Plague Cult Page 5

  On the other hand, they could be what they proclaimed: a self-help group taking a break from city life to heal their hearts.

  He shrugged off the question. Time to worry when he knew if the death magic came from their compound.

  It felt so damn good to be outside. Free. He had his personal wards active and alert for an attack or a stirring of magic, but running alone through the woods meant he could drop the constraints he typically used to mask his own power. It stirred around him like a cloak.

  The thin thread of death magic he was pursuing snapped.

  Damn. The fever of the hunt ran through his veins, but years of training at the Collegium had taught him to override it. He caught at an overhanging branch and swung to a stop. His breathing was even, his pulse only slightly elevated. Over the years, he’d come to a compromise with his instincts. When a scent of evil was there, he could follow it. But he couldn’t cast around for a trail without specific preliminaries. A hunt had to be authorized.

  “Tomorrow,” he promised the waiting, empty country and whoever hid out there. “I’ll find you, tomorrow.”

  Three bats flew off to the left. He watched their graceful, eerie flight, shadows against the night sky, while waiting. Nothing else stirred.

  Returning to Rose House, he saw lights on upstairs and down. Too many. He ran hard, and found Ruth sipping hot chocolate in the kitchen. He tamped down his emotions, worry and relief, and closed the back door behind him. She was safe. “I thought you hated this room.”

  “I’m waiting for you.”

  “Oh.” Belatedly, he realized that the calm expression on her face was a lie. Her green eyes were furious, their color darkened to emerald with anger. He ventured cautiously. “Down by the river, I caught a scent on the wind. The stench of death magic.”

  “Death magic?” Her fingers tightened on the mug of hot chocolate. “You should have told me before you ran off.”

  No. He’d made a command decision, and it was the right one. He was the combat mage, and more. She was a healer. She had no place chasing evil through the night, and he hadn’t wanted to waste time arguing about leaving her behind. So, he’d purposely not told her about the death magic. But how to phrase his reasoning to an angry woman?

  He walked to the sink and got himself a glass of water and a breathing space to think. “You’re not a guardian. I needed to act. The threat wasn’t here. It was to the east. You were safe, so I thought to keep explanations for later.”

  “There was a light in my bedroom window.”

  He put the glass of water down, half-drunk. “Someone was in the house? But there’s a ward.”

  “The ward isn’t broken, but there was a light in the turret half of my room. It flashed on as you ran off.”

  “And?” he prompted.

  “I wasn’t imagining it. Out in the darkness, I doubted myself, but…I don’t imagine things. I thought of shouting for you, but you were gone.”

  “I had my phone on me.”

  She shrugged, hugging her anger.

  “I’m sorry you were scared.” He thought of the lights on all through the house. Ruth must have walked through it. So would he, but his instincts were attuned to this sort of hunt. “Stay here.”

  “Why?” She’d taken a sip of hot chocolate, and choked on it and her question. Possibly on her indignation. She’d been brave and foolish to search the house alone.

  He looked at her steadily. If he didn’t answer her honestly and completely, the trust they were building between them would die—and he wanted her trust. Unfortunately, giving her the truth would destroy it.

  Better now than later, when her turning away would hurt more.

  Apparently, it was a night for confessions. She’d trusted him with the truth of her family troubles. He’d give her his secret. “William mentioned it in the office this morning. I can mask my magic. Unmasked, I’m a huntsman.” From the way her eyes tracked the air around him, he knew the instant when she slipped into mage sight to observe his aura. He let a smidgen of his power flare—and shut it down fast when she flinched.

  There were stories about his kind of magic. It was rare. Huntsman was the polite term.

  Hollerider was the truth.

  There was a reason people feared him.

  “I’ll just look through the house.”

  Ruth sat bolt upright on the uncomfortable kitchen chair, her fingers locked around her mug. When Shawn left the room, she unlocked her fingers, one by one, and observed in a detached fashion the way they trembled. Abruptly, she stood and carried her mug to the sink to rinse out the last quarter of hot chocolate. Its sweetness was sickly to her shocked mind, body and soul.

