A jolt of fear ripped through Snofrid, thrusting her into a fit of panic. Once more, she accessed the ceiling gun. “Touch her and I’ll shoot you!” she threatened.
“Pull the trigger and you’ll be killing her along with your family,” Lucian warned. He held the nose of his shotgun to Jazara’s skull. “This fires five 12-gauge shots per second. Her head will look like a watermelon dropped from the Trinity Tower.”
“Okay, don’t.” Snofrid held up her empty hands. “I won’t shoot. I s-swear.”
“I know you won’t, mieloji.” Lucian grabbed Jazara’s wrist and slid the bolt-cutters around her thumb.
“Don’t cut it off,” Jazara sobbed. “Please, please, please!”
He tipped up her chin with his thumbless hand. “Learn to control your own pain and you’ll fear nothing,” he promised. “Now…look at my eyes.”
“No!” she screamed, her cheeks streaming with tears. Kicking harder, she tried to wriggle free. “Snofrid, help me!”
Snofrid pushed her fists into the door in her helplessness. “Jazara, I’m sorry,” she called out. “I’m so sorry!”
“Every time I do a deal, I understand there is chance I might die,” Lucian told Jazara. “I accept there could be pain and I tell myself that I want it.” He nodded. “Tell yourself you want it.”
“I don’t want it, I don’t want it,” Jazara moaned.
“I want it,” Brongo screeched, wiggling his tongue. “I want it bad.”
Lucian clamped together the bolt-cutters, slicing clean through the bone, and the thumb dropped to the floor. Jazara shrieked so loud her face flushed red. She buckled against Brongo’s chest and her head flipped back over his arms. Lucian plunked the severed thumb into his teacup with a splash, then, holding the bolt-cutters between his teeth, fired up his blow torch.
“Keep her still,” he mumbled to Brongo.
Jazara fainted as he cauterized the wound while Snofrid stared wide-eyed through the spy-grate. For a moment she felt like she was standing at the Gehenna loading docks, gazing down at Ryuki’s half-eaten remains. Heaviness pulsed around her, curbing the airflow in her lungs. She stepped back, hands falling limp at her sides, and started to sob.
Brongo laid Jazara on the rug while Lucian switched off the blowtorch. “Seven days,” he called, fitting on a black viper-head gasmask. “This is the last deal I’ll do.”
He strode into the antechamber, passing off the bolt-cutters to Brongo. The Swangunner licked the blood off the jaws before he strapped on his hog-head gasmask and they both vanished into the snowfall.
By nightfall, the temperature had plummeted. The streets were deserted except for a dozen sweeper machines plowing snow from the roads. Above, grey clouds veiled the stars, showing only the moon glistening in a spot of naked sky.
Snofrid stood before the kitchen stove, monitoring a pot of steeping witch hazel leaves. Green froth flowed across the leaves, bubbling into thick foam and wafting an earthy aroma. Her eyes blurred as she pulled on a pair of oven mittens. Throughout the day, she’d periodically flashbacked to what Lucian had done. At each recollection, she reflexively cupped her hands over her head. Her eyes had grown sore from crying.
Since leaving the War Lobby, Jazara had ignored Snofrid. She only spoke to Desya and refused to go anywhere alone. Snofrid accepted the full blame for what Lucian had done to Jazara and held off from defending herself.
When the witch hazel had boiled, Snofrid brought the concentrate to Desya as a disinfectant for Jazara’s wound. He was at the kitchen table, changing the gauze dressing, and masterfully disguising his anger.
“Okay,” he said to Jazara. “Don’t look, I’m pulling the bandage off.”
“I want to see this time,” Jazara argued.
“All right. If you close your eyes, I’ll give you ten coppers to buy that basket for your bike.”
Jazara sucked in her breath. “Deal.”
Snofrid left a syringe of morphine sulfate on the table and retrieved her gasmask before taking a walk alone around the engawa—a roofed corridor that bordered the mansion like a porch. The engawa outcropped a hill-and-pond garden; its evergreens, hedges and flowers had wasted under the biting breath of winter. A light snow was falling, piling up on the frozen water.
Her gaze gradually dipped to the floorboards and she stared until she could no longer see the cracks. Covering her face with her gloves, she cried into her gasmask in short, puffy breaths. I know it’s my fault, she admitted. But what else could I have done? Lucian would’ve killed her if I’d moved.
“You shouldn’t be so upset over what happened, Snofrid.”
She lowered her hands. The sight of Lycidius walking through the dim engawa sent even profounder regret rolling through her. He was just a few feet away; she wouldn’t dare touch him, though she longed to. She suddenly prayed that time would lessen the way she felt, because nothing else, not even her healing ability, could. He’d stay by her side, shadowing her like a part of her, constantly reminding her of what was beyond her reach.
