“I’m going in. You two are welcome to stay outside.” I bent my back and took a step into the tortoise’s mouth.
Chapter 16
The tongue gave a bit under my feet. Like walking on a saturated sponge. Ahead a deeper blackness indicated the opening of the throat. I bent lower to clear the roof of the mouth and headed for it.
Behind me Derek sneezed.
“Decided to come after all?”
Sneeze. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
The throat sloped gently, its bottom flooded with a murky liquid. Long strands of what looked like algae hung from the top of the throat-tunnel, dripping more liquid. Hopefully it wasn’t acid. It didn’t smell any different from the ordinary pond water, a touch fishy. I pulled a throwing knife, stretched and dipped the tip into the water. No discoloration. I touched the wet blade. My finger didn’t melt. Very well.
I stepped into water, slipped, and landed on my butt. Why me?
The vampire scuttled past me, throwing me a look over its shoulder. “As always, a picture of refined grace.”
“Shut up.”
My boots were full of tortoise throat spit.
The vamp took a step and vanished under the water.
I scrambled to my feet.
The vamp’s head reappeared. “A bit deep through here,” Ghastek warned.
Ha! Served him right.
The water came up to my waist. I waded through the tunnel in the gloom, the quiet splashing of the vampire ahead the only guide as to direction. Derek’s sneezing finally stopped.
The tunnel turned. I splashed through and stopped.
I stood in a shallow pool, among a dense blanket of lily pads. Cream-colored lilies glowed on the water.
An enormous dome lay before me. High above, at its very top, the carapace became transparent, and pale light filtered through, highlighting the translucent ridges of the tortoise shell. The walls darkened gradually, clear at the top, then green with the colors of the grasses and kudzu sheathing the shell from the outside, and finally deep black and green marble. Large rectangles had been cut within the walls, each with its own glyph etched in gold leaf and a name. The arrangement was strikingly familiar, but so unexpected, it took my brain a moment to recognize it.
I stood in a crypt.
A small noise made me turn. The pool ended a few feet in front of me, and beyond it, across the expanse of tortoise shell floor, just past the edge of light, rose a rectangular platform. On the platform waited three women.
The woman on the right could’ve easily qualified for a center spot in a five-generation family portrait: withered, gaunt, frail. She had seen seventy some time ago. Her thin hair surrounded her head like a nimbus of fine cotton. The black silk of her gown served only to accentuate her age. But her eyes stabbed me with sharp, predatory intelligence. She sat ramrod straight, poised on a heavy chair that was more a throne than a common seat. Like an aging raptor, old but ready to strike at the first hint of blood.
The woman next to her was barely older than Julie. She reclined on a small Roman-style sofa. Black silk streamed from her in folds and curves, so much of it that the fabric threatened to drown her. Sallow, almost translucent against that silk, she rested her head on her bent arm. Her cheekbones stood out. Her neck was barely thicker than my wrist. By contrast her blond hair fell from her head in twin braids, luxurious and thick.
The last woman sat in a rocking chair, knitting an unidentifiable garment from brownish yarn. She looked like she had sucked up all of the flesh the other two lacked. Plump, healthy, with her thick brown hair braided, she watched her knitting with a knowing half smile.
Maiden, mother, and crone. How classic. Double, double, toil and trouble?
I looked above them, to where a large mural darkened the wall. A tall woman towered above the platform, drawn in a simple but sharp style, the kind a genius child artist might employ. Three arms rose from her body: the first held a knife, the second a torch, and the third a chalice with a tiny snake winding about it. To the left of her sat a black cat and a toad. To the right lay a key and a broom.
Before the woman sat a huge cauldron, positioned on the intersection of three roads. Black hounds ran across the walls in both directions, all facing the cauldron.
The Oracle worshipped Hekate, the Queen of the Night, the Mother of all Witches. Although known by her Greek name, she was much older. Her worship stretched through two millennia, its roots buried in the fertile folkloric soil of Turkey and Asia. The Greeks had too much respect to ignore her ancient heritage and her seductive power. They made her the only Titan Zeus had permitted into his pantheon, partially because he had fallen in love with her. She was the goddess of choice, of victory and defeat, of knowledge magical and medicinal, the guardian of the boundary between spiritual and mundane, and the witness to all crimes against women and children.
Underestimating her Oracle would prove extremely unwise.
I felt Derek behind me, waiting. The vampire had left the pool and crouched on its rim. I bowed.
The crone spoke. “Approach.”
Slowly I crossed the water. My feet found stone steps and I emerged onto the floor.
“Closer,” the crone said.
I took another step and felt the edges of a spell lying in wait. I put my foot down. Derek stopped too, but the vampire advanced past me, oblivious.
The crone thrust her hand at us, fingers rigid like claws. Chalk lines slid from under the stones as if blown by errant wind, and I found myself locked in a circle of glyphs. Ahead the vampire fell, caught in an identical trap. Derek growled and I didn’t have to look to know he was captured, as well.
The crone smirked.
I probed the spell. Strong, but breakable. Should I stay in the circle out of respect or should I break out? Staying in would be a polite thing to do. Breaking out would likely provoke them, but would they deal with me if they could keep me pinned?
“Release me,” Ghastek’s voice echoed through the dome. “I’ve come here in good faith.”
The crone stabbed her hand to the right. The circle slid, dragging the vampire within it and crashed into the wall with a harsh thud. The crone’s eyes lit up with arrogant satisfaction. Well, that settled it.
“This is an outrage.” The vampire sprung to its feet.
“Silence, abomination.”
The circle slid to the left. Ghastek tried to run, anticipating the direction but the chalk tripped him and pulled him across the stones. She was enjoying herself way too much. She didn’t chant, so it had to be a preexisting spell. If I could have sensed at least the type of magic she was using, I might have gotten some idea where to look for the spell, but locked within the glyphs, I couldn’t feel a thing outside the circle.
Derek sat down, cross-legged, and settled to wait it all out.
I reached into my belt, pulled the cork off a plastic tube, and tossed a pinch of powder onto the spell. Wormwood, alder, and rowan, ground to fine dust, and iron shavings flittered to the floor in a fine cloud, tiny iron particles glistening as they caught light. The chalk lines dimmed and I stepped out and bowed.
The crone bared her teeth and thrust both hands at me, crushing the air in her gnarled fists.
A wave of chalk slid across the stones to clutch at me. A triple ring. Earth based, too. Iron and wood wouldn’t work. Going all out.
“Break that, why don’t you!” The crone leaned back, triumphant.
I raised my sword and thrust into the ring, gathering as much of my magic as I could and feeding it into the blade. The enchanted saber perspired. Gossamer smoke slithered from the metal. The magic squeezed the blade.
The first line of glyphs fell apart.
