Shadows Before the Sun

10

Sandra had been preening for the last half hour, ever since we’d returned from the banquet wherein I did not, in fact, kill the Circe. My restraint, however, put me in a piss poor mood; I was more frustrated and impatient than ever.

“If you say I told you so one more time, I swear to God, Sandra, I will choke the words right out of you.” I propped my feet on the edge of the table in front of the couch.

“Touchy, aren’t we?” She dropped onto the cushion across from me. “But I did say so, didn’t I? They played right into my hands. It was perfect, and now we have our invitation into the Circe’s inner sanctum to take part in their Panopéic rites, an honor rarely granted, after which I will do my thing and read the leaves.” She stopped her self-adulation and pierced me with a flat look. “You should be happy. Why aren’t you happy?”

“Well, it’s kind of hard to feel happy given the situation Hank is in. But I am glad we’re making progress.”

“I made progress,” she corrected. “You just gawked at the griffins.” After a long moment of silent regard, she asked, “You really care so much for this siren of yours, then?”

“Of course I do.” My response was immediate. “You should know.”

“I know you care enough for him to risk your life, but that’s not what I’m asking. The last time I read you there was quite a bit of baggage mixed with your feelings for Hank. A lot of desire, too. And struggle. And hurt. Do you love him? Romantically?”

That was a subject I wasn’t ready to think on, but her question stuck anyway. Did I love him? Yes, without question. Romantically? We hadn’t got that far. The newer, more potent feelings I was developing for Hank were tangled up in the feelings I already had for him, for our friendship, the loyalty we had to each other, the trust . . . But all that didn’t equate to romantic love and it certainly didn’t mean those feelings would develop into love, either. For me or for him. But knowing all that, there was an indefinable aura about this thing between us, like it was something bigger, more significant than simple lust and friendship.

“Charlie?”

I blinked.

“The question. Do you love him?”

“No.” Not yet. “There is something, though . . . I don’t know . . . But I want the chance to find out, whatever it is.” And to explain it all to Sandra would take forever and make me feel like a wishy-washy idiot, so I left it at that.

She considered my response. “You are so certain he lives.”

“I know he does.” I hadn’t told her about my run-in with Leander and now was as good a time as any to see what she thought about that. “What do you know about the NecroNaMoria?”

Her eyes grew wide and she straightened her posture. “How do you know of this?”

“Well, I don’t know much, but I know it’s happening to Hank . . . that the Circe are torturing him with it.”

She just stared at me for a long moment before sinking back into the cushions. “Torture is too mild a term. I think I need a drink.” She went to the side table to pour a glass of wine, then leaned against the table and gulped down three long swallows. “Gods, Charlie . . . I know of it. But first tell me why you think this is happening to your siren.”

I watched her carefully. “Leander told me.”

Her face went white. The glass slipped from her fingers and crashed onto the floor. And still she didn’t move. Her stunned expression finally shifted into one of intense thought. “When? When did you see him? Is he here in the city?”

“He was. I don’t think he stuck around. Why?”

“Because if he was”—her eyes turned cold—“I would kill him.” I went to speak, to question her, but she cut me off. “It’s none of your business, Charlie. Don’t make the mistake of thinking we’re friends, that we share. I don’t share my past with anyone.”

With that she stepped over the spilled wine and stormed out the door and into the hallway.

“Well, that didn’t exactly go as planned, did it?” I said to the empty room.

And, damn it, I never got my answer to the NecroNaMoria.

* * *

I was standing on the balcony, leaning against the stone wall that separated me from the cliffs below, when I heard Sandra return. The short clip of her heels on the stone told me she was still pissed, or at the very least intent.

The sound came through the main room and right up behind me, where it stopped. I supposed she wanted me to turn around, but I continued to watch the stars in the night sky and listen to the sea. “You know, all that negativity you’re throwing around is kind of ruining a perfectly good moment here.” I glanced over my shoulder.

Her eyes rolled. “Pot, meet kettle.” She took up a spot next to me and watched the stars for a long beat. “I’m not exactly good with people.”

I smiled. “And now you’re preaching to the choir.”

“Yes, that is true. Your people skills are exceptionally bad. Far worse than mine.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly.

We watched the sky for a while before she spoke again. “About what I said before . . . the friend thing . . . You see, it’s . . . well . . .”

“Don’t sweat it, Sandra,” I said with the bizarre realization that she and I were actually similar in a lot of ways—except when she was like Rex. “If you can’t let off a little steam with friends, then when can you, right?”

A soft sigh went out of her that sounded suspiciously like relief, but she joked, “Since when are we friends? I don’t even like you.”

“Yeah, well, right back atcha.”

“Good. I’m glad that’s settled,” she said with humor in her voice. We settled into a companionable silence. And it was nice. Until she said, “So you want to know about the NecroNaMoria.”

I turned away from the view, let my hip rest against the stone, and crossed my arms over my chest. As much as I knew I wouldn’t like what she said, I had to know. I drew in a readying breath. “Yeah, I need to know what he’s going through.”

“The NecroNaMoria is the blackest, vilest kind of crafting. Only a few exist who have the knowledge and power to defy the very nature of the soul. It’s a spell that tethers a soul to its body even if that body dies. With a siren, able to heal from his wounds, the spell becomes a cycle that is beyond comprehension.”

“In what way?” I prompted.

“The body dies and the soul is released. Peace in the Afterlife is at hand. But the tether prevents it from entering that resting place. The soul is pulled back into the body. Imagine that kind of freedom and then being forced back into a dark, damaged, foul container, a prison where every ache and pain is felt a trillion times more intensely, as if for the very first time. The worst thing about the NecroNaMoria is that this can be done indefinitely, over and over again, until the spell is released.”

“And once it’s released. What happens to the victim?”

“It depends on when the spell is ended. If it’s while the soul is out of the body, the person is finally granted death and the soul continues on to the Afterlife. If it happens when the soul is within the body, the person heals eventually, but . . .”

“But what?”

“The toll on the psyche is often irreparable. It is difficult to come back from that, Charlie. Maybe if it’s done once or twice, but to experience this over and over again . . . I’m sorry,” Sandra said softly.

A wall went up inside of me. “It’s not the end, Sandra. There is always a way to fix things, always a loophole . . .” Which sounded lame even to my ears, but on I forged. “If there are people who know things like the NecroNaMoria then there are those who know how to heal from it. I’m not sure how much, but Leander knows