by Ann Aguirre
Just to be safe, she got in position, checked her weapon, and peered down the scope, zooming in on various faces in the crowd. It was hard to pull back without taking action, especially when she saw the tears streaming down the face of the young Eldritch they had kneeling before the boss man. Pop, I could take him out right now.
That’d be instant chaos, easy pickings for Gavriel. Something told her there was a reason he was thinning the opposition first, however, so she refrained. What the hell are they looking for, anyway?
Mags leaned forward, straining her ears to the utmost, and she could just make out what the head guy was saying. “Swear fealty. Swear it and swallow this blessed gray tar, the elixir of life. Follow me to glory. To greatness!”
Oh shit. This is a recruitment drive.
That made more sense, as these people couldn’t know anything that the houses would find useful. These bastards were just trying to drag civilians into their sick power games. Gavriel had probably gathered as much already.
That’s why he’s leaving the leader alive. To find out what the endgame is.
At that moment, the Noxblade finally slipped—or maybe he was tiring. Either way, she saw him clearly as he struck his next victim and the man in the center of the square did as well, saving the Eldritch on his knees from being forcibly fed the drug.
“Intruders!” he shouted. “Slaughter them and bring me their heads!”
Mags opened fire.
Still too many, Gavriel thought. Too much chaos to predict how this would end.
But Magda was shooting from the tower, as he’d asked, providing cover. When they tried to pursue him, she dropped two running the hardest, and that gave him the chance to slip into the shadows. Not invisible, that was impossible, and they were still hunting him. His heart hammered in his ears, and it sickened him, how thrilling this was.
The guild had trained him too well. Some part of him came alive only when he was stalking a target, pitting himself against life and death odds. The adrenaline pumping through his veins streamed like the most irresistible drug, brutal and euphoric at once.
Now, it was a game of hide and seek. To live, he had to win. Briefly, he spared a moment to worry for Magda in the tower, as there was no doubt where the shots were coming from, but the approach was narrow, exactly why he’d sent her to hold that ground. She should be able to kill them as they came while he picked them off on the ground.
As he decided to trust Magda to carry her half of the plan, a lone Dead-Eyes came around the corner of the building he was using for cover. Gavriel struck and sliced him a crimson smile, then booted him into the shadows. There was no need to hide the bodies so well anymore.
Keep moving. Don’t let them corner you.
The leader was barking orders, but his henchmen didn’t listen, running with weapons out and murder in their eyes. Too much movement for him to tell how many were left. At least twenty, though the tiger woman was shooting like there was a trophy in it for her. Wait, I forgot about the bet.
She’d allowed him a head start, but she was catching up quick. Can’t let her win; it’s the principle.
Still, he was more vulnerable than she was, so he had to pick targets carefully, a spider, not a dragon, as Leena had suggested. In truth, it was flattering that Magda called him a shadow warrior when he was a killer, plain and simple. If he did his job properly, there was no battle, no resistance, only a dead enemy at his feet.
Distracted by these thoughts, Gavriel missed his next strike, his knives glancing off bone instead of the clean slice over pliant flesh. The Dead-Eyes flung him off, nearly strong as an Animari, and Gavriel slammed into the wall. His back popped, not enough to break his spine, but if he tussled with this one too long, it would sap his endurance. He was pulling hard on his gift tonight, and the memory of what happened to Zan haunted him.
This Dead-Eyes was fast too. He barely got his arm up to counter a killing strike, and the blade still sliced across his forearm. An immediate burn told him the knife must be poisoned. Hopefully, it was a toxin he’d trained on, as the guild insisted on a regimen of poison resistance training. That burn traveled up his arm, weakening his grip on the blade, and then the enemy jerked once, twice, and dropped.
Thanks, tiger woman.
Gavriel scrambled, taking the opportunity she’d given him. The square was nearly empty now, just the leader and two bodyguards. Even the boy they’d been tormenting had fled. As he gauged the distance, Mags iced one of the guards, so Gavriel rushed the other. Before the leader could react, she shot him in the knee.