  Hollerider. She had a hollerider in her home. She’d introduced him to her family. He would sleep in the room beside hers.

  She gripped the sink and leaned over it, breathing deeply.

  Holleriders were the stuff of legend. Exceedingly rare, their power could scour a person’s spirit and reduce them to a whimpering mess. She’d seen the ice-cold aura of it.

  He was still Shawn, a Collegium guardian, a man William had trusted with this mission.

  She shuddered. But she’d seen Shawn’s magic unmasked. She’d seen the wild flash and strike of it, the way it enveloped him and stirred around him. It was a storm of magic, so deeply unsettling that, unmasked, even a mundane would sense it.

  Hide your eyes, look away, the Wild Hunt is howling past.

  It was the rare magic of people like Shawn that had birthed the legend of the Wild Hunt. For those it touched: terror.

  Ruth walked back to the table and gripped the back of a chair. Its old vinyl had cracked, revealing the foam padding. Now, the peeling vinyl stuck to her sweaty fingers. The folklore of northern Europe warned everyone to stay away from a hollerider.

  “Would you like me to leave?” Shawn had returned silently, his magic masked. He stood in the doorway from the kitchen to the hallway, not entering the room.

  “No.” She sounded as if she had a frog in her throat. “No.” That was clearer, stronger. She let go of her mage sight and studied him.

  He was the same good-looking guy he’d been ten minutes ago. Thousands of men looked like him: ex-military, tough, self-contained, holding together their families and communities, protective. As he stood there, his smile was so wry, it stung. He stood as if at a court martial and said, “By the river you asked me if I wanted a new partner. Only fair I give you the same opportunity.”

  “Had you intended to tell me who you are?” She unpeeled her fingers from the chair back. She could, and would, stand by herself.

  “No.”

  “Then why tell me, now?”

  With the heel of his right palm, he tapped the doorframe; thoughtful, uncomfortable. “You thought I’d left you with danger around. I didn’t. My magic sensed no evil near you.”

  And now? “Was there anyone in the house?”

  “No.”

  She slumped onto the old kitchen chair. “So I did imagine it.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Possibly?”

  “My magic can’t sense ghosts.”

  Her brain stopped. She kind of knew her jaw hung open. She got it to move despite the one shock too many. He couldn’t possibly believe her house was haunted. “Ghosts aren’t real.”

  “My mamaw’s seen them.”

  Okay. She wasn’t about to argue with someone’s grandmother’s stories. “I probably imagined the light in the window. It’s been a rough day.”

  “Yeah.” Too much agreement in his tone. He was masking his magic—and maybe also a sense of vulnerability.

  “How many people at the Collegium know that you’re a hollerider?”

  “Thirteen. You make fourteen.”

  Then he’d trusted her with a big secret. “You’re welcome in my home, Shawn Jackson.” The instant the words left her mouth, she wondered why she’d said them. The question on the table was whether she was willing to partner with him on this mission, not invite
his friendship. Except, her words were the traditional invitation, the one that the evil holleriders hunted would never receive.

  And Rose House felt lighter for her invitation of acceptance and friendship. It was as if the clouds had fled the moon or the wattage of the lights turned up. Her shoulders relaxed, no longer attempting to huddle up under her ears.

  “Thank you.” Shawn left the doorway and entered the kitchen. He picked up his glass and finished the water in it. He also changed the subject, decisively. “I lost the scent of the death magic a half-mile from the river. I’m not sure if it means the spell was wound up or if I only caught the fading echo of an earlier spell.”

  “If death magic fuels the curse…” Ruth rubbed her arms. “That could give the curse the power boost it needs to become a plague.” Suddenly, the infinitesimal chance of plague became real. From concentrating on her personal issues about being in Bideer, she had to one hundred percent focus on the curse.

