Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [73]
She kept telling herself that as she edged carefully past the green marble pillar that, to her eyes, almost pulsated with energy. It was old. Very old. And very much not for the likes of her.
Not for the likes of him, either, she thought, resentful on behalf of the pillar, then circular-filed the thought. She wasn’t here to rescue anyone else’s talismans. Not if they weren’t paying her.
The clear crystal, on the other hand, actively repelled her. Contrary, she stopped in front of it, trying to see into the depths. Taking precious seconds she didn’t have, Wren let her eyes unfocus, then clicked into a working trance. Not as effective as a fugue, it should nonetheless allow her to gather more information about the stone. Reaching out with the ability that made her a Talent, Wren touched something slick, sweet and disgusting. Her eyes widened and she snapped back the probe in that instant of contact.
Blood.
Wren grimaced, trying to get the taste/smell/feel out of her brain. Current was flavored by the user, the more so the longer it was held, and so were the spells they made with it. This was nasty, particularly nasty. And…what was the word? Malevolent. All she wanted to do was find a nice nasty thunderstorm somewhere and let a few lightning bolts slam through her, to wash the taint away.
Backing away from the crystal, she turned to face the concrete slab she had been hired to retrieve. A pocket flap on the arm of her bodysuit gave way with the snick of Velcro and she pulled out a slender ivory wand the length of her finger. It might, in fact, once have been someone’s finger. You didn’t ask too many details when you were buying someone else’s work.
Wren was lousy at making talismans. Unfortunately, she was even worse at translocation. So she’d had to rely on someone else’s skill. Pointing the wand at the cornerstone, she rubbed the ivory between her fingers until it began to warm up, then said the incantation under her breath. Haste made disaster, but the awareness of that crystal at her back created an intense desire to be gone from that place. Subconsciously she moved closer to her target, and the wand dipped dramatically, like a dowsing stick hitting pay dirt, tapping the cement once, sharply.
Wren barely had time to moan in dismay before a thick black smog came out of unseen vents, turning the air into an impenetrable barrier. A basic security system—confuse a thief, make it impossible for him to see his goal and nine times out of ten he’ll flee empty-handed.
No time to flagellate yourself now, she thought. Finish it. Holding the wand more firmly in fingers suddenly slick with sweat, Wren completed the incantation. But even as she felt the current wave itself into the proper patterns, something felt off. There was too much magic in the room, and her concentration had been fouled. Something was wrong….
“When I bid you—go!” she cried, trying to gather her own magics as a protection against whatever might be happening. There was a terrible noise, like the scream of a dying man, and a flash of electric light shot upward from where the cornerstone lay, up toward the ceiling.
In that instant, she felt the spell snap into place, and the cornerstone vanished, leaving behind the usual rush of incoming air that indicated a successful translocation.
And in its place, rising tall and solid in the space where the stone had been, a figure formed, shaking crumbs of concrete off its incorporeal shoulders.
Aaahhhhhhh
It was less a sound than an exhalation of pure energy. If Wren thought she had been spooked by the crystal, she hadn’t known the meaning of the word until then. This was old, and dead, and not quite human any longer—
And it was very, very angry.
Wren came back to awareness as her feet carried her down the hallway, the talisman room already a distant memory. Her lizard brain had taken over, reading the blueprints in her memory and directing the body through her