Page 11

Chapter 11

The Stranger

She was not like anyone I’d ever seen before, although for the life of me I couldn’t say what made her so distinctive. It wasn’t her dark skin or the subtly upturned outer corners of her eyes. Corrigan’s complexion was a truer black, almost onyx, while the stranger’s was more the burnished bronze of the Western Saphirs in their high-towered cities and sprawling garden enclaves. The almond shape of her eyes was more common to the Blastlands from where we’d descended as we’d blazed our trail of mayhem through the small towns the Infernal and Auroral armies had been plundering in their never-ending quest for human recruits.

The woman standing before us holding a tray of brimming pewter beer steins came from none of those places.

You’re not from around here, are you, stranger? I thought. I didn’t say it out loud because I hate frontier clichés.

Hair almost as dark as mine glistening with some sort of scented oil came tumbling in a cascade of curls past high cheekbones and a firm yet sensuous jawline. There was a leanness to her that spoke of a dancer or fencer’s athleticism rather than the bulkier musculature of a soldier or those who labour in fields and factories. Had I been standing next to her, I might have had the advantage of an inch or two.

Everything about her was sleek, from the fitted tan waistcoat over a blousy plum shirt far sturdier than its silky sheen suggested, to the black riding trousers and matching boots. The way she cocked one hip told me she didn’t mind the admiring stares she doubtless attracted wherever she went.

None of this set her apart from a thousand other women. Admittedly, the amber irises were unusual, but a discolouration of the eyes is hardly rare among wonderists. And this woman was definitely a mage of some kind.

‘Somebody get this boy a canvas and oils,’ she said, shooting me a sideways grin as she set each of the eight steins down on the table before tossing the tray behind her to clatter on the floor. ‘Happy to pose for a portrait if it’ll speed this up.’

‘A moment, if you please,’ I said.

The accent. . . smooth, refined. Someone who could pass for a native speaker if she was bothered. Her voice lilted at the ends of her vowels, adding an almost musical chime that drew my gaze to her wry smile. Did everyone she smiled at that way assume they must have met her before, I wondered? Or was it just me being mesmerised by her presence?

If the intensity of my scrutiny is leading you to anticipate that this woman was going to play an outsized role in my immediate future, well, sure, that much was obvious. But if you’re imagining the two of us falling in love,hand over your prophecy cards and tear up your astrological charts, because your talent for divination has let you down badly. And don’t go getting it into your head that she and I are destined to have a night of wild, passionate sex at some point, either. Not. Going. To. Happen. One of my cardinal rules is never to sleep with people who aren’t bothering to hide the fact that they intend ruining my life.

Seriously, take a second look at that Cheshire grin on her face and tell me that’s not the knowing, enchanting smile of someone who’s already figured out she’s fated to put me into an early grave.

‘She has the stink of wonderism about her,’ Alice observed, her own cat-like eyes narrowed, and she placed one hand on the bone hilt of her whip-sword. Her upper lip curled, slowly. Demoniacs do that so you catch a glimpse of their fangs. Petulant teenagers, too, I guess. ‘Her attunement isn’t one I recognise.’

Aradeus casually brushed his fingertips along the whiskers of his moustache, performing a subtle totemist spell particular to his specialisation. That’s why all rat mages grow those stupid, wispy moustaches.

‘Nor can I discern the plane of reality from whence her powers come,’ he said, sufficiently troubled by the fact that, for once, he managed not to leap up from his chair to perform an elaborate bow before pronouncing, ‘Though I cannot yet say whether it is a pleasure or an honour to make your acquaintance, radiant lady, I shall eagerly await the hour whence we shall discover which it shall be.’

Ugh. How does he manage to make all that foppish oratory sound so suave?

‘Maybe one of us could just ask her what kind of wonderism she practises?’ Galass suggested, rolling her eyes at the rest of us.

I wasn’t the only one staring. Did you notice Corrigan hadn’t uttered a word since the woman showed up? Or Temper? The kangaroo was looking almost as entranced as the rest of us.

The stranger settled into the empty chair as if her name had been engraved on the back in glittering gold letters. ‘Oh, you know,’ she replied vaguely. ‘A little of this, a little of that.’

‘That is not an answer, child,’ Shame observed.

