In Mage We Trust (Of Mystics and Mayhem Book 1) Page 3

  Before he could respond, a quiet reply came from near my feet. “It is safe. Max will not find it—this time.”

  I jumped at the silky voice melting through my senses like milk chocolate on a hot day. With tremendous effort, I lowered my head and met Cheesehead’s molten gaze. “You know, talking would have been a nice way to start our relationship.”

  “You might have refused.”

  My eyebrows rose high on my forehead. “Ya think? So . . . where’s the key?”

  “Safe.”

  “Are you always this talkative?”

  He shrugged, unconcerned, his bony shoulders barely moving. I wanted to ask why I couldn’t see it or know where it was but hesitated, as a queasiness rushed through me. Did I really want to know?

  The zombie’s head turned toward the spot in the wall where my dad had emerged, his sloppy face almost frowning. “He’s coming.”

  I glanced at my dad as the color drained from his face. I saw the fear in his eyes. Realization dawned at just how serious our situation was. If my father was scared, I was in real trouble.

  “Dad?” I whispered.

  He had a wild look in the depths of his dark eyes. “Come with me.” Grabbing my hand, he pulled me back down, my body wedged between his and Cheesehead’s. The two men shared a quick glance—if I could honestly call the crater-faced, gray thing a man. The zombie reached across me, placing his hand on my dad’s knee. The moment his bony fingers gripped Dad’s kneecap, everything in the alley dimmed.

  Thick air smothered me. A psychedelic mist swirled around us, each touch a caress. I laid my hand against the ground but jerked it back again. Instead of finding hard ground, this surface rolled and pitched, resembling a simmering soup, making us the vegetables.

  I scrambled to my feet, testing my balance. Dad’s grip tightened around my hand as he held me close. My fingers pounded from the lack of blood. I stepped up and down a couple of times with one foot and cringed as the ground squished under my shoe. Other than the sparkling mist, I still couldn’t see much until a few seconds later when the thick soupy haze lightened to a gray mist.

  Like a rollercoaster ride, my stomach traveled upward, levitated for a second, and rushed back down, reminding me how much I hated rollercoasters. Focused on not throwing up, I hadn’t noticed the bright light rushing toward us until just before we hurtled through the blinding whiteness.

  Bracing myself, I expected to land in a heap. Instead, I hit the ground upright, feet first. Pulling my gaze away from my shoes, I took a good look at my new surroundings. My heart fell into what was left of my stomach, which wasn’t much.

  They’d brought me to a graveyard.

  In a total state of shock I stared at nothing and everything, forgetting the required first response of a girl—

  Screaming.

  Dad caught my wide-eyed gaze, a lopsided grin twisting his lips. “My home away from home.”

  My anger flared then fizzled out, my body too tired to nurture the emotion. My gaze moved around the cemetery, the tombstones crowded together, quite a few tilted and broken. “Well. This is unexpected.” I ignored Cheesehead’s congested snort, now difficult to do since he was practically draped on top of me. I gave myself brownie points when I didn’t flinch. However, I made the mistake of looking at him and, much to my immediate surprise, his congealed, month–old gravy look, even up close and personal, didn’t bother me as much as it had in the alley. I should have felt totally sickened but I wasn’t.

  There’s something about him not quite right . . .

  Maybe it was my imagination, but his skin seemed smoother and not quite as sickly gray as before. In fact, there was a definite flush taking over.

  Staring into his yellow eyes, I realized how little control I truly had of my life. I couldn’t stop the quick head-to-toe shiver when he turned and shuffled away. The few long strands of hair still stuck to his head hung down his mud-covered back. No way would I ever ask where the mud came from.

  My pent-up irritation overflowed, and I whirled around, launching my rekindling anger at my father. “Where in the hell are we, and when did you move up in the world?” I shoved away the twinge of guilt at my scathing tone. I’d never considered myself petulant, but my inner child wanted to hurt him for casting me away like a piece of trash.