He appeared taller in the low corridor—the ears of his jackal gasmask grazed the ceiling—and his jacket collar was flipped down, showing his neck tree tattoo. He acted far more collected than he’d been that afternoon. He’d broken through the skylight in the War Lobby like an assassin, armed with an automatic rifle, only to find her and Jazara alone, both in tears.
“I can’t help being upset,” Snofrid said. “Not after what I watched Lucian do to her.”
Lycidius held up a tablet he’d brought with him. “I watched the store footage and you did what you could. Lucian gave you no choice but to stay in the panic room. Don’t let Jazara’s pain guilt-trip you into thinking the thumb was your fault.”
“Her pain isn’t guilt-tripping me. I wish it was only that, but it’s not. It is my fault.”
“No,” he contested. “Jazara is a child. Avoiding responsibility is what children do.”
Snofrid looked to the louvered windows, concerned that Jazara might be eavesdropping. The last thing she needed was to feel like losing her thumb was her fault. “We grew up with different perspectives of life. I know that, Lycidius. But would you have said the same thing to me if my thumb was snipped off with bolt-cutters?”
“I always told you what I truly thought, Snofrid.” He stayed at a distance, resting his hand on the railing. She couldn’t see his face through his mask; she wanted it to be conflicted. He’d always warred with himself over how to react in times like these. Usually, he wreaked bloody revenge on the perpetrator; right now, she just wanted him to be compassionate to Jazara.
“I was four when I became a Dracuslayer,” he went on, as if to prove a point. “Part of our training was basic aptitude skills. My unit’s captain would stab us and leave us to stitch up the wound or we’d die. The children who needed sympathy lasted until they bled out.” Caution strengthened his tone. “If you and Desya keep coddling her, she’ll never be able to take care of herself. Sooner or later, people need to grow up, Snofrid. Jazara needs to right now.”
“Yes, she does need to grow up,” Snofrid agreed. The wind blustered, jingling the garden wind chimes. “But not all people are built to be soldiers. Jazara isn’t—I’m not, either. Some people need understanding to grow, not knives in their stomachs.”
“You’re right. There’s nothing wrong with giving children a little bit of understanding,” he granted, “but too much causes damage. If you indulge people’s weaknesses too often, they’ll start to expect it. And then they’ll give into self-pity and become a victim.” He shook his head. “If Ryuki had done that to you, you never would’ve survived Gehenna.”
A tear spilled from her eye. “If you have children, will you raise them that way?”
He hesitated. Then, recovering, he replied decisively. “If I ever have children, they won’t be dependent, Snofrid. From a young age, they’ll be fully capable of caring for themselves. In this world, teaching children survival skills early on would be the greatest kindness.
”
She suddenly thought of Ryuki. Every ounce of affection he’d given her, she cherished. But she was also appreciative for the times when he left her to do things on her own. Despite agreeing with Lycidius to an extent, she wanted to change the subject. “We need to figure out a plan,” she reminded, “for Lucian.”
Lycidius let go of the railing with a nod. “We’re going to disappear. He’ll most likely put a tail on you, so we’ll split up and set a meet point under the city. The humans will suspect us and the people we know of being Inborns if we go missing today, so we’ll leave the night before the Sky-Legion flies in.”
“What about finding a way to call Atlas?” she suggested.
“No. If there was a way to get a technological transmission out, I would’ve done it.”
She didn’t feel much confidence in hiding. “I don’t think we should run.”
“It’s our only choice.”
“Even if it is, I’m worried about someone getting hurt again.” She leaned against the railing, staring into the frosted flower beds. “Next time, it could be worse than a thumb.”
As was typical, Lycidius acknowledged the danger of their position objectively. “Don’t waste your energy, Snofrid. Bad things will happen whether you worry about them or not.”
“I know they will, but we can at least try to prevent it.”
His eyepieces tilted toward her hands as she tugged at her gloves. “I know what I said wasn’t what you wanted to hear. I’m sorry. I was only trying to be straight about it.”
She turned away from the railing, frowning. “What did you say?”
“I said I was trying to be straight about what happened.” He paused. “So if I said something to make you feel worse, I’m sorry.”
She felt thrown. For years, she’d never seen him convey even the slightest hint of regret. So when had he started apologizing? Had he outgrown his unwillingness to comprise, too? Still reeling, she wondered what other traits of his had changed over the past two years—the years she hadn’t remembered. Pondering the possibilities was tormenting. She wanted back every moment they’d had.