There! I thought, catching the first flicker of animosity in the stranger’s eyes. She doesn’t appreciate being called a child. But why? It’s hardly an insult compared to what anyone who’d been spying on our conversation has to anticipate will soon come from —

‘Only whores are entitled to be enigmatic,’ Corrigan declared with the finality of a judge passing sentence. ‘Are you a whore, sweetheart?’ He leaned closer to her. Apparently, thunderers also like showing their teeth. ‘You’re too skinny to be any good at it. Business must be bad. Did you come here in search of a hearty meal or a fat co — ?’

‘Where I’m from,’ the stranger interrupted, saving us all from what would surely have been an extended oration from Corrigan about what he– and no one else– insisted was his finest attribute, ‘I’d be called a Spellslinger.’

‘That’s not a thing,’ Corrigan insisted. I guess he didn’t appreciate being shot down before being given the chance to demonstrate just how offensive he could be. ‘Also, it’s a stupid name. Spell-slinger? No self-respecting wonderist hurls spells with slings. If they did, I’d be hunting them down and murdering them for denigrating the profession even more than luminists do with their stupid light shows.’

His irritation appeared to be compounded by the beers, which he clearly craved but wouldn’t drink because imbibing poison that’s literally been handed to you by a mysterious unknown stranger is an embarrassing way for anyone to die.

I figured it was up to me to get answers out of her. Glorian Justiciars practise all sorts of intricate facial expressions and vocal mannerisms designed to induce varying degrees of terror in the suspects they interrogate. I chose the least overtly threatening option, because in my experience it was the most menacing. ‘Who– or what– are you?’

She leaned across the table and placed one hand over mine. ‘I have been a great many things, Cade Ombra, and lived a hundred lives in only a handful of years.’ Her gaze softened, her bottom lip quivered. ‘Right now, though, I’m just a girl, sitting in front of a boy, hoping he’ll tell her she’s the most beautiful, perfect person he’s ever met and that, from this moment until his last breath, he’ll devote every second of his life to making each day happier than the one before.’

‘Gross,’ said Alice.

‘Ah!’ Aradeus exclaimed, slapping a gloved hand to his thigh. ‘I understand now. This magnificent lady has come to join our esteemed coven.’ He gave me the sort of dashing, I-told-you-so moustachioed smiles for which rat mages are rightly reviled by civilised folk. ‘Did I not tell you, Brother Cade? Did I not predict that heroes from across the continent would flock to our banner once word spread of our noble endeavour?’

‘Bands of mercenary wonderists don’t have banners, Aradeus.’

Well, plenty of covens do strut around with elaborate banners covered in mystical sigils and esoteric heraldry, which does make it convenient when tracking them down after someone’s hired you to kill them.

‘Besides, we don’t want anyone else,’ Corrigan insisted. ‘We’ve already got those Arsehole Eight or whoever they are horning in on our action. Too many chefs spoil the stew, just like too many co — ’

‘We need everyone we can get,’ Galass retorted. ‘Or were you too busy contemplating your genitals while the rest of us were risking our necks in Cade’s doomed scheme for stopping the war?’

That hurt.

‘Well, you’re wrong,’ Corrigan declared, standing up as if this somehow added to the authority of his argument. ‘Not the part about Cade’s plan being awful, obviously. I mean the part about us needing more wonderists.’ He jabbed a finger at each of us in turn, counting off as he went before finally ending with himself. ‘Seven,’ he finished. ‘Seven deadly motherfuckers who are going to save the world, which is why we’re called the Malevolent Seven . Not the Malevolent Eight . Not the Malevolent Nine . Those names are stupid and I refuse to throw away my life on Cade’s idiotic mission if people are going to be giggling at us behind our backs whispering, ‘Look, there goes the Malevolent Eight! That’s right, they call themselves the Malevolent Eight !’

‘Got that out of your system?’ I asked.

‘No. I also want uniforms. Cool ones.’ He tapped a finger against his chest. ‘With a big number “seven” embroidered in silver thread.’ He sat back down heavily. ‘I need a drink. Or a prostitute.’ He shot the Spellslinger a sideways glance. ‘Not you, honey. A proper prostitute with meat on her bones and without the gleam in her eye that reminds me of the time my mother tried to strangle me in my crib.’