  Dad’s black eyes caught mine, and a subtle warning skated down my spine. His eye color freaked me out too. The longer he held my gaze, the sensation of my body hanging over the side of a bottomless abyss increased. True to my nature, I didn’t retreat and pushed back instead. Irritation radiated off his stiff posture. Two could play this familiar game, and I straightened, stiffening my shoulders.

  “Follow me.”

  Well, some things hadn’t changed. His commanding attitude and two-word non-answers were familiar and very maddening. My anger ratcheted up another notch. I walked behind him as he darted through the tombs. He, at least, knew where they headed. I tried to keep up and not embarrass myself by running into any of the large granite boxes. The ground under my feet echoed with each step, as if hollow.

  “Seriously, where are we?”

  I glanced at some of the names in passing but made out only a few of the timeworn etchings. Most were old surnames with a few first names barely visible. What were their parents thinking? Who’d name a baby Atlas or Amun? I laughed when I read the next one—Mimir.

  Puh-lease.

  The next name, scrolled letters etched into the aged granite, caught my attention. My pace slowed. Drawing my eyebrows together, I pursed my lips in concentration as I tried to recall where I’d seen the name before. Finally, the light bulb in my brain popped on. Calypso played the goddess in ‘Pirates of the Caribbean.’ What woman hadn’t seen the movie and lusted over Johnny Depp?

  Gaping at the etched markings of each letter, I struggled with comprehension. Surely there were probably many people throughout history with the name . . .

  Looking up, I found myself staring into Cheesehead's yellow gaze. They freaked me out more than my dad’s black eyes. From the sparkles tumbling around in those cat-like depths, I could almost believe he was laughing at me. Again. I scowled at him, mentally daring him to laugh out loud.

  His loud bark of laughter skittered up my arms and filled my stomach with a fluttery sensation. Oh, my gods. My eyes widened at the implication of what he’d done. “You can read my mind?” I whispered.

  He threw a quick glance at my father, who stood at least three or four rows away. He turned back to me and nodded.

  One-way mind reading wasn’t fair. Not that I wanted to see into a spongy zombie brain, but it was the principle of the matter. “Well, you can just stay out of my head.”

  With a slow dip of his head seeming to say, ‘I understand,’ he moved out of my way.

  I walked to the next tomb and read another name. Such a common, everyday name. A pesky kernel of doubt gnawed deep in my gut. The scrollwork belied the name’s simplicity. Jason. My steps slowed, stopping directly in front of the next tomb. I now faced a beautiful black marble crypt. White veins feathered across the obsidian surface, giving it depth and life.

  The other tombs faded from my peripheral vision, and I focused on the simple block-letter inscription in front of me. Achilles. Holy shit. Breathing became difficult as the ability to make my lungs pull the air in and push it back out deteriorated. Heat burst inside my stomach as the bubble of doubt exploded. I became one with the statues scattered among the tombs, frozen in time as panic engulfed me.

  A warm hand in the small of my back returned me to a semi-awareness. I concentrated on the warmth sinking into my clammy skin and invading my blood. The heat built as overwhelming sensations, throbbing and tingling, flooded my senses. My body rode the hot wave pumping through my veins. I drew in a deep breath and detected the barest hint of moisture in the air a
s it entered through my nose.

  Crystalline colors surrounded me, the brilliance of so many tones and hues, each standing out from the next as if separated by a knife. Scurrying insects, burrowing deeper into the ground among the scant patches of weeds scattered among the tombs, sounded as loud as a subway train.

  I didn’t understand what was happening to me, but this new world rocked. Now I knew why the sixties had been so popular. I didn’t want to let the euphoria go. The exhilaration must have shown on my face, because as soon as I heard my dad shout Niki's name, the hand on my back jerked away. I mourned my loss as my new world returned to normal . . . sort of.

  A bloated queasiness filled me as if my intestines were wiggling around for unconquered space like a prelude to a gas attack without the gas. I wasn’t sure whether I needed to worry or just embrace it.

