured off Alex, and there was a cut across his chest from where he had not paid enough attention and one of the gremlins had gotten too close. He was the key to their defense; so instead of following her sister, she stayed with him, using her poker to defend him from the rotted-looking creatures.

One jumped down from the porch roof, and she swung her iron poker at it. She winced as it crushed bone, and the body made a plooshing sound as it landed at her feet. The bar in her hands smoked as it reacted with the bits of creature that stuck to it.

The brightness of Alex's attack was waning. She no longer had to shield her eyes, a fortunate thing because the redheaded warrior lowered her weapon and took aim.

Rita grabbed Alex, the electricity surging down her arms as she twisted him away. The bolt pierced her. Alex had switched off the current, trying not to electrocute her, but she was about to die again anyway.

"Help me get inside,” she whispered. “I don't want them to feed on me."

"Of course,” he said. He looked up, frowning as if in calculation. “I'll get you inside.” His gaze returned to her. He smiled. “I owe you."

She closed her eyes, felt the floor beneath her as he dragged her in.

"Don't let him go!” a voice said.

Rita felt Alex leave her. She opened her eyes and, seeing the shadows behind the couch, crawled along the floor until she was behind it. Behind her, Alex was talking.

"I am the Prince of the North Frost Dragons,” he said. “We have fought in honorable battle, you and I, Shadow King. I ask, one equal to another, that you let me go."

"Those are the old ways,” the king rasped. “And we do not honor them anymore."

"I was afraid you would say that."

She saw the flicker of light against her lids, and knew he had unleashed one last volley of lightning. She hoped he'd make a run for it, get to Libby.

She thought nothing more.

Zorovin sighed deeply and removed his hand. He looked up to say something to Sierra, but she was gone. He went outside. Her car, too, was gone. Ah, well. He closed the door. He was planning on tracking his son and the box through the woods, anyway.

"This way.” Dashiel stopped just before her. She leaned against a tree, panting and trying to get her bearings. “Come on Libby,” he said, taking off again.

She followed, running as fast as she could. She raced down the hill, the cold feel of metal beneath her foot telling her she had made the train tracks. She launched herself off the smooth rail, watching her feet with greater care, thanking God she hadn't tripped. She had a feeling that if she fell she'd stay where she landed, no matter who came.

"No, no,” Dashiel said as she cut across. “Go down the tracks. The rails are iron, it'll throw them off the scent."

She clutched the box closer and trotted after him, her gait awkward because the ties were too close together to be used as stepping blocks comfortably and too far apart for her to skip over one and reach the next. So, she walked with one foot hitting smooth wood, the other cut by the rough stones of the track bed.

Dashiel stopped just before the track made a bend to the left. He wagged his tail, as if encouraging her. When she had almost reached him, he disappeared into the weeds. She followed, her feet crushing dried stems as she forced her way into the woods again. She frowned, and tried to straighten the dead stalks to cover her tracks.

She climbed the hill to where Dashiel waited impatiently. When she reached him, she saw he was standing next to a small moss-surrounded hole.

"I've explored this whole area,” he said proudly. “This is the best place to hide."

She nodded grimly and lowered herself inside. The dirt of the miniature cave was clammy, and crumbled under her fingers as she worked her way in. A root jabbed her in the ribs, and she squirmed around, trying to make herself comfortable. Dashiel joined her, taking up the whole entrance. His back was warm against her cheek.

"Thanks,” she whispered.

"No worries,” he said. “I'll watch over you now."

She lay there for a while then scooted down so she wasn't lying on him and making him uncomfortable and curled her body around the stone.

"You did what you had to do,” he said to her.

"About Rita?"

"Yes. It was honorable. Even dragons must feel that way."

"I don't know any dragons,” she whispered, sleep overtaking her despite her discomfort.

Dashiel lay listening to her breathing worried about tomorrow. The box lay on its side, the lid tilted downward. The hole in it must have been deeper than he'd thought, or perhaps it was the freedom of being above the surface, or the constant warmth of Libby wrapped around it. Whatever the cause, something had happened to the stone.

A drop of water slowly formed inside the hole and dripped out like a tear. Another followed it, and another. The ground absorbed the tears from the Merlin Stone greedily as the ice that wrapped it began to melt.

The package came UPS. She stared at it a long time, sitting on the daybed of her tiny apartment, considering it. It could be a nasty trick from her as-soon-as-she-could-afford-it ex-husband, but the handwriting on the package wasn't Sabin's.

After awhile, curiosity drove her to slowly cut the tape, part the cardboard flaps. She pulled the newspaper out carefully, throwing it directly into the trashcan.

Another box.

She lifted it out and repeated the process, uncovering yet another box. She would have given up, but it had her address on it, and her name, and most importantly, a legend that read, “The last one."

She opened it. The legend lied, in a way, for there was another box. But this one was of stone.

She lifted it out and set it on the coffee table. She threw the packing boxes aside, and a letter floated to the floor. She picked it up, having missed it on the way down.

Ms. Halstead,

I regret that our interviews were cut short. There was much I wanted to tell you. I did not tell you these things to write a book, but to prepare you.