  Shawn leaned against the counter, serious but not spooked. “If it’s evil-intentioned, my magic should be able to sense it. Although there are spells—superstitions—that can turn aside my magic, I doubt that anyone here knows them or would think to use them. Most people never encounter a hollerider. I need to do the groundwork, tomorrow. If I scan steadily, the variation in the magical landscape reveals itself as much by absence as presence. If there’s a gap, evil can be hiding.”

  He paused. “For me, the real problem is if the curse is powered by someone who isn’t evil so much as scared. William said plague can be born from a curse powered by vengeance, but vengeance covers a lot of territory.”

  “Fear, defense, anger.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Justice.”

  He sighed. “A person can do terrible things and not be evil. They’re the ones my magic can’t find.”

  “But we will find them.” She paused. “Even if on investigation I determine that the curse isn’t capable of morphing into the lonely hearts plague that William named it, I can’t leave Bideer till we find and stop the person using death magic.”

  “I agree. Have you ever—” He cut off the question.

  “I’ve encountered death magic before,” she said steadily. “Anyone willing to kill another living being to fuel their quest for power is perverted. If it’s evil they’ve freely chosen…that’s more your field, as a Collegium guardian, than mine. But if the person is sick in mind or soul, then I have to heal them.”

  “I don’t want you going near someone who uses death magic.”

  “Not till it’s safe,” she agreed. “But as a healer, I don’t get to pick and choose who I heal.”

  “We’ll see.” He wasn’t budging.

  Nor was she. She stood. “Goodnight, Shawn.”

  “Will you be all right in your room?”

  She suppressed her embarrassment and a hint of unease. He was referring to the light she’d seen—or imagined—and his ludicrous suggestion that Rose House was haunted. He wouldn’t be asking if she was okay with a hollerider occupying the room next to hers. Any other hollerider and she mightn’t be, but Shawn…“I’ll be fine.”

  “Good night.”

  Shawn listened to Ruth climb the stairs. Her footsteps faded. He crossed to the back door and opened it, stepping out onto the porch. He kept his magic masked. Ruth knew who he was now, what he was, but thoughts of ghosts and death magic, as well as her family troubles, were enough for her to deal with. She didn’t need the brush of terror from his magic.

  Hollerider. Huntsman. His mamaw’s great-uncle had been one, so she’d recognized the freezing terror that crept out from him around puberty to infect his family’s dreams. The whole family could sense the power he held, but it had taken Mamaw’s insight to understand why it didn’t reveal itself. Why it had waited in him, waited for him to grow and be able to bear its burden.

  Holleriders were a soul’s executioner. God gave mercy, but he’d also made men and women born to pursue evil and to drive it on and on, to hunt it till it died or repented.

  He gripped the porch rail and released it instantly. Splinters! A touch of magic, minor guardian magic, pulled out the slivers of wood and released them into the garden. The wood hadn’t meant to hurt.

  Evil couldn’t say the same.

  Evil wounded those around it.

  True evil was fortunately rarer than the chaotic state of the world might lead people to believe. He’d seldom used the full extent of his hollerider power. Mostly, ordinary magic, the kind he’d trained in at the Collegium, was sufficient to deal with rogue mages and unnatural events. But three times he’d encountered true evil.

  Evil left a mark on the soul, and it wasn’t as easily removed as splinters.

  He folded his arms, leaning a shoulder against a porch pillar. The river was visible from here. The clouds had slid away from the moon, driven on by the quickening breeze. He observed the silver gleam of the water, heard the rustle of the old trees in the garden, and thought of Ruth buying this big house near her family, but alone.

  He couldn’t believe that Ruth’s family blamed her for Mason’s paralysis. She’d done all and more than could be expected of a girl of fourteen, no matter how powerful her raw healer’s talent. Her family ought to have held and supported her through the trauma. His own family would have.

  To be a hollerider was a magic as isolating as necromancy, if different. Yet his family had never once pushed him away. Instead, they’d dragged him back to them, kept him close with phone calls and emails. They refused to let him be lost to the Wild Hunt.