Clever woman.
He shrieked and fell over while Gavriel went toe to toe with the last Dead-Eyes standing. Well, the last in the square anyway. Any moment he expected her to end the fight, but perhaps she was out of ammunition. That, or she respected his kill.
His opponent had no finesse, only fury, and he charged like an enraged beast. Gavriel slid aside smoothly and aimed a kicked at the back of his knees. Not quite strong enough to drop him, though he did stagger. Gavriel slid into a crouch, making himself a smaller target, then he dove and rolled, coming up with his knives in a strike that should have finished the fight. Only this fiend had no sense of pain, no hesitation, and he put his hands in front of the blades, readily impaling his own palms. He didn’t react, didn’t cry out.
These Dead-Eyes truly are lost.
With all his strength—and his wounded right arm was flagging—he hauled on the knives and tried again, only to fail to dodge a brutal kick to the face. He tumbled backward, tasting blood.
This is why I don’t fight.
Fortunately, the toxin on his own blades was working. Not even an Animari drug could counteract the quick impact of Nightbane, a powerful poison that took five days to make properly. Gavriel had brewed this batch personally.
The enemy slowed, stumbled, and then Gavriel finished him with a jab and twist of the knife. Breathing hard, he turned to make sure the leader wasn’t hiding a gun, but no, he was rolling around on the ground, leaking blood, and it smelled as if he’d pissed himself.
First things first.
He wrapped the gunshot wound so this disgusting creature wouldn’t bleed out, then he knelt, staring into the man’s face. At this distance, he recognized him. “You serve House Manwaring,” he said in astonishment. “What the hell are you doing in Gilbraith lands?”
The only reply was the sound of hysterical laughter. No matter what Gavriel did or how he pushed, the man refused to speak, though he had been before. His eyes rolled in his head, and he eventually passed out. Gavriel kicked him in the side, but he still didn’t rouse.
Magda joined him then. “Any luck?”
“None. There’s no getting any sense out of him. I suspect I could torture him to death, and it would only waste our time.”
“I’m not a huge fan of torture anyway,” she said. “Finish him, then we can clean up any resistance and organize the survivors. There might be something valuable in the church also, but since you’re in charge of this op, you should call our next move.”
Warmth spread through him, so sharp it left him dizzy. Her respect felt like the finest reward he’d ever received—no, wait, that…might be the poison, making him lightheaded. At the moment, Gavriel could barely rub two thoughts together.
When she stepped closer, her eyes widened. “You’re injured.”
Just a flesh wound, he tried to say, but his tongue was swollen, and it came out, “Jub a fled wud.”
“Shit, do you have an antidote? Will this kill you?”
Probably not. Maybe so.
Currently, Gavriel couldn’t muster much concern one way or another. His whole body hurt, and he was tasting colors. Purple was magically delicious, just like crab and seaweed soup. Her eyes smelled like cinnamon fry bread; he’d eaten some in Hallowell, right before everything exploded.
“Wonder if there’s any fucking medics left in this town,” she muttered, sounding as close to frantic as he’d ever heard. “Come here, I
’ve got you. No, do not sit down. Gavriel, open your eyes.”
It was nice that she kept saying his name in that worried tone, less nice when she shook him. Feebly he tried to swat her hands away, and then she lifted him. I’m flying! Then she was moving fast, wind streaming on his skin, and it felt good because his head had somehow gotten filled with bees, which wasn’t the way heads were supposed to feel at all. As far as he remembered.
“Stay with me, all right? I’ll figure something out. We’re partners, and I promised I had your back. Do you remember me saying I might eventually manage to be your friend? Congratulations, that day is today. We’re battle buddies, no take backs, and I don’t care who won the bet. Just…stay with me.”
That was the last thing he heard, and as final moments went, he figured this one was pretty good.
19.
Mags ran in wild panic, desperate to find some help for Gavriel when she realized it was damn unlikely that there were any doctors left in Ancalen. There was a faint chance somebody with medical skill might be sheltering with the rest of the terrified citizens, but she couldn’t risk Gavriel’s life on that.
Pausing, she took stock of his condition. He was always pale, but his skin had taken on an ashen, lifeless tone, and his breathing was strained, whistling in his chest. That couldn’t be good.
Making a quick decision, she headed for a deserted building marked with a symbol that she recognized, even if she couldn’t read Eldritch fluently. This is a pharmacy. The windows and doors were smashed, and the place had been looted, but maybe she could find something useful in here. She went in over broken glass, crunching it beneath her feet.
No lights, of course, so she got out her phone and turned on the torch. Shining it around did no good, and time was running out. Gavriel was wheezing, clawing at his throat and trying to fight her, but he had no strength left.
Beyond the counter, there was an open door, leading to a small exam room. Possibly they’d kept a GP on staff to do a brief checkup before prescribing medication. Hands trembling, Mags laid Gavriel on the bed, wishing Sheyla was here. That would be—
Before the idea even formed fully, she was dialing up her pride mate. Come on, answer the damn phone. I don’t care what time it is.
“Sheyla Halek.” The doc sounded cranky, but then, she always did.
“Mags here. I’ve got an urgent situation, just listen and advise. Eldritch male, severe case of poisoning. I have no idea what the enemy used and he’s dying. Ideas?”
“You don’t make social calls, do you?” Sheyla sounded wide awake now and interested. “Does he have any antidotes on him?”
“Not that I’ve seen and we’re nowhere near his pack. Come on, Sheyla. I need a miracle here.”
“Then there’s only one play. I saved a Golgoth warrior with an Animari transfusion back in Hallowell. Don’t know if it’ll work the same on the Eldritch, but it’s your only shot. You’ll need…” As Sheyla listed supplies, Mags raced through the pharmacy, like she was in a competitive shopping contest.
In the end, she had everything ready and she put the call on speaker with Sheyla giving step by step instructions. She wasn’t a doctor, so this might kill Gavriel, but he was dying anyway. Mags hissed in discomfort as she tied off her arm. Supplies were primitive and basic, lucky she’d even managed to find needles and tubing.
“This is all guesswork and it may kill him if you’re an incompatible donor, but if you don’t do this, he’ll definitely die, considering the conditions you’ve described. What’s your blood type?”
Mags closed her eyes, momentarily so relieved that she could barely speak to reply. “Universal donor, thank the fates. I’m going for it.”
By this point, Gavriel was so far gone that he didn’t even flinch when she sank the shunt and started piping her red blood into him. Sheyla was still talking, telling her about how long to permit the donation. The doc paused. “Still with me, Mags? You didn’t pass out at the sight of your own blood, did you?”
She let out a shaky laugh. “Screw you, Halek. I’m trying to measure how much I’ve given him.”
“Based on typical arterial pressure, I’ve been timing you and… stop now.”
“On it.”
Her hands were none too steady when she cut the flow and sealed the two sites with gauze and tape. That’s probably lack of food combined with excess adrenaline. There’s no way I’m this scared.
Sheyla went on, “Normally I’d recommend getting him on an IV drip, but I doubt you have the supplies, plus if you screw up the intubation, it’ll be more trouble than it’s worth.”
“What else can I do then?”
“Try to get some fluids in him orally. Unless the place has been completely ransacked, there should be some electrolyte drinks somewhere. Keep him warm and massage the affected area. Even if you manage to save his life, if the poison is virulent enough, he might lose functionality—”
“It’s his arm. I’ll take care of it. Thanks, Sheyla.”
“You seem pretty invested. Who is this Eldritch you’re trying so hard to save anyway?”
“What? I can’t hear you. Must be losing signal.” Mags cut the call without a gram of remorse and went to rummage for the drink Sheyla had mentioned.