“It’s fine, I’m not upset,” she assured. “But when did you—”
“I first apologized about a year ago,” he answered. He lingered, as if thinking back on the moment. “You were surprised then, too.”
She wished she could remember it.
Lycidius glanced skyward, and she followed his gaze to the energy shield. It glowed like an ocean over the city, bathing their clothes in blue. For a short while, she stood alongside him, silent and growing evermore hopeful. Even without asking, she knew they were both in expectation of the same thing: seeing the shield fall.
An hour later, in her bedroom, Snofrid laced on a pair of hiking boots. Due to the weather, the hike to the Spyderweb for her briefing with Hadrian would be treacherous. All the blackness of the day had brightened with Lycidius’s apology, until a few minutes ago, when she’d recalled her duty. Now she just had to find a way to slip out of the mansion unseen.
When she was bundled up in a winter coat, she eyed the photo of her and Lycidius on her computer desktop; it had been taken at the Hollowstone shooting range. In spite of his plan to hide, she knew that her only realistic option in dealing with Lucian was to fulfill their bargain: she would make a trade with Hadrian to use his phone in the Spyderweb. Lucian had been generous in giving her seven days, but the Sky-Legion was arriving in eight. She couldn’t afford to go into hiding; if she hadn’t delivered by that time, she, Desya, Lycidius, and Jazara would be hunted down by a Swangunner army in the next twenty-four hours—the same twenty-four hours that she’d sworn to spend hunting the welx.
The Stygian War
The clock chimes echoed six through the house.
Snofrid scanned the kitchen from her loft window. Desya and Jazara had traded their Mancala game at the table for video games in the washitsu, and Lycidius was cleaning guns in the garage. This was her chance. She stole into the basement and rode the elevator to ground level.
Hooting ricocheted through the forest. Cocking her pistol, she peered up through the crowded saplings at the clouds. The dew had frozen, caking bark in ice and encrusting ferns, nettles and poisonous foliage. No wind blew; not even a squirrel scurried across a twig. The forest looked dead except for the whites of a Dracuslayer’s eyes. His rugged brown skin blended with the trees.
“Don’t be afraid,” he called coolly. “I’m here as an escort. I’ll be your guardian until the end of the hunt. My House name is Bourkan but address me as Dracuslayer Coyote.”
“I know who you are,” she said. “I read your file.”
“You were given my name and a list of facts. You don’t know who I am.”
He advanced, moving with the dexterity of a hunter, and propped his bo staff on one shoulder. A blue robe swished around his calves when he moved, identical to the color of his fitted trousers and tall leather boots. His breastplate was imprinted with his House insignia—six forks of black lightning—and, on his shoulders, a dusky fur mantle kept the frost off his pauldron. Strands of his blond hair were entangled in the bronze facial armor that plated his forehead and cheeks. She noted his eyes, twitching as if their lids were full of sand, and wondered if he had some kind of disorder.
He tilted his staff at her satchel and added, “I smell acid. Open the bag.”
“I brought an acid grenade in case I ran into a bonecopse.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he informed, holding out a scarred hand. “You don’t need to be armed in the Spyderweb.” She surrendered the grenade. “Let’s move. Walk on my left side.”
Snofrid stepped into formation. She kept an eye on his arm as they hiked, wondering at the blackish-white substance glittering on his wrist. It looked organic. Occasionally, a ripple of what looked like electrical static glided down his hands to his fingertips.
“You’re expected to be on standby at all times,” Coyote told her after they’d crossed the creek. “My commanding officer tried to contact you yesterday and was unable to reach you.”
Snofrid had anticipated this would be brought up. “I couldn’t answer my phone. I was inside a Mania Mirror.”
Coyote raised a brow but didn’t comment. “This mission is your top priority; everything else is irrelevant. You’ll find a way to be on call until the shield falls. Understood?”
She nodded, suppressing her frustration. “Yes, Dracuslayer Coyote. Understood.”
“If it happens again, you’ll be disciplined,” he warned. “You don’t want to go there, take my word for it.”
A half-mile later, the branches of the black tree emerged from the fog. They descended into the bunker in silence. Once in the atrium, Coyote pointed out a passage overhung with roots. “Commander Hadrian will brief you in the Canvass Chamber. Go into the tunnel. Hessia will guide you from there.”
Snofrid headed toward passage. No sooner had she crossed the threshold, then Hessia’s hypnotic voice, which, according to her file, had the telepathic range of a mile, strummed through her mind.
“I’m assisting you because my master commands it,” Hessia informed. “But it lowers me to even address you, halfbreed.”
“I already know what you think,” Snofrid said, shuddering as she flashed back to the erupting pain of the Seer’s paralysis. She scanned the vