Dead of Winter
Page 60

I gazed out at the night. Endless night. Maybe I couldn’t fully invoke the red witch, even if I wanted to.
With that bottle in hand, Jack sat on my other side, offering a drink.
To hell with it. Down she goes. Burn. Gasp. I handed Death the bottle.
Jack grimaced. “Am I goan to die drinking after the Reaper?”
“Sadly”—Aric took a deep pull—“no.” With a gauntleted hand, he passed the whiskey back to Jack.
In some small way, it was a measure of trust that Jack drank after Death. And of course, the competitive Cajun had to tip the bottle up longer than Aric had.
“Milo’s right, though.” Jack handed me the whiskey. “It’ll be damn hard to open that bunker. I’ve got munitions, but a blast door is designed to withstand them. Unless we can wedge the explosive into the metal, it woan work.”
“Why not?” I asked over the rim of the bottle.
“It’s like throwing a stick of dynamite at a bowling ball. It’ll just bounce off. But if you jam the stick into the ball? Boom.”
“Maybe the twins will answer tomorrow.” All day we’d hailed them by radio and through Aric. Not a blip in response. “They might face us.” Though I hoped they actually gave a damn about their father, I doubted it all the same. We’d even dangled the bait of their chronicles. Still, nothing.
“Ouais, peut-être.” Yeah, could be. Jack’s expression told me he didn’t have high hopes either.
I asked both of them, “If we’ve overridden all the rules to the twins’ ‘game,’ why don’t we call up the rest of the Arcana to help us?”
Aric surprised me by setting the chronicles away. He was choosing whiskey around a camp fire over study and contemplation? “Because the Fool’s rules still apply, Empress. He said the three of us must ride to save Selena.”
Strange, I’d forgotten I’d been in fate’s crosshairs.
Jack turned to Death. “I like that Spartan story, me. Is it true?”
“That’s how I heard it back then.”
Back then. Back in the day. He’d been alive.
Jack’s sense of curiosity was still vibrant in him, forcing him to ask, “What’s it like to live for thousands of years?”
Staring straight into the flames, Aric said, “Immortality is the utterest hell.”
His words hurt me like a blow to the body. To the heart.
“Are there any others out there?” Jack asked.
“Not that I’ve ever met.”
The bottle made another round. I couldn’t believe the two had been talking this long—without fighting. I was hesitant to say anything, didn’t want to spook them.
Aric asked him, “How did you come by your talent for reading people?” Though Aric possessed so many gifts, did he wish for that ability? For all these years, he’d been an observer of mortals, but rarely a participant in their interactions.
Jack’s gaze clouded. “Nécessité.” Deep draw. Pass bottle. “That story true about your armor?”
Under my lashes, I gazed from one to the other. They were lowering their guards a bit.
“Very true. I thought I’d been maddened, suffering from hallucinations, until I found the crypt.”
“So . . . gods are real?”
Aric nodded. “That’s how the game came about. They grew bored.”
When he didn’t elaborate, I had to speak up. “And? What happened after boredom set in?”
“You wish to hear the origin story?”
“Uh, yes.” I passed him the bottle.
“Very well.” He drank, handing it to Jack, starting another round. “A goddess of magic devised a contest to the death for select mortals. She invited deities of other realms to send a representative from their most prestigious house, all youths. Each one bore their god’s emblem upon his or her right hand.”
My heart raced . . . I had been one of those youths.
“These players would fight inside Tar Ro, a sacred realm as large as a thousand kingdoms, harvesting their victims’ emblems; only the player who’d collected them all would leave Tar Ro alive. Naturally, the gods cheated, gifting their own representative with superhuman abilities, making them more than mortal. Secret abilities. That’s why we’re called Arcana.”
“Hail Tar Ro,” I murmured. “The High Priestess told me that.”
“An old-fashioned greeting. She’s quite knowledgeable about the games. Very respectful of the old ways.”
Probably not who I should be talking to about ending the game. “Why did the gods give us a call?”
“Shortage of heralds?” Arcana humor.
“Saw your hand earlier,” Jack said. “You’ve taken out four cards in this game?”
Death had, but he’d hated doing it. I cast about for a change of subject.
“Four,” Aric said, that single word imbued with weariness.
Keen Jack observed, “A Grim Reaper who’s sick of reaping?”
Aric schooled his features. “Ending cannibals and slavers is sport. But they’re different from most Arcana. All things being equal, I’d rather not.”
Jack seemed to be mulling this over as he passed the bottle to me. “You believe this game can be ended?”
“I’ve failed in the past to do so. But that doesn’t mean it’s not possible.” Then Aric told me alone, —I’m particularly invested in believing that.—
Because he wanted to take me back to his isolated castle of lost time. Have kids with me. Live a long life, but not a never-ending one. In answer, I handed Aric the bottle.
After seeing the misery out in the world—the spreading plague, the cannibals, the hobbled women and shackled girls—could I abandon everything?
Our situation was becoming larger than the game. We hunted the Lovers, not only because they’d taken Selena, but also because they’d rained down so much terror on innocent people.
After all my evil in past lives, shouldn’t I atone in this one?
“Some cards will have to be destroyed regardless of the game.” Aric’s free hand clenched. Was he thinking about the Emperor? “They will never come to heel. Just as the Lovers refuse to.”
“We woan have to worry about those two much longer.” Jack absently rubbed his bandage.
“You shouldn’t wear their mark, mortal.”
Jack scowled. “Ain’t like I got a choice, me.”