Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [173]
“And what are the odds of that?”
The pale eyes met his. The voice betrayed not a tremor of fear. “Better than the odds if we don’t try anything.”
Working. Normally Tarrant could manage it with no more effort than a single moment of tension, perhaps a narrowed gaze if the matter was difficult, but now ... Damien watched the adept brace himself, eyes shut tightly in concentration, and felt himself grow sick at what that implied. Then he drew out his sword from its warded sheath, and the fae bound to the sharpened steel seemed to glitter hungrily in Shaitan’s bloody light. Damien felt the Working take shape and braced himself for the frigid bite of the Hunter’s coldfire, but the power that surged through him when the moment came was like nothing at all familiar. It was a force that froze and burned all at once, that left his flesh shaking as if an entire storm system had squeezed through his veins. He didn’t need Tarrant to tell him that wasn’t all from the Working; the feeling of heat was a dead giveaway that some other power was involved. Tarrant had stated his Call, and the fae was reflecting it back at him with the accuracy of a funhouse mirror. God willing, the distortion would be minor. God willing they wouldn’t conjure something worse than what they were already dealing with.
When he was done Tarrant resheathed his sword, and the coldfire faded. “Do you think—” Damien began, but the Hunter waved him to silence. The tension in the man was palpable now, and Damien had to turn away and not look at him, to keep from being sucked into it. He had enough fear of his own, thank you very much, and didn’t need to absorb any one else’s.
And then, in the mist before them, something stirred. He saw Tarrant take a half step forward, then stop. A shadow? An illusion? Or something else? Wisps of silver fog twined and gathered, and slowly took on a form that seemed human. Was this the fae’s answer to their need, or simply another of the walking dead, drawn by their cry of desperation? As it slowly became distinct from the mist that surrounded it, Damien saw that its form was female, and that in life it must surely have been a beautiful woman, for even in death its features were graceful and pleasing—
Then Tarrant gasped, and stepped back as if struck. There was more fear in that one sound than Damien had ever heard him utter, and for a moment Damien was rooted to the spot. Then he took a step forward as if to—what, protect the man?—close enough to see the figure clearly, and make out its details.
She was a slender woman, delicately formed, with a thick corona of hair that still hinted at its living color, a soft red-gold. Her eyes were large and were fixed on Tarrant with such intensity that it was clear her living self had known him. A victim, perhaps? Her lips were full and likewise tinted with a trace of rouge, so alive in their aspect that Damien could almost imagine a human breath passing through them, and a heartbeat behind it. She wore a long gown of what must have been a fine wool, pale in color, and on it ... he squinted, trying to bring it into focus. The folds of the gown shifted slowly as if in a breeze, and sometimes they seemed pure white, while others ... he caught a flicker of color and tried to focus on it ... thin tendrils of red running down between the folds, and a scarlet stain just where the heart would be.
And then Tarrant whispered, “Almea.”
And he understood. Dear God. He understood.
“Your wife?”
“No.” The Hunter shook his head. “Not my wife. A shadow, formed by the currents here. Not her.”
He looked at the ghostly image, then back at Tarrant. It was hard to say which of the two was paler.
“Maybe it was formed in answer to—”
“No!” The figure was moving toward Tarrant; the Hunter backed away quickly. “It’s Calesta’s illusion. It must be. Or else a real shadow, drawn by our presence here. My