Selene

Epilogue

They came back at midnight the following night, pulled by the force of the will they had sworn to serve. Jorge was first, carrying the cooler, Rigel paced behind him, his left arm in a sling, carrying the sword. Eric, his physician’s bag bumping his thigh obediently, coughed. The sound fell dead in the strained air.

Price Netley carried another cooler full of bloodpacks. “I hope she remembered to unbar the door,” he said, nervously reaching over with his chin to scratch at his shoulder.

“He’ll tell her,” Jorge replied. “Or she did. Selene’s not stupid.”

“She killed Grigori.” Bradley’s tone was soft with wonder. The silence fell over them again, the silence of awe in the face of such an act.

The door to the sanctum was indeed unbarred, and Bradley set his shoulder to it. It swung open slowly, brushing the floor.

“Jesu Christos.” Netley sounded like someone had punched him in the stomach.

“Get the packs.” Jorge didn’t hesitate.

They moved slowly into the sanctum.

Eric snapped his bag open. Hypos crackled in their plastic cartridges. “The sedayeenen wanted to be here,” he said, and Jorge set the cooler down on the bed.

Nobody answered, though Rigel’s eyes glittered. The healer was under orders to stay in bed and rest until they were sure of her recovery.

They worked together, Jorge snapping the hypos on the bloodpacks, Eric deftly pressing the hypos onto the transfer points. The bloodpacks began to drain.

It was Rigel finally who said what they were all thinking. “Where’s Selene?”

“She can’t have disappeared.” Jorge handed the doctor another bloodpack. “Not during the day.”

“Here come the others.” Bradley accepted a full cooler of bloodpacks from Riverwolf. The tall man had spent shell casings tied in his long black hair.

“Tarot cards. And look at this.” Eric pointed with his chin. His white-blond hair fell forward, hiding his expression.

Netley reached down and touched the tarnished, blackened surface of the medallion. It crumbled into fine-powder dust under his fingers. “At least she left this to keep him alive.” His tone was flat, ironic, and terribly final.

The quarter-credits slid from Nikolai’s eyes.

A chill wafted up, brushing the velvet of the bed.

They worked in silence. Six full coolers of bloodpacks came, were emptied, and left, passed out the door.

The flesh began to move on his bones. Ribs cracked, settling back into their accustomed places. There was a sharp crackling sound, and the black mask of burn on the pale, aquiline face slid aside.

“Search the house,” Netley murmured at the door. “Find her. If she’s on the grounds, find her.”

A long, electric breath of silence descended on the sanctum. The men paused except for Eric, who jostled Jorge, reminding him to hand over another full bloodpack.

The nest began to pulse with Power again. A rushing breeze slid through the sanctum, blew tarot cards off the bed, fluttering to the floor. The Death card slid from Nikolai’s forehead, fell behind the pillow. There was a faint soft sound as it slid, by some fluke, through empty space and finally touched the floor behind the headboard.

“Holy Christos.” Jorge handed Eric another bloodpack. The chill plastic containers glowed like rubies. “The bed’s moved. She’s used the passage.” He swore, vilely and passionlessly, in another tongue.

“You mean she—” Netley turned, the color draining from his cheeks.

Nikolai opened his eyes. The entire house sighed, and settled on its foundations.

He drew in a long endless waking breath, and his eyes settled on Jorge. “Jorge.” His voice shivered the air. “Where is she?”

His first thought was of her. A ripple passed through the assembled men.

Eric put the last hypo in. “Apparently she thought you were dead. She left you silver to pay the ferryman with.: He sounded flat and unconcerned.

Nikolai’s eyes were black from lid to lid. “Where is she?” he asked, very softly, and every man in the room—even Eric—took a step back.

“I saw her,” Riverwolf said from the door. “She fought Grigori, when you fell. Cut him in half. Carried you back to the shore through the river of death.” He nodded, the shell casings clicking in his hair.

Nikolai said nothing.

It couldn’t be avoided. “It looks like she went out through the passage,” Jorge said numbly.

A long, ticking silence.

“Leave me.” Nikolai’s tone was absolutely flat.

There was a momentary crowding by the door as they all hurried, Jorge and Eric carrying empty coolers, Eric’s little black bag dangling from his big hands.

The door slammed shut almost on their heels, and the iron bars dropped, crashing.

Jorge stopped, as if tempted to look.

Rigel grabbed his arm. “Don’t, Jorge. He’ll kill you. Come on.”

From behind the door, the deadly silence spread. There was a huge shivering impact, and dust pattered down from the roof.

“Was that the bed?” Netley’s eyes were uncomfortably round.

Jorge turned away. “Let’s go. Hurry.”

The silence settled in again, and it wasn’t until they reached the end of the hall, moving single file like a funeral cortege, that the scream rose behind them. It was a wrecked, massive noise that shook the entire house, echoing in every corridor, and rose into the swiftly-falling night beyond the manicured grounds to where the bleeding city licked its wounds, the fires finally put out, even to where the skeleton of a tanker ship settled low in the water, its ribs melted together and still sending up thin curls of smoke.

“SELENE!“

finis

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