Corrigan’s mother really did attempt to murder her infant son. Several times. The tale of how he survived is quite fascinating. Ask him sometime. Get him drunk first, though, so he can’t access his Tempestoral magic. He tends to blow up large land masses when he talks about his childhood.

‘I can see how you must put a terrible fear of oblivion into the Auroral and Infernal forces,’ the Spellslinger observed. She wasn’t an angelic, then, as she was clearly capable of sarcasm.

‘Are you one of the other coven of wonderists?’ Shame asked. ‘Did you come here to brag, child?’

That same flicker of ire sparked in her eyes, but it faded even more quickly this time. ‘I’m just passing through. You know, a little business, a little pleasure.’ She removed one of the pewter steins from the tray and placing it in front of me, added, ‘Mostly, I dropped in to buy my old friend Cade a beer.’

The Infernal concoction inside the pewter container swirled ominously. That didn’t necessarily mean it was poisoned; Infernals do like their alcohol to have a little life in it. ‘Well,’ I began, sliding the beer back across the table to her, ‘first, hello. Second, thanks for the beer, and third’– I set my heels against the floorboards and shoved myself back. The legs of the chair screeched along the oak planking in a promisingly threatening fashion. I brought my hand up, my left palm open towards the Spellslinger, my right clenched in a fist as I summoned the first twisting, buzzing energies of my mystical attunement– ‘third, I’ve never met you before, “old friend”, and I’m pretty sure you’re not the sort of gal a guy forgets.’

Her expression didn’t change. According to my old master Hazidan Rosh, the human face contains forty-three separate muscles. Not one of them so much as twitched.

Think what you want about my track record as a war mage, but nobody– nobody – remains that calm in the presence of a wonderist summoning up a spell.

Maybe she’s not clever or cunning , I thought, watching her watch me with that placid, knowing expression. Maybe she’s just some insanely hot halfwit who has no idea what magic is, never mind wields any of her own. I mean, Corrigan wasn’t wrong: ‘Spellslinger’ is a stupid term for a wonderist.

She picked up the beer stein I’d refused and downed its contents in one gulping, distinctly un-dainty swig, then wiped her mouth with her shirtsleeve. ‘Guess I can’t blame you for not remembering me, Cade. As I recall you had that. . . what’s it called again?’ She waved her fingers in the air negligently. ‘The Celestine Fog or the Auroral Mist or some such thing?’

‘The Glorian Haze?’ Alice demanded, leaping up from her chair and drawing her whip-sword. ‘Cade, what did you do to this wom — ?’

‘Time to shut your mouth, little girl,’ Corrigan said in a pleasant, sing-song voice. Much as he delighted in playing the big, brutish boor, the fact was that Corrigan Blight had one of the finest strategic minds of anyone I’d ever met. Had our mission been to destroy the entire world rather than attempt to save it, he’s the one I would’ve put in charge. Right now, those highly attuned military instincts of his were warning him that our present circumstances were far more volatile than they appeared.

The Glorian Haze.

I still had no memories of the Spellslinger from my days as a Justiciar. That wasn’t entirely unexpected: our missions were always infused with the transcendent zeal granted us by the Aurorals. We’d stride the world like demigods in a trance, directed by the guiding hand of a Lord Celestine. In that blissful, righteous state of spiritual certainty, we could perceive every shading of sin around us, even pick out our fugitive from a crowd of thousands on a starless night. And yet the details, the sights, were never truly in focus. The memories became a blur. That’s why it’s called the Glorian Haze. It’s also why the faces of those we imprisoned or executed never haunted our dreams: we simply forgot them and moved on.

What I did recall was the fact that Tenebris had seated us around an eight-sided table. Coincidences are rare when dealing with diabolics.

‘So, you’re a fugitive from the Glorian Justiciars looking for revenge who joined up with a bunch of second-rate wonderists to sell their services to the Infernals?’ I asked.

‘I prefer to work alone,’ the Spellslinger replied, playing with one of her dark, glistening curls in a way that sent a pleasant tingle through me. She dipped a finger in the remains of the ceramic bowl. ‘And I hate paella.’

‘Heathen,’ Corrigan muttered.

‘You’re telling me the Aurorals hired an ex-con?’

She shook her head. Those damned curls jiggled enticingly as she leaned in close. ‘Let’s just say, I represent a third party with a vested interest in preserving the natural order of affairs currently unfolding across the Mortal realm.’

