Storm Cursed (Mercy Thompson #11)(103)

“Don’t feel too special,” I told him. “They—several ‘theys’—are after Adam, too.” I looked over to where Adam stood near the big fire where the senator was warming his hands. They, whatever “theys” they were, would not touch him. “And I turned the whole pack into a big fat target when I opened my mouth and made us responsible for the Tri-Cities.”

“I,” said Sherwood dryly, “am more special than you.”

“I am more special than everyone,” said Wulfe.

I jerked my head around, but he was still lying as if he were dead.



* * *



? ? ?

I almost expected Zee to drop his glamour. But when he pushed us all onto the patio except for the non-black-magic-using dead, he walked out in the middle of the field and stood there. A slightly battered, battle-grubby old man.

We stood in quiet witness, the only sound the rustle of leaves in the wind, as he began working magic.

It began slowly. He raised both hands to chest level, fingers splayed and palms down. After a moment he began tapping his foot on the ground. Zee in his human guise weighs maybe a hundred fifty pounds. I’ve seen his real form—and he might tip the scales at two hundred, two-ten maybe. But his foot made the earth shake.

“Mutter Erde, deren Schmied ich bin,” he said, his voice a rumble that resonated in my bones and made the concrete shake a little harder.

“Is that Elvish?” asked the senator, sounding a little in awe.

“German,” murmured Adam.

“He says, ‘Mother Earth, whose smith I am,’” translated Sherwood.

Zee repeated himself. “Mutter Erde, deren Schmied ich bin . . .”

He tilted his head as if he were listening for a reply. I didn’t hear anything, didn’t feel anything different, but evidently satisfied, Zee knelt on the ground. His toe was no longer tapping, but that deep, quiet boom boom boom continued.

He put both hands on the ground and began to chant, with a driving rhythm that played with the sound of the earth.

    ?ffne Dich, schütt’le Dich, atme und schlie?e Dich . . .

Erde, h?r’! Erbarme Dich,

Ein tiefes Grab er?ffne sich,

um Fleisch, Gebein verforme Dich . . .

und tiefer Friede finde sich . . .



“Open, shake, breathe, and close,” said Sherwood. “Earth, hear me, have mercy. A deep grave shall open, around flesh and bones deform yourself—or re-form yourself. Find a deeper peace.”

Zee quit speaking, but the ground rumbled and shuddered beneath us all, rippling and opening . . . A body near me dropped into the earth, as if the ground beneath it had turned to air. As I watched, more bodies disappeared, pulled down into earth.

“Dear God,” said the senator, very quietly.

When all of the bodies that I could see were gone—the dragon had sunk down sometime when I wasn’t looking, though I’d seen the parts of the ogre descend—when only Zee remained, he spoke again, this time in a voice that was achingly tender.

    Eile Dich, leg’ sie zur Ruh

und decke sie im Schlafe zu . . .



“Put them to rest swiftly, and cover them in their sleep,” murmured Sherwood, in the same tone as Zee had.

Zee stood up and tapped his foot again, this time matching the sound that had never stopped.

The heartbeat of the world, I thought fancifully.

He held up both hands and shouted,


?ffne Dich, rütt’le Dich, atme und schlie?e Dich!



On the last syllable he stopped moving his feet. The sound stopped. And once more, the only noise was the sound of the leaves in the trees.

All of the dead were gone—and so, I noticed, was the garden. It was too dark to really see, but I fancied that a cloud of dust—the ashes of fourteen black witches, Elizaveta’s family—blew away on the wind.



* * *



? ? ?

“What I don’t understand,” the senator said, setting his empty cocoa cup on my table, “is why Elizaveta waited until after they tortured her to kill them.”

Wulfe giggled. He’d been alternating laughing with silent tears—and I was beginning to feel sorry for him. Which just felt wrong.

We’d brought him home with us because I wasn’t sure he’d have been safe if I just dropped him off at the seethe. Marsilia told me that she’d send Stefan to pick him up, but it might take a while. If Stefan picked him up, Wulfe would be safe.

“She had to wait,” Wulfe expounded. “That’s how the magic works.” He continued less grandly, but there was admiration in his voice. “It’s a clever twist on the familiar spell, really. You can kill only people you are connected to if you want to harvest their death magic. She could have taken them as lovers—or tortured them herself. But getting tortured worked—pain and love bind us all together. It’s all about the binding together. She didn’t love them, but they bound themselves to her when they tortured her. There is a very strong connection between a torturer and the one tortured. Beautiful.”

I couldn’t tell what part of his speech the last word applied to. The spell, Elizaveta’s accomplishment—or the bond between the torturer and her victim.

“She—the other witch—didn’t know my people,” said the senator in a grim voice.