  For some strange reason, I needed to look at my new zombie friend. On the outside, he looked the same as he had a few minutes ago, still gross. Honestly, I couldn’t imagine anyone—much less me—willingly touching his putrefied skin. I swallowed my revulsion and focused, really seeing him.

  The face staring back at me, however, had changed. His features were more defined and less oozy. The differences were subtle, and I clearly saw a shimmery opalescence hugging his ravaged form.

  His swollen lips cracked open, showing the gleaming skeletal teeth associated with the dead. This time, however, I couldn’t suppress my shiver. The cadaverous smile grew. To avoid throwing up, I turned and practically sprinted to where my dad waited, impatience stamped on his face.

  I wasn’t going to let him squirm out of an explanation easily. “Where exactly did you say we were?”

  Dad’s face could have been one of those early pictures where everyone looks constipated. “I told you, I live here when I can. These catacombs have been here for centuries and are filled with protective magic.”

  “Not an actual answer. Where are these catacombs, Dad?” I glanced over at Cheesehead who now stood beside my father. “And you brought me here to keep me safe? Or throw my sanity to the wolves?” I threw my father a pointed look. “I’m not stupid. I recognized the names on some of these tombs.”

  “Good. Less explaining for me to do. These are the Catacombs of Hades. It’s a little-known place where the bodies of those souls bound for Elysium are buried.”

  “Not quite the response I expected. I figured you were going to tell me we were somewhere below Rome. You know, the Christian Catacombs.” I let out a loud breath. “I need a drink.” I stood open-mouthed when a glass full of clear liquid appeared in front of me, floating in midair.

  “All you had to do was ask.”

  I took the glass and sniffed at the liquid. It had no scent. “What is it?”

  “Water.”

  “Not the type of drink I had in mind either.” My flippant response was rewarded by a glower. I kept my mouth shut and gulped the water anyway, amazed at how good it tasted. I must have been thirstier than I’d realized. Whatever Cheesehead did to me back in the alley took more out of me than I’d thought.

  The strange thing was, I wasn’t hungry. My last meal had been yesterday at noon. I couldn’t help but think I should be worried, as the mental picture of thinner thighs squashed the thought from my brain.

  “I thought Hades was a mythological person . . . you know, fictional?”

  “Not at all. He’s an actual Greek god and actually lives near here. This is one of many Realms of Dark World.”

  “Okay, you lost me again. What’s Dark World?”

  Dad paused a moment, his telltale thinking expression on his face. “Do you know what a multiverse is?”

  “It’s our solar system, isn’t it? A body of space with multiple universes?”

  “Correct. Glad to see you paid attention in school.” He ignored my low growl and continued his explanation. “Dark World is a multiverse. Each ‘universe’ is a separate Realm and each Realm is inhibited by different species. The Mortal Realm has humans, the Blood Realm has vampyres, and the Demon Realm has, well, demons.”

  “So, the fictional beings I read about in my romance books are actually real?”

  He and Cheesehead snorted at the same time. “Yes and no. Yes, the beings are real. Normally, books get them wrong. Take demons, for instance. They are not wholly evil and never have been. They actually police most of the Realms and keep everyone in line. It’s when one is summoned the scary tales come true. Summoning is like slowly tearing the demon’s mind in two and they go crazy. Not a pretty sight.”

  “Ewww.” I thought back to some of the stories I’d read and remembered my reaction in the alley with the zombie. Those memories brought to mind even more questions. “One thing at a time. Since whatever your holey compatriot here did to me, I don’t feel like me. Like something deep inside of me is different. It’s not wrong . . . just not right. Explain your cryptic comment earlier when you said I was dead but not.” I could feel my face pucker as if I’d eaten a sweet-sour candy. “Am I going to turn rotten like Cheesehead?”

  I jumped at Dad’s bark of laughter. “No, Johnna. Your lovely face will not change. Others might. You, my girl, will stay as you are.”

