The Dew of Flesh

by Gregory Ashe

  Chapter 42

  The pieces of purple glass slid through Ilahe’s flesh, slow and steady, as she knelt in the stinking alley. The pieces that had started in her hand had made their way up to her shoulder, but they did not seem to interfere with her movement. That was a small blessing; she had managed to remove the arrow from her other shoulder, in part thanks to the newfound strength from the cam-ad, but that arm still hung useless at her side. With a grunt, she tossed aside the ruined arrow. At least it was out of her.

  The alley was dark—wide, flat planes of shadow, broken by angular columns of blue-white starlight. At times, the stark distinction of the two made Ilahe dizzy; she was not used to the strange mixture of clarity and blindness. She was glad she still had the cam-ad in her, though. Pursuit had not followed, but she did not think she would be able to defend herself with one good arm—without the cam-ad, that is.

  Shouts, and the flare of torchlight, falling in long, triangular bands from perfect cones of heat, reached her from the street ahead. Ilahe drew back, behind a plane of darkness, but the shouts did not come any closer. They did, however, grow in intensity. And then Ilahe felt it; the sudden tingling along her skin, the dryness at the back of her throat, the rage. The desire for blood.

  A street harvest.

  She pushed the feelings down, grateful that this time she had recognized them. It was still a struggle, and the cam-ad did not seem to help, but she finally managed to push back the bloodlust. When she did, sweat covered her brow.

  The shouts did not stop. And then, a woman’s scream broke out over the noise. The sound of it sent ripples through Ilahe, and the bloodlust roared back to life. Ilahe took two steps toward the street before she realized what she was doing. The pleasure of it—it was so intense, as though it radiated from every muscle in her body. She longed for the final release, the spray of warm blood across cheek and tongue.

  Shaking her head, Ilahe dug down deep. Her child, taken from her. Night after night, curled up, wishing she could die, and somehow living. The last night she had seen Cinar, ran one hand though the fine hairs of his beard. It was like popping a bubble; one moment, the pleasure of the bloodlust threatened to overwhelm her. The next, it was gone.

  She turned, grateful for the speed of the cam-ad that would carry her far from this place. Back to Cenarbasi, although nothing awaited her there.

  Then she heard the scream. This time, there were words in it.

  “Please, help me! Please!”

  Ilahe felt like she had swallowed a stone. She recognized that voice. But whose was it?

  With her new speed and strength, Ilahe raced up the side of a nearby building and pulled herself on to the roof, injured shoulder protesting. The slate tiles cracked as her fingers tightened. In a heartbeat she was on the roof, running, light and shadow and breath streaming past her in the strange, distinct lines of the cam-ad. At the edge of the roof, she came to a stop and studied the street below.

  A mass of fair-haired people in a ring around two women—one with a knife. Those closest to the two women held tarps, but they screamed as loudly as the rest of the mob. The woman with the knife rose to her feet to reveal the woman below her.

  Ly, her pregnant belly sharp and angular in the cam-ad vision, lay on the ground. Blood, dark in the torchlight, ran down both her arms and made it impossible to tell how badly she was wounded.

  Ilahe did not care. She leaped from the roof, the strength of the cam-ad propelling her through the dark, linear air. Ilahe landed hard and rolled, knocking the men with the canvas tarp to the ground. Even as the shock of the landing hit her, as her shoulder screamed with pain, Ilahe pushed herself to her feet.

  They were going to take her baby.

  The world around her collapsed into lines and planes. Wielding a sword in her good hand, Ilahe cut and stabbed, not seeing the men and women who rushed toward her. In her mind, she stood in her bedroom, in her old home, where the ocean breezes stirred the palm leaves, brushed the air with salt. The Khacens she cut down were not Khacens anymore, but Cehulet priests, their hands grasping for her, to take her to their dungeons.

  Only this time, Ilahe did not look to her husband for help. She did not cry and fall to her knees as the men bound her arms. She did not let them take her, take her child.

  She fought. An ocean breeze herself, two planes of sharp steel in the prismatic world of the cam-ad. Men and women fell, their blood pouring out in smooth panels of red and black. She moved too fast for any of them to touch her. With the cam-ad in her, the sword cut through flesh and bone as though they were palm leaves, stirred by her passage.

  Then, with a suddenness that surprised, Ilahe stood with no one left to fight. Long heartbeats passed before she drew in a shuddering breath. Blood gummed her fingers to the sword, but she would not have released it if she could. Ilahe wanted to fight, to kill, and to keep killing until she died herself. To stop was to come back to herself, back to the pain and loss that were her constant companions.

  A whimpered cry drew her back to reality. Ilahe glanced down and saw Ly, still on the ground, both hands pressed protectively over her belly. Blood stained Ly’s face and dress, but she was alive. Ilahe knelt next to the pregnant woman.

  “Are you alright?” Ilahe asked.

  Ly nodded. Tears swirled pink lines through the blood on her face.

  Prying her fingers from the hilt, Ilahe sheathed the sword. “I’ll carry you,” she said.

  The shards of purple energy had almost reached her heart. Ilahe could feel them within her, still working their way through her flesh. She did not know what would happen when they stopped moving.

  It made no difference for the moment. With the cam-ad’s strength, Ilahe lifted Ly easily. The thick panels of darkness, broken only by the luminescent pillars from the stars, pressed in around her.

  As she ran toward the whorehouse, Ilahe felt that darkness crushing her, so that she could barely draw breath. Blackness take her, she hated this place.