Hellforged

Mab heaved an exasperated sigh. “I can’t understand.”

This was ridiculous. I grabbed a pen and a pad of paper from Mab’s desk and wrote out the prophecy. I can’t claim to have the world’s greatest handwriting, but it was legible. I read it over to make sure, then passed the pad to Mab.

“It’s gibberish, child.”

I looked again. She was right; the words had changed. The sentence I’d written had morphed into a long string of random letters.

I stared at the page, willing the letters to change back, to say what I’d written. But they stubbornly remained as they were. Something was forcing me to keep Pryce’s prophecy secret.

AFTER ANOTHER HALF HOUR OF TRYING, I COULDN’T GET anything else from the book. Every line I stared at, every page I turned, trumpeted the same message: From a goddess two lines diverged, but they shall be reunited in Victory.

The damn book was taunting me.

When I looked up, bleary-eyed, Mab was watching me as intently as if the book’s meaning were reflected in my face. “Anything?” she asked.

“No.” I rubbed my temples, trying to ease my persistent headache. “Just that same prophecy, over and over.” I took another stab at saying it out loud, but Mab shook her head.

“Why can’t I make you understand? Is there a spell on me?”

“No. But the book owns its words and decides who may receive them.”

“That’s one hell of a copyright.”

“Indeed. Never forget, child: The book tries to control your understanding of what you read. There’s a part of the prophecy it doesn’t want you to discuss with me. That suggests your current understanding of the prophecy is aligned with what the book wants you to think. Do not consider your understanding true or inevitable. Be open to other interpretations.”

I nodded, but I had my doubts. What else could it mean? Pryce had made it so clear.

“Enough of the book. Now,” Mab said, standing, “it’s time for lunch. Then I’m going to teach you how to fight the Morfran.”

20

I STOOD ON THE SLOPING BACK LAWN. HUGE, PUFFY CLOUDS filled the sky. A steady wind blew, and I was glad my hair was short enough to stay out of my face. Something told me I’d need my concentration.

Beside me, Mab wore her usual weapons-practice outfit: a black turtleneck and narrow black pants. No helmet, and no elbow or knee pads, so she didn’t expect things to get too physical. Good. The shower helped, but I still ached from yesterday’s beating.

I was ready to learn how to kick some Morfran ass, and I said so.

Mab frowned at my choice of words. “The Morfran lacks that anatomical part,” she said in her lecturer voice. “It’s different from any demon you’re accustomed to fighting. As I told you yesterday, it’s a hunger. It requires direction, which it gets in one of two ways. The Morfran can take possession of someone who already has a propensity for destructive hunger.”

“You mentioned serial killers.”

“Yes. Mass murderers also, and those who commit wartime atrocities. But Morfran-possessed humans are relatively rare, and they’re not our concern.” She gestured, pushing that topic away. “As you’ve learned,” she continued, “the Morfran is the essence of all demons, created by Avagddu. Demons can direct the Morfran, but only within their own realm.”

“Uffern.”

“Yes. That’s why Pryce needed your bond with the Destroyer as a bridge. Through you, he could push demonic control of the Morfran into the human plane.”

“So why not just set me up with a lifetime supply of that no-dreaming tea?” As soon as I said it, I knew it wouldn’t work. “It’s not only my dreams. The Destroyer got into that client’s dream. I’d never be able to make a living if I couldn’t enter anyone’s dreamscape.” Drude exterminations were my number-one source of income.

“There are two additional concerns. One”—she held up a finger—“the tea is a temporary solution. No one can live for long shut out of their own dreamscape. In time, your body would circumvent its effects. Two”—she held up a second finger—“as the Morfran grows stronger, Pryce needs you less.”

“He said something like that yesterday.”

Mab dropped her hand, and urgency tightened her features. “The Morfran has already fed three times. As it strengthens, so do demons. And the Morfran calls more of itself to itself. When the Morfran reaches critical mass, the demons will gain power they haven’t possessed in centuries.”

Bad news. I’d been fighting demons for ten years. More than once, I’d nearly been killed on the job. But Mab was saying that those demons were a bunch of wimps compared to what was coming if we didn’t stop the Morfran.

As if to confirm my thoughts, Mab nodded. “Humanity thrives because our kind has kept the Morfran contained. Most of it, anyway. But now, I fear, Pryce has discovered how to release the Morfran. I’m going to teach you to put it back where it belongs.”

“Good. I’m ready.”