  He refused to be lost to it. His life could become obsession, chasing evil on and on, relentless and restless. It was why, after talking with another hollerider, he’d given his oath to the Collegium. As a guardian he protected the vulnerable and pursued rogue mages. He could serve justice, but within limits. It eased the compulsion in him to seek out evil.

  But Ruth’s magic, a healer’s gift, ought to have wrapped her in her community. That she’d had to seek out a place for herself in the Collegium, far from home in New York, was wrong.

  Shawn was pretty sure where the fault for that lay.

  “Leave it alone,” he told himself.

  The hoot of an owl mocked him.

  Injustice, whatever its form or cause, bothered him. He shrugged, accepting the inevitable, and swung on his heel to go inside.

  Before he left Bideer, he’d have a word with Mason, perhaps with all of Ruth’s family. He liked her and he wanted more for her. At a minimum, she ought to be able to come home openly to Rose House, to share it with her friends and have family visit.

  A decade ago, Mason had acted the idiot. But he’d been smart after the car accident. He’d shifted responsibility for his disability on to Ruth. His decision to drink and drive, underage at that, was pushed aside within the family in favor of a focus on Ruth’s healing talent failing her cousin. Mason had made himself the victim, at least where Ruth was concerned.

  Shawn locked the back door. Truth had a way of coming out around him. It was part of the terror of hollerider magic. In the next few days, he’d ensure Mason got a taste of it.

  Ruth woke early and wandered sleepily downstairs, only to pause, blinking, in the kitchen doorway. “You’re up early.”

  “Good morning.” Shawn looked up from his concentration on the toaster. He hadn’t shaved. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw, giving him a rougher, bad boy edge.

  Ruth’s tummy clenched. There were few things as appealing as the bad boy edge in a man who could be trusted—and hollerider or not, she trusted Shawn. She’d slept so well last night because of that trust. Exceptionally well.

  He gave her a quizzical look, and she wondered how long she’d been staring witlessly at him.

  “Coffee’s made.”

  “Um, thanks, and uh, good morning.” She concentrated on pouring herself a mug while trying to ignore the fact that she’d wandered downstairs in her pajamas, merely throwing a cardigan on. Way to impress. Her blue pajamas had teddy bears
on them.

  “You want some toast?”

  “I’ll make it in a minute. Thanks.” She sipped her coffee.

  “I thought we’d divide and conquer.” He brought his toast to the table and spread honey on lavishly, obviously wide awake and raring to go. “I’ll head for the hardware store early, time it to catch up with some of the tradesmen. That’ll plug me into the male gossip network.”

  “At least you admit it exists.” She was halfway through her coffee and feeling more awake.

  “Only to you.” He grinned. “Never in public. It’s against the Man Code.”

  “Uh huh.” She got up to make her own toast and top up her coffee mug. “Remember, we’ve got lunch at the farm. At Mom and Dad’s.” It sounded impossibly cozy. As if she and Shawn were a couple. Unsettling. “Between them, Mom and Dad know most of what’s happening in town, so going to the farm will actually help our mission.” She popped two pieces of bread in the toaster and set them to char. She liked her toast crispy.

  “I’ll be back in time. What are you going to do with your morning?”

  “Clean,” she said determinedly. He refrained from objecting to the apparent deviation from their purpose in town, and given his self-restraint, she added an explanation. “The curtains in the front parlor need dry cleaning. If I take them down and those in the dining room, chatting at the dry cleaners—which is also the dressmaker’s and sells knitting and other craft supplies—will hook me into the female gossip network,” she echoed his words.

  “Smart thinking.” He pushed the honey jar towards her when she sat down with her lightly singed toast.

  People who didn’t understand how a magical investigation worked might think she and Shawn ought to be casting spells to find the curse, the person who set the curse, or anyone affected by it. And maybe they would, but the first step was always to listen to the people on the ground. Even without magic, ordinary people had a sense of its actions.