Outside the rushing sound of the indigo circle, Goodall still glared murder at me, but the Pharaohn wasn’t interested in the petty anger of his ushabti. “Start it,” he commanded. “We have the gateway,” he said, gesturing to me. “Now bring the Beast.”
Goodall shook himself and turned to flick off the colored lights, leaving the room bathed in only the diffused cones of work lights far above that glittered on the substance of the Grey like dust motes. Then the screaming started in the grid and a sound like a train bearing down with failing brakes came from the air overhead. I remembered that last sound from two years before in the burning disaster of the Madison Forrest House: the shriek of the Guardian Beast, enraged and rushing to destroy a threat to its domain. Colors flickered and surged in the hot lines beneath the city. Without the colored lights to confuse it, the Guardian saw its enemy and the razor-edge of destruction he represented for the Grey’s thin barrier that kept the worlds of the normal and the paranormal apart and safe from one another. It could not care about any threat to itself; it only came on.
I remembered what my father had said: call it, trap it, kill it. As I stared into the grid, I got the whole shape of the plan. I was the gateway into the trap, a bridge between the normal world and the Grey; Carlos was the knife; and Wygan himself both bait and replacement. My living connection to both realms would hold the door open between them while Wygan caught and destroyed the Guardian, leaving the things of the Grey free to rush out into the normal world. But what would compel the Beast into the trap . . . ? I studied the shape of the magic circle, looking for the way to ruin Wygan’s plans, to use any moment where he might be vulnerable as he threw off one form and strove toward the next. I couldn’t resist the grid’s pull, but I might be able to reshape it to my own purpose. . . .
The Pharaohn glanced at Carlos. “Speak, Ataíde. Bring the Beast here for slaughter.”
I had never heard that word before—was it an insult or a name? Carlos narrowed his eyes but said nothing, gave no clue. I thought Wygan was going to strike him, but he reined in his temper, stepped around the necromancer, and crouched down next to Edward.
“Order it done, Kammerling.” Wygan didn’t know Carlos was no longer bound to Edward. But I was still unsure what further role Edward might have. . . . Carlos could defy Wygan, but he wouldn’t do it yet.
Distracted by his need for blood, Edward had difficulty pulling his attention from Will. His voice was a cracked whisper. “I call my own death if I do.” That puzzled me. Unless Wygan shattered the already broken tie between them, Carlos would be bound to defend Edward from whatever threatened—including Wygan or the Guardian Beast. Surely Edward knew the connection of the knife was broken. But perhaps some older bond still clung between them. . . .
“You’re dying as it is. But you could go more comfortably. . . .” Wygan stepped across the gap in the circle to Will and grabbed ahold of his nearest extremity. He began dragging Will, feetfirst and screaming and thrashing at the floor with his crabbed hands, toward the fallen vampire Prince.
Will’s terror galvanized me for a moment and I jolted against the magical barrier, ready to rip it apart and go save Will—the voices screaming at me to wait, wait, wait—but Carlos spoke and stopped me.
I didn’t know the language or what the words meant, but they trembled on the air and then turned liquid, echoing in the grid and running into the circle, flushing it a deep purple. Something made of bone spines, spiderweb, and ghost sinew began to form in the second circle. The roar of the Beast issued from its shadow jaws of dagger teeth. But the circle around it wasn’t quite closed. . . .
Carlos shot me a warning glance. “You cannot imprison a Guardian with the paltry blood of a mad human.”
Wygan dropped Will’s foot and turned around, watching the necromancer with narrowed eyes as his victim scrabbled away. The Pharaohn twisted up a smile as he looked at the two vampires. “What would you, then, Ataíde?”
“The blood of a magical creature is required.”
The Pharaohn laughed and it came out a long, strangling hiss. “We are out of unicorns, I fear.”
Carlos shrugged but there was nothing casual in it. “One of your own will do.” He let his glance shift to Goodall. “Even that abomination. You do not need him to close the spell now that I am here.”
Goodall scowled and swayed forward as if he would break from his place and attack Carlos.
Wygan shook his head, the reflection off his ghostly scales scintillating in the air like snow. “Ah, Ataíde. Not quite so clever as you think you are. I still need him to keep you from my throat. And the Greywalker would not volunteer even if she could. But the blood of a vampire will do. Kill Kammerling.”
Edward tried to thrash away, but Carlos held onto his arm with no effort and shook him a little, saying, “Peace now. I am no threat to you.” Edward subsided into a weakened heap. Then Carlos returned his attention to the Pharaohn. “You well know that is one thing I cannot do, no matter how I crave it.”
“Oh, yes: the tie that binds. . . .”
He kept his gaze on Wygan’s, daring the hypnotizing stare of the White Worm. “If you would have it, then you must free me to do it. As you promised.”
Wygan knit his thin white brows and shot rapid glances at me and Goodall. The ushabti growled and took a step before another glare put him back in his place.
“Kammerling’s too weak,” Goodall suggested. “Cut the Greywalker. Her part’s nearly done.”
“But nearly is not completely,” Wygan muttered back. “You let your jealousy and greed for power run away with your sense. No, Edward will do.”
I kept my mouth shut, still studying the circles on the floor. I could see the weak links, the open gates, even as the gold, blue, and red lines of the grid began weaving into me, pulling my substance and will toward it. I sank to my knees to get closer, risking the connection between normal and Grey, letting the warp and weft of the grid be extra eyes and ears as I moved toward it.
The Pharaohn turned his gaze back to Carlos, evaluating the necromancer before he stepped close. The set of his head told me he was bothered by something but unable to pin it down. He put his hand out toward Carlos, and in the blaze of the grid I could see how his shape slid into the tangled lines of power around them, brushing into magic in a way that was chillingly familiar. He didn’t encounter the thread he expected and twitched back, angry.
But the asetem aren’t as fast as other vampires and Carlos was already thrusting the Lâmina up toward the Pharaohn’s gut. Only the intervention of Goodall and the luck of the devil kept the uncanny blade out of Wygan’s eldritch flesh. Goodall jumped and yanked his master backward as Carlos moved and the whispering knife slashed through cloth and air.
The nearly solid shape of the Guardian screamed in the circle, but Wygan would not be distracted again. He shoved Goodall back and stepped close behind Carlos, plunging his hands into the dark vampire’s neck and shoulder, holding him in the grip of his fury and power. He shook the bigger man violently and I could see Carlos arch and buckle as the shape of his own life and magic twisted under the Pharaohn’s grip and the blade clattered from his hand.
“I do not know how you’ve freed yourself, but there shall be no more tricks, Ataíde. Do it, or I’ll scatter you to the wind.”
It was not an idle threat, but I could see his power strain. He could destroy Carlos, and it would ruin him in the process, but the urge to survive was too strong for the necromancer, whether he knew the odds or not. And there were still chances to stop the Pharaohn. . . .
The dark vampire nodded. “All right.” Wygan pushed him down.
Carlos crouched beside Edward. “I’m sorry for this,” he whispered. “I meant to forgive our past.” He picked up the Lâmina from the floor and let it touch the base of Edward’s neck. His eyes sought mine for just a moment. Then he looked away again.