There were none left on the shelves, but she found a box in the back room. Cracking it open, she grabbed six bottles and hurried back to Gavriel. The lights didn’t work, but she unearthed some solar lamps that had been stashed, probably for an emergency less dire than this one, and they still had enough of a charge to brighten the room from utter darkness. While Mags could function well enough using her night vision, Gavriel might be scared if he woke and couldn’t see shit.
In the faint light, his color didn’t look much better, but his breathing had eased. Sheyla hadn’t explained why Mags’s blood would help, but she guessed their accelerated healing would give him a fighting chance against the toxin. Okay, keep him warm. There was a rough brown blanket folded at the bottom of the cot, so she drew it over him.
What else?
Massage the area.
The wound itself wasn’t deep at all, but the dark streaks radiating from it had to be poison-related. She’d given him blood in this arm, reasoning that it was better to get the Animari healing as close to the problem as possible. Mags cleaned the gash, decided it didn’t need stitches, and wrapped the wound in gauze, then she kneaded the muscle above and below, hoping Sheyla knew what the hell she was talking about.
At some point in the night, Gavriel roused and she got half a bottle of Vitamil in him before he passed out again. Her eyes felt like sandpaper, but she couldn’t let herself sleep. First time she’d ever played nurse, and just her luck, she had to be the guard on watch, too.
It was cold as hell in here, even with the door shut, because there was no fireplace, no functional heat, and all the glass was smashed out front. When Gavriel started shivering, she sighed and got on the cot with him, drawing him close to share her body heat.
He’s still alive. Good job.
Mags tried her best not to sleep, but she felt like twice-baked shit. At dawn, Gavriel was breathing much easier, and by the time the sky brightened fully, his face even looked normal, no longer like a fish slowly gasping to death.
She peeked beneath the bandage and found that the scarlet rays had faded to gentle pink, a sure sign that the transfusion was doing its job. Mags didn’t know that much about blood work, but she did understand that if their Rh factors had been incompatible, he would’ve died despite her best efforts. Hell, if it becomes common knowledge that Animari healing can work like this, the Eldritch and the Golgoth might start kidnapping us—oh shit. Mags froze, wondering if that was why the Golgoth had been known to kidnap the Animari, even when the Pax Protocols were still in place.
They took Eamon, tortured him. He barely made it back alive. But was there a method to that madness? Medical experiments…?
Alarmed, she considered calling Sheyla to check but then she remembered that the d
oc was on deck to become the next Golgoth queen, or so she’d heard. Most probably she shouldn’t ask Sheyla to pose awkward questions to her mate. Mags didn’t trust Prince Alastor even a little, but the former Ash Valley physician did and meddling in somebody else’s relationship wasn’t her style. Sighing, she cracked open a fresh bottle of Vitamil and grimaced. This shit was terrible; good thing it offered nourishment or there would be no reason to drink it.
When she set her hand on Gavriel’s forehead to see if he was feverish, his eyes opened. At first, he looked dazed, but his gaze rapidly focused on her face.
“I’m…alive?”
Through a terrible throbbing in his right arm, Gavriel struggled to put the pieces together. All he could see was Magda’s face, streaked with dirt and blood, puffy eyes, and hair standing on end. She looks like hell.
Her gaze skittered away from his. “You owe me, shadow warrior. I’ve never had to doctor anybody before, and I’d rather not repeat this.”
“I apologize for the inconvenience. This is…” He glanced around, unable to identify his surroundings.
“An abandoned pharmacy in Ancalen. You probably want a pain reliever, but I wasn’t sure if you had any allergies.” She hesitated, then went on with a shrug. “I also can’t read Eldritch too well, so I thought it would be better if you told me what to get.”
“I’ll have a look.” But when he tried to sit up, the room spun, and she steadied him with sturdy, capable arms.
That…feels familiar. He fought the impulse to lean into her and rest his head on her shoulder. It’s just a fucking scratch, Noxblade. Tough it out.
“The blade was poisoned. It must’ve been something I’ve developed a resistance to or I wouldn’t have made it.” He tried that theory and watched her face for a reaction.
Magda’s expression told him nothing. “Sure, it could’ve happened that way.”