I think they have found me. I think they're following me, and I have not been able to sleep for weeks for fear of it. I took the liberty of calling your boss, and he told me your new address. I am sorry that your marriage did not work out. These things seem to happen so often. At least you are free, now, to do a job I think you were born for—to take care of the Merlin Stone and preserve it from all who would use it to cause harm. Seward and I looked for you a long time, and we both believed that you were the best choice to take on this job.

Remember what I told you about the stone, Libby. The fate of the world may well rest with it. People have killed for it, and died for it. Be wise, and careful.

Roger Langley

She sat very still for a long time after reading the letter. It had been written in a rush, obviously, and the nights he'd gone without sleep showed.

She looked at her reflection on the TV screen. Her own dark-brown eyes bore the marks of little sleep. She looked at the letter again.

"Where is the box, Libby?” Sabin had asked, again and again. Now she knew what he'd meant.

That alone convinced her of the need to keep it safe.

She put it under the table and went to get something to eat. She was lonely, and as she put her diner in the microwave, she thought how neat it would be to have a dog. She ate standing over the sink, drank too much wine, and watched the world pass by outside.

Eventually, she pulled the curtains. She picked the box up and placed it on the coffee table then settled on the floor in front of it. She played with the latch—thin beaten iron in the form of a winged creature, with a hasp of metal jutting from its belly. She flipped it over the hasp, wondering why no one had slipped a padlock into that meta* * * *oop, to keep it from being opened so easily. Why hadn't the years made the latch stiff?

She poured some more wine and drank. It was as bitter as her heart.

She grasped the latch like a handle and attempted to pull the lid open. It wouldn't budge.

She reached for the sewing box she always kept by the couch. She took out the smallest crochet hook she owned, but it was just a little too thick to fit into the seam. She grumbled, and got up on stiff and wobbly legs to go and get her letter opener. It was something she never used to open letters; she'd only bought it because it looked like a sword.

It slipped into the seam where box and lid joined with all the ease of Arthur putting the sword back in the stone. She managed to get her fingers under the lip, pulling the lid up on reluctant hinges.
It's heavy for such a small box, like lifting the lid off a crypt.

She shivered when she saw the ice-encased globe.

"So, that's it. That's what all the fuss it about.” She tapped the ice, and a light came on inside the globe. A beam of blue shot out, arching into her eyes. She screamed when it hit her and fell back onto the floor.

She awoke a few moments later, her head throbbing in time to the pounding on her apartment door. She pushed the box under the daybed and stumbled to the door.

"We got a call about a disturbance, ma'am?” The police officer looked her over; then his eyes settled on hers. His expression changed from boredom to concern. “What happened to your eyes?"

"Putting in contacts. I'm not used to them ... and um ... a rat, it was so weird! The rat looked really monstrous through the lens when I was putting it in and I freaked.” She blushed. “It really wasn't as bad as all that, to call the police. I think one of my neighbors has it in for me."

"Can I take a look?"

She stepped away from the door, trying not to rub her burning eyes or do anything that might look like she was tripping. He sniffed around, looked in the bathroom then turned.

"Well, I suppose that's it, then. Sorry to disturb you."

"No problem. Have a good evening, officer."

She locked the door.

When she finally checked to see what the officer meant, she saw her eyes were bloodshot, raw—and a freaky, eerie blue. This time, she didn't scream. She fainted.

It was morning before Alex felt he could close his eyes. Morning, and he knew he couldn't sleep, because he could now look for Libby with out worrying he was leading the shadows to her.

He shuddered, the branches that surrounded him shaking as well. After casting the last of the lightning magic left to him, he'd escaped by the back door and managed to lose pursuit long enough to hide. The tree was the only place he could think of.

He had spent the remainder of the night trying to stay awake. He'd thought over the events of the previous night, how the oddest things had seemed normal to him. Well, hell, he thought when he remembered Dashiel's amazing ability to talk, which at the time he'd been too busy to really be surprised about, if I can be an amnesiac dragon, he can be a talking dog.

His eyes drifted closed again. He forced them open, keeping himself awake by eating another nearby apple, small and bright green. It was slightly mealy and incredibly tart; the taste and the prickling effect it had on his throat and tongue woke him up quicker than coffee.

That done, he began climbing down. He closed his eyes, feeling his way rather than looking. When his feet touched the solid earth, he leaned against the tree. His body was sore to the soul; his over-use of the magic that had been lying dormant for so long left him feeling stripped raw and used up. It would be easy to sleep.

He opened his eyes and turned around.

The man who lounged on the stone wall nearby was tall and slender, with pale hair and eyes that reflected the black of his clothes.

"About time you got down here,” he said.

"Who are you?"

The pale man sighed. “If you really don't know, then I guess it doesn't matter."

Alex nodded. “You're looking well. Father."

"You are not. You should have slept while you were playing pigeon."

"If I'd known you were sitting down here, I might have."

Zorovin shook his head. “It is of no matter. We must go."

He stood and went to the gate that hung open in the wall. Alex hadn't noticed it the night before. He followed, stumbling once. A strong arm went around his back, and he felt Zorovin feed energy into his body.

He looked at his father and said, almost shyly, “I am glad to see you."