The Tattooed Heart (Messenger of Fear 2)

I saw something in her bloodred eyes then. It was not fear, no, I had no real power over Oriax. What I saw in her eyes, on that leathery face, was regret. And suddenly, with chills running down my arms and spine, I understood.

“You,” I said. “My God. You were once a messenger! You faced the choice you offered me. You chose to become what you are.”

“I am the great Oriax!” she bellowed in a voice that made the stone walls vibrate.

“You’re a magician with some tricks,” I said quietly. “Some very good tricks. But I watched your act closely, and I’ve seen the sleight of hand. Your magic no longer amazes me. I don’t want to be you, Oriax. And I don’t want to be the Mara who drove Samantha Early to her grave, not again, not ever.”

I laughed in sheer relief. It surprised me and shocked Oriax. I now knew how to free Ariadne, and, in a way, myself as well.

“I will not be Oriax,” I said. “Nor will I be the old Mara. I will be the Messenger of Fear.”

She shrank a little then. Still huge and dominating, but somehow reduced. Now it was Oriax who could not speak without revealing her weakness.

“Oriax. Take me to Ariadne.”

21

ARIADNE. HOW MANY TIMES HAD I HEARD THAT name and seethed inwardly?

Ariadne, whose face I knew from the terrifying tattoo over Messenger’s heart.

I followed Oriax to her, stepping into the void, floating through bodies rising and falling, passing screeching demons that bared their fangs at me but, like furious zoo animals, never touched me.

Ariadne floated like the others, far from the diamond above, far from the unseen depths of the pit below. A demon floated beside her whispering, “You gave him up. You sent him to torture and death, him and his entire family, all save one, and you know his fate! You forced him to become your executioner!”

The demon noticed me, his turkey neck whipping his lizard’s head around. He hissed like a furious cat.

“Leave,” I said to him.

He hissed again, but he left.

I had power. I had authority here. I had the authority of Isthil.

“Shall I tell you how this love of Messenger’s life came to be here?” Oriax said.

“No. I don’t need you. In fact, Oriax, I think it’s time for you to go. Leave me.”

My God, she obeyed! The demon who had weakened my knees and crept into dreams I wished I could forget, but never would, roared empty defiance, and then . . . disappeared.

I was alone with Ariadne. Above us, the diamond. Below us, hell itself. She did not see me, her eyes saw nothing. I don’t believe she heard me or was aware of my presence. Until I laid my hand against the side of her pretty face. A tremor went through her, and she gasped, but nothing more.

“This is the Piercing,” I said, “but you would know that. I will enter your mind, but not to find your fear this time, only to learn the truth.”

The pit, the mountain, the floating bodies and flitting demons all faded away, and I was on a narrow cobblestone street. Cars of an earlier vintage rattled by, but so did a horse-drawn cart. It was a shopping district—a display window with three dresses on my left, an enticing cascade of beautiful pastries in the window to my right. The signs read L’Atelier de Maurice and Patisserie.

My two years of French were up to the task of reading basic signs, though not much more. I was in France, but not today’s France, a France gone by. I saw pedestrians, but none with cell phones. I saw cigarettes dangling from lips, men in blue smocks and frayed suits, women in faded dresses and thick-heeled shoes. I heard a grating mechanical sound and looked up to see an airplane with impossible markings: the black cross of wartime Germany.

Down that street came a young couple in their late teens perhaps, arm in arm, laughin

g, heads tilted together, almost touching.

Ariadne.

And Messenger.

He was a very handsome boy with an easy charm and brown hair cut short. He wore a tan wool suit, no tie, a dark wool overcoat. A plaid scarf wrapped his neck and caught the sudden gust of breeze. He laughed and snatched at the scarf.

He was Messenger, but not. He was at once the same, yet so much younger. This Messenger had seen little of life. He had seen little of pain. He had known little guilt or regret. He was handsome, but he lacked the dangerous beauty and deep sadness that Messenger owned.