SLEEP BROUGHT NO COMFORT. I WANTED TO SINK INTO oblivion; instead, I felt as though I lay in an echoing chamber full of whispering ghosts. And all the whispers repeated a single name: Difethwr.
Only one person knew what it was like to stand alone against a Hellion. I needed to talk to Aunt Mab.
I used the dream phone. Mab’s colors, blue and silver, rose up like wisps of fog, growing and filling my vision. I walked through the swirling mist of colors until they faded, then cleared away, and I found myself in Aunt Mab’s library. The room looked exactly the way I remembered it: the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the French windows out into the garden, the chintz-covered wing chairs. A fire burned in the fireplace, its flickering light dancing around the room. But the cozy impression was ruined when I looked at the spot where my father had died. The shape of his fallen body glowed red, like the amulet Roxana had given me, as if Difethwr’s fire inside him had never stopped burning. Again, I felt the mark of the Destroyer burn in my arm.
Staring at the place where my father had fallen, feeling an echo of that night’s pain, I began to cry. The tears hit me like a tidal wave. I dropped to my knees and sobbed into my hands. That’s when I became aware of Aunt Mab, sitting in her chair in front of me.
“Don’t cry, child. He’s ten years gone.”
Her words only made me cry harder, rocking back and forth. God, it hurt so much. So much. Aunt Mab sat silently, waiting. It felt like I’d never stop crying. My father. Dad. Daddy. Dying for me, because of my stupid pride. And I couldn’t reach him now, not even in my dreams. Could he be gone—really gone—as the Hellion boasted? I wanted to keep crying and crying, as though my pain could somehow bring him to me. But it didn’t. And, gradually, the tears subsided.
Hiccupping, I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. Mab handed me a handkerchief, and I blew my nose, noisily. When I could speak, I looked at her and said, “I don’t know if I can do this.”
She looked at me, lips pursed, waiting for me to continue. But I’d just told her why I’d called her, and I didn’t know what else to say.
Finally she spoke in her familiar, stern tone. “If you’re waiting for me to say, ‘There, there, don’t worry, everything will be all right,’ you’ll be sadly disappointed.”
I bit my tongue to hold back the tears that threatened to start again. That was exactly what I didwant her to say.
“The Destroyer is a formidable foe, child. It has been the enemy of our family for many, many generations. If you challenge the Hellion and fail, you won’t be the first.”
“It’s gathering a legion, Mab. To keep the legion out, the witches of the city have repaired the shield. That means it’s sealed inside Boston. It says it’s going to destroy the whole city, and I can’t stop it. It says it will destroy me, too.” As it destroyed my father.
She tsked. “If you refuse to believe you can defeat it, you will certainly fail.”
“So I’m supposed to believe in myself? Just like that? What, and whistle a happy tune while I’m at it? Mab, this isn’t somebody’s Eidolon or Harpy. It’s a Hellion.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “And it’s inside me.” The horror fully gripped me then, and I clawed at my arm, raking it with my nails. The whisper rose to a wail. “It’s inside me! Get it out, Mab, get it out!”
“Hush, child.” She reached out and laid her hand on my hair. “It touched you; that’s all. The fact that you survived its touch should give you hope. Don’t forget who you are. Don’t forget the prophecy. You have Saint Michael’s sword. You’ve practiced with it. With these very eyes, I watched you grow in skill. You’re a demon slayer, Victory.” Her fingers felt like cool water on my burning scalp. “You know what to do.”
“But I didn’t tell you. When I faced the Destroyer two nights ago—my arm . . . I couldn’t raise my sword arm against it. It’s like the Destroyer owns that part of me.” In my thoughts I added, It’s like the Destroyeris that part of me.
The dream phone broadcast the unspoken thought to Aunt Mab as clearly as if I’d said it out loud. “You are not the Destroyer. The Destroyer is not you. Do not think that way, child. Open your mind, and you will see. I spoke the truth before: you know what to do.”
The feel of her hand grew lighter, then misty. The room cooled and dimmed, until all I could see was blue and silver. Through the mist, Aunt Mab’s voice echoed: “You know what to do.”
“I don’t,” I whispered. Then darkness washed over me, and I knew nothing else but dreamless sleep.
I WOKE UP AT FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON WITH A STRONG sense of determination. Aunt Mab had said I knew what to do. Well, fighting was what I knew how to do, and whatever it took, I was going to learn to fight left-handed. If I had to practice every waking moment until my left arm became as strong, fast, and flexible as the right, so be it.
