David Coe - Spell Blind

I needed to do that again. I’d told Kona-Kona, who had been here only a minute or two before; or had it been longer?

I’d told her that I was safe. That tonight, of all nights, Red couldn’t hurt me. Why the hell would I have thought that? What an idiot I’d been!

Standing, I realized that I held something in my hand: a scrap of wood slick with magic, red like blood. I flung it away before it could hurt me and rubbed my fingers on my shirt, expecting them to start burning any second. The red was everywhere. I needed to protect myself from it. I didn’t know why, but I did. Wardings. That’s what I’d been thinking. Wardings. That was why I’d stood.

But that red magic was already inside. What was the use of warding if it was already here?

I watched the red as I sidled toward the back of the house, my back to the wall. When I couldn’t see the red anymore I threw myself down the hallway and into another room. My room. There was no red in here. I closed the door. Locked it.

My room, a shield, and that red magic.

No, those weren’t the right elements. Three was the right number. But the elements had to be right, too. My room, the shield, and. . what? Red himself. I spoke the spell, felt magic surge through me.

The walls shimmered with magic the color of the sea. I sunk to the floor and leaned back against the side of my bed, my eyes closed.

I heard a coyote howl in the distance. Opening my eyes again, I saw sprigs of cinquefoil and clover sprouting from the rug. The ground. I squinted up at the sun overhead, felt its heat on my face and neck and shoulders. A hot breeze touched my skin and I wiped sweat from my brow.

Honeybees grappled with the tiny blooms beside me and a butterfly floated past. Following it with my eyes, I saw it swoop over a patch of grass and then loop back toward a low, shaded path. I inhaled sharply, held my breath, the butterfly forgotten.

The path. It was red, and it wound away from me, cutting through the shimmering aqua light like a knife. Red. He was down that path. I could feel him, close, powerful. Evil, someone had called him. Who had said that?

I followed. I stayed where I was, too tired to move, too comfortable in the clover and grass. But I followed, my mind flying down that path. It led a long way from the grass, over rock and sand and more rock. The grass and flowers were gone, but still the red went on, and I followed, determined now, tired no longer, though still I was sitting, resting.

Like embers the red glowed, hot and angry and my feet ached, my face and neck and chest burned. Heat rose from the path like steam from a boiling pot, damp, rank with the smell of blood. But I followed. After a time a second color bled into the crimson. Green, pale as a forest mist. The colors twined, and I followed, until the green broke free and curled away. I knew that green. I’d seen it before. But I stayed with the red, knowing that was the important color. Time was running short, and I was growing desperate, conscious of the sun dropping like a stone toward the horizon. I tried to run, gasping for breath, my feet leaden.

The path began to climb, steeper and steeper, until I was scrabbling on all fours. An animal, chasing the scent of blood. Other colors joined the red and faded, sweeping in from left and right like swallows angling along a cliff face. Blues and yellows, oranges and golds, something akin to pure light itself, and this one I did know, but it was gone so fast I had no time to guess from where. More greens, more purples. Always they swung away again, these other colors. But the red remained, a gash running through all the rest-raw, livid, fevered. That was the constant, and that was the path I followed.

A bird squawked, shrill and insistent from beside the path. I ignored it, but it called again. Twice, three times. Until I had to stop and search for it.

The phone. The phone was ringing. I picked it up. No sound. At least not at first.

Had I said hello?

“Fearsson?”

I knew the voice, though it seemed to be coming from far away. I could see the red path still, but the sun was setting. I had no time.

“Fearsson? You there?”

“Billie,” I said, because that was the name.

“We must have a bad connection or something. Can you hear me okay?”

“Yes.”

“I just wanted to tell you again what a great a day I had. I’m so glad I got to meet your father.”

I didn’t take my eyes off the path. I was afraid even to blink, in case it vanished in the failing light.

“Fearsson?”

“I have to go.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Did Kona come by? Are the two of you still working?”

“No. Kona’s. . she left. The light’s almost gone, and I’m losing the path. I can’t. . I have to go.”

“I don’t. . You sound funny, Fearsson. Are you all right?”

I had to make her understand; it was important that I explain to her better. But the ribbon of crimson light had faded almost to nothing. And I couldn’t find the words.

“Fearsson? You still there?” She sounded frightened now. I could hear the fear in her voice. I was scared, too. The path.

“I can’t now,” I said, and hung up.

I started up the path again, loose rocks falling away behind me, my hands scraping on the stone and dirt. But I could still see the red and I thought I could see the top.

The phone rang again. The bird. Keening, its voice echoing off the cliffs. But I ignored it. After a time, it stopped.

On and on I climbed. There were no other colors now; only the red. The path was barren, rocky, unforgiving. The drop on either side would have been enough to kill me. In the distance I could see some trees, clustered like cattle in a rainstorm. Mountains rose beyond them, gray and austere. Closer, the terrain rolled like swells on some grassy sea, silvered where the wind blew, bending the grasses so that they gleamed in the pale light.

I slowed as I neared the top, fearful, eager. Far to the west, the sun seemed to teeter on the edge of the world, huge, ovate, its color a match for the path I’d followed to the top of this rise. But I saw nothing. I’d reached the top, and there was nothing. Rock, the lurid glow of that sun, and laughter riding the wind. That was all. The path was gone; it wasn’t even behind me anymore.

“What the hell?” I muttered.

I’d been so sure that I was following him. Red. I’d known that he’d be here at the end. So where was he?

“Right here.”

I opened my eyes, not realizing they’d been closed. He stood over me. Tall, broad, bald. Eyes as pale as bone. His nose was hooked and crooked. Broken once, maybe. There was something regal about it. His lips were thin and pale, and his chin was dimpled. For so long I’d wanted to see his face, to memorize his features. I stared at him. Stared and stared. I couldn’t help myself.

“ Tu aies me cherche, oui? ” he said, his smile cold and cruel. “You have been looking for me?”

For a moment I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. At last I nodded. “Yes. But you couldn’t come tonight. It’s. . the moon. You couldn’t come. And I put wardings on my. .”

I stopped, because he was laughing. A sound that chilled me, that seemed to make the room colder. The sun was a light again. No heat. I was shivering.

And in that moment I knew. The rest had been delusion, hallucination; whatever you wanted to call it. It hadn’t been real. But he was. Red was standing over me in my bedroom. And I was a dead man.

I tried to crawl away from him, my eyes never leaving his face. But he stood between me and my door. I groped for a spell-any spell-that would send him away or shield me from whatever he was about to do. But I could feel the moon pressing down on my mind, crushing memory, knowledge, craft-everything I needed.