  I caught the mysterious tone lacing his words and didn’t much like it. The good advice from a favorite teacher meandered through my head. She’d told me to never ask too many questions, especially if I didn’t want to hear the answers. The problem was, I did want answers. “Sooo, I’m going to have a long life?”

  “As long as the rest of us, which technically in our case is forever.”

  I knew it. My father had escaped from an insane asylum. My first clue should’ve been the delusional rants about someone trying to kill me. Now he was telling me we were immortal. I stared into his face and saw the man I’d idolized. He looked the same, but looks were deceiving. The man standing in front of me was obviously a psychotic nutcase.

  What had all those late-night shows about killers and crazy people said? Oh, right, play along. I could do that. “Okay, I can live with it. I’ve had about all the excitement I can handle in one day, so can I go home now?”

  My spirits fell along with my stomach at my dad’s curt, “No,” as he moved away from the facing vault, maneuvering around me in the tight space until he stood between the two sarcophagi behind us.

  Staring at the tomb in front of me, I couldn’t see anything special, other than the building was an aboveground crypt. Since I sucked at geometry, I guessed it was about the same size as our living room back in Virginia. Stone angels adorned the two front roof corners, and barely visible through the climbing ivy I made out a rambling ribbon design in the doorframe, also etched from stone. The gold placard in the center of the heavy wooden door caught and held my complete attention.

  My lungs stopped, refusing to get rid of the toxic carbon inside of them. My vision wavered and blurred as I read the name stamped in simple letters across the plate. Sabine.

  The steady drumming in my chest turned painful as my heartbeat quickened and my lungs stuttered back to life. Just as my vision darkened from lack of oxygen, I exhaled, gasping in the rich oxygen-laden air.

  Damn and double damn. This was my mother’s tomb.

  I couldn’t quite believe what I saw, nor did I want to deal with the emotional tidal wave building inside of me. I couldn’t look at my father, knowing he’d kept this from me, and my resentment toward him overflowed.

  “How could you?” I whispered. I whirled to face him, my fists clenching at my sides as my anger boiled from me like a volcano. “Her body has been entombed here for the last ten years, and you’ve never once thought to bring me here or let me say goodbye? I’ve never even been able to give her flowers or sit beside her grave and talk to her.”

  I took a shaky breath, and in a brief nanosecond had an adult epiphany. Like my dad, I’d held on to t
he belief my mom would one day come home, and I would be able to sit with her and laugh over silly memories or tell her my teenage boy problems. I didn’t have any, of course, since boys didn’t seem to like me much. Good thing I never cared.

  Some of my anger dissolved as those little girl dreams crumbled away. He couldn’t accept her death because he would have to let go of his own dream.

  “Johnna. I’m sorry.”

  The last of my anger dissipated when I heard the anguish in his voice. I’d always known how much my father had loved her—he would have died for her. I turned, ignoring the tears running down my cheeks, and faced him. He wore his sorrow like a mask, as I probably did. The agony I’d held inside my heart for so long erupted, and the wall I’d built against my father broke.

  “She had just tucked you in for the night.” He smiled at the memory. “It was her favorite time of day, curling up in the bed and humming her made-up songs—off-key of course—and telling you stories, along with other girl stuff. It didn’t matter to her you were getting too old. She’d always hoped she’d have more time.”

  His eyes held so much pain. I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from making a sound, thankful when his low whisper continued. “I’d gone to a meeting the day before. A group of us decided to band together, hoping to increase our powers of protection because, even then, Max searched for your mother’s power. Do you remember her ever getting angry?”

  I frowned, confused at the abrupt question, and shook my head.

  “After she had you, I don’t remember one single instance when your mother’s anger slipped. Not once. You see, anger was the key to her inherited power and made your mother almost invincible. And as with everything, there was a price. Her power, once unbound, was hard to control.”

  “Really.” My tone was heavy with doubt and sarcasm. His story had almost overloaded my belief meter.