She picked up a piece of dark gray slate, about three feet high by two feet wide, like the slate flagstones lining the terrace behind Maenllyd, only bigger. She lifted the heavy tile like it weighed nothing, carried it across the lawn, and leaned it against the trunk of a tree five yards away. Then she returned to where I stood.

“Have you ever heard the expression stone the crows?” she asked.

“Um, no.”

“It expresses disbelief or annoyance. As in ‘Stone the crows, my bloody car broke down again.’ ”

I shrugged, suppressing a smile. Swearing—even a mild oath like “bloody”—was so out of character for my aunt.

“No matter,” she went on. “It’s more than an expression. It’s an ancient practice.”

“Like farmers throwing stones at crows to shoo them away from their crops?”

“There is that. But I’m speaking of an ancient magical practice. Remember that Morfran means ‘great crow.’ The Morfran can be imprisoned in stone. In slate, to be specific.”

She produced a dagger, easily the most beautiful I’d ever seen. Its bone hilt seethed with carvings of twining vines, symbols, and letters. The blade, six inches long, was made of glassy black stone that glowed with silver light. My fingers itched to heft it and feel its balance. I doubted Mab would let me touch it today. I’d had to practice with wooden swords for two years before she let me try the real thing—and then it was another whole summer with a blunted blade.

“It’s an obsidian athame,” Mab said.

“An athame? I don’t know anything about witchcraft.”

“You don’t need to. Witches call their ceremonial dagger an athame because it’s not a weapon but a tool for directing energy. That’s how we use this knife, as well.” She spun it a few times, like a gunfighter in a classic Western. “What are the magical properties of obsidian?”

Oh, crap. Minerals and gemstones were my weakest area. I hadn’t thought about that stuff in years. “You could’ve told me there’d be a quiz. I would’ve studied.”

“Don’t be flippant. Obsidian—as you should know—disperses and redirects negative energy. The bone hilt lends strength and acts as an intensifier; its carvings are spells written in the language of The Book of Utter Darkness. The athame’s name is Hellforged.”

“Wait … Hellforged?” Suddenly, the dagger looked more ominous than beautiful.

Mab nodded. “It was created in Hell, by Hellions, as a tool for directing the Morfran. Your ancestor Nimuë stole it and used it to imprison the Morfran.” Nimuë, a formidable Cerddorion demon fighter, shows up in norm culture as the Lady of the Lake in legends about King Arthur. She gave Arthur his sword Excalibur and caused Merlin some trouble.

“It’s a powerful tool,” Mab said. She held out the athame, hilt first. “Take it.”

I couldn’t have heard her right. “Now?”

Mab gestured impatiently. “I’d prefer to proceed more slowly, but there’s no time.”

The dagger was a beautiful object, well wrought and glowing with a mystical silver light. But I didn’t want to touch it, not if it was Hellion-made. Any time I messed with Hellions, I came out on the losing side.

Mab gestured again, and I reluctantly took the athame. When my fingers closed around the grip, a jolt of electricity shot up my arm. The dagger leapt skyward, yanking my arm with it.

“Hey!” I let go before the damn knife pulled my shoulder from the socket. When I did, the athame fell to the grass and lay there, looking innocent. If the thing had a face, it would’ve been wearing a “Who, me?” expression.

I rubbed my shoulder. “What the hell happened?”

Mab, bending over to pick up the dagger, glanced at me. “Purity, child.”

At first I thought she was telling me to watch my language, then I remembered what she’d said yesterday.

“You mean I’m not pure enough to use it.”

She balanced the athame on her open palm. “You are marked by Hellion essence. It’s not surprising there’s a reaction.”

“So why are you wasting my time showing it to me? I mean, it’s pretty and all, but give me something I can use.”

“You can use this.” She twirled it again. It was annoying to see her handle the knife so easily, like she was provoking me.

“No, I can’t.” I rarely raised my voice with my aunt, but I didn’t try to tone it down. “Not if it requires some impossible purity. I can’t help it that the Destroyer marked me. I’d cut the mark from my flesh if I could. But it’s part of me, and there’s no way to change that.”

“You can’t cut out the Hellion mark, true. But you can overcome it. That’s why I told you to focus on being purely yourself.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I muttered, still angry. Yesterday’s attempt to be pure had been a disaster. Instead of achieving some mystical purity, I’d gotten beat up and turned into a sheep. If anything, I’d taken three giant steps back from purity. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">