What my left arm was now, mostly, was sore. I winced as I pulled on a sweatshirt, getting dressed for practice. Ow. I rolled the shoulder a few times and did some windmills, backward and forward, to loosen it up. In the bathroom, I pulled up my sleeve and rubbed some liniment into the muscles to soothe the ache. It helped some, but I really need to work on strength—aches or no aches.
The living room was empty, but I heard Juliet moving around in the kitchen. I started pushing the furniture around to clear a space in the middle of the room. Juliet came in, carrying a mug of coffee. She stopped and stared at me.
“What are you doing?”
“Ugh,” I grunted, pushing the sofa against the wall. When it was in place, I stood and surveyed the room. It’d do. “Clearing some space for a little sword practice.”
She nodded, like it was a normal answer, and sat down on the sofa with her coffee. Juliet loved coffee—with lots of cream and about six teaspoons of sugar. Perfect way to ruin good coffee, if you asked me.
She sipped from her mug, watching me as I went over to the cabinet where I kept my weapons and got out the sword of Saint Michael. It was a beautiful sword, a double-edged falchion with a golden handle and a twenty-seven-inch, razor-sharp blade. It was the sword I’d be carrying with me every night; my best chance for sending a Hellion back to hell. I slashed it in the air with my right hand, listening to the swish swish of the blade. Then I shifted the sword to my left and made the same move. Too slow. The blade made no sound as it cut through the air.
That was the point of practicing: to strengthen my left arm, to make it quick and agile. As I’d done the previous night in Lucado’s hallway, I started the basic routine: cut, parry, thrust. I wanted to make these motions second nature to my new fighting arm. Cut, parry, thrust. As I got into the rhythm of the motions, I increased the speed.
Juliet watched from the sofa. “You remind me of Jock,” she said.
I laughed but didn’t pause in my motions. “No one’s ever mistaken me for a jock before.”
“No, not ajock. Giacomo di Grassi. A fencing master I knew in Modena. That must’ve been . . . oh, around 1580 or so.”
Okay, that made me pause. In fact, I stopped and stared. “You knew di Grassi? The guy who wrote His True Art of Defence?”
“Is that what they call it in English? I like the Italian title better: Ragione di adoprar sicuramente l’arme, si da offesa come da difesa. Wordy, but mellifluous.”
“Yeah, very catchy. Wow, I can’t believe you actually knew di Grassi. Aunt Mab made me spend two whole summers on that book. That’s one of his routines I was doing.”
“I could tell. But Jock fought right-handed. It looks odd, using your left hand.”
“It feels odd, too. Believe me, I’d fight right-handed if I could.” I explained how the demon mark made my right arm useless in the presence of the Destroyer.
“Too bad the Hellion isn’t on your side. Think of the power that mark could give you.”
“Power?” The thought turned my stomach. “It’s the power to destroy; nothing more. This demon is threatening to annihilate all of Boston, killing as many people as it can. I wouldn’t want that kind of power.”
Juliet shrugged. “Humans come and go. Cities rise and fall. After you’ve lived through a century or two, it’s not that a big deal.”
“Well, I’m not going to be around that long, so it is a big deal to me. I’ve got to protect the things I care about.” I practiced an upward thrust. “I’ve got to avenge my father’s death.”
“Now you sound like Jock, too. He was big on honor, vengeance, noble causes—all that sort of thing.” Her eyes went a little misty. “I was crazy about him for a while. I offered to turn him, but he said no.”
“Really?”
“He didn’t want to be undead. He said he’d lose his edge as a swordsman if he knew he couldn’t be defeated.”
“Unless his opponent used a silver blade and got him through the heart.”
“No one ever got near Giacomo’s heart.” She sighed. “Not even me.”
She watched me for a few minutes, then said, “That’s not how Jock would have done it. Lead with the same foot you thrust with.”
“You’re right.” I tried again, lunging forward with my left foot as I made a sharp thrust with the sword, then brought my right foot forward to make them even. “It’s hard doing it left-handed. It’s like trying to be my own mirror image.” I went through the move several more times.
“That looks better,” Juliet said. The phone rang. “I’ll get it. Might be tonight’s dinner. He said he’d call.” She stretched across the sofa to pick up the receiver on the end table.
As Juliet talked on the phone, I continued the move—thrust/lunge, step—then did the sequence backward to return to my original position. The trick was to get the movement so encoded in my body that I wouldn’t have to think about it. I tried again, screwing up the footwork. Damn. I felt like throwing the sword across the room. Who was I kidding? I’d be lucky if I didn’t trip over my own feet when I met up with Difethwr.