‘ Natural? ’ Galass asked angrily. ‘There’s nothing “natural” about war.’

The Spellslinger laughed. ‘Darling, war is the most natural force in existence. It’s the means by which the past gives way to the future.’ Her eyes twinkled as she held my gaze and added, ‘It’s how we settle scores.’

With most wonderists, that sort of idle, companionably delivered comment quickly leads to explosions, aethereal fires and screams of agonising death. The Spellslinger just shook her head in wry amusement as if she couldn’t believe I still wasn’t getting the joke.

‘You know, Cade,’ she began, her tone unexpectedly intimate, ‘despite everything, I’ve developed a soft spot for you. I mean, this whole “seven lunatics saving the world” thing you’ve got going on? It’s adorable.’ She reached out a hand and pinched my cheek. ‘And you’re cute as hell.’ She rose from her chair and tugged her waistcoat, straightening it. ‘That’s why I’m giving you a second chance. Stop interfering with the recruitment efforts of the Infernals and the Aurorals. Back away from the edge of this cliff you’ve run to; it’s one wrong move away from collapsing under your feet. Let the Great Crusade unfold, just like fate intended.’

I decided to stay silent. I hate when people make you ask, ‘ Or else? ’ The answer’s never pleasant.

‘Or else?’ Shame asked.

Backing towards the door, the Spellslinger spread her arms wide. ‘Right now, I’m just the messenger. Once my bosses tire of your meddling– then, sweetheart, my next visit will have a more. . . explosive outcome.’

‘Is she talking about sex?’ Corrigan asked, turning to me. ‘Listen, Brother, you know I rarely interfere in your lack of a love life, but let me find you a nice, plump hooker instead.’ He put up his hands. ‘Disease-free this time, I promise.’

For the record, there was never a first time. He’s thinking about himself.

I followed the Spellslinger’s steps to the door, my gaze drawn to her every move. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I’d been mesmerised by her. Just like I also knew it hadn’t involved magic or even beauty. She knew something about me– something about us – and that gave her a power over me I couldn’t explain.

Just before she stepped out into the street, she turned and flashed me that smile of hers one last time. ‘The Malevolent Seven,’ she said. ‘Most darling thing I’ve ever heard.’

As her footsteps faded, Corrigan said, ‘I’ll give her this much: that girl knows how to make an entrance and an exit.’

‘The lady does indeed possess an unmistakable flair about her, does she not?’ Aradeus observed.

Galass and Shame were staring thoughtfully at the empty doorway. Even Temper was caught up in the kangaroo equivalent of confounded awe.

Fortunately, one of us proved immune to her charms.

‘Are you demented fools going to sit there like rotting vegetables after a wonderist who just declared herself our enemy saunters unharmed out the door?’ Alice demanded. Her ire was entirely directed at me. ‘What purpose did Hazidan Rosh have for training me as a Justiciar, only to saddle me with cowards who care nothing for justice?’ Her whip-sword came crashing down on the table. The azure stone surface shattered, sending plates, cutlery and what was left of the paella scattering all over the floor. ‘Tell me, oh great and terrible war mages, is it the Spellslinger’s smile or her arse that so ensorcels you?’

‘Arse,’ Corrigan said before I could stop him.

I rose from my chair. ‘Alice is right.’

‘Since when?’ Corrigan asked. ‘I always assumed you’d recruited her because you figured we needed a sulky, ill-tempered mascot.’

Enigmatic warnings and veiled threats are routine in this business. Wonderists on opposite sides of a conflict regularly put on these little performances to put each other off their game. Some might argue the practice saves lives, avoiding catastrophic showdowns by making the enemy reconsider their life choices.

Me? I’d already left behind my old life, twice, in fact, and I didn’t anticipate the third attempt was going to end well. So I was done playing by the usual rules.

‘Where are you going?’ Galass jumped up to stop me.

I shrugged off her grip and stepped out onto the street. ‘I’m going to kick that so-called Spellslinger’s arse and make her tell me who her bosses are so I can go and kick theirs next.’

I swear, I’m not usually the impulsive one in our group. Three guesses who’s usually the one going off half-cocked. Actually, don’t bother, because it turned out my sudden reckless streak was far more predictable than I’d expected.

The Spellslinger was waiting for me outside.

The town, on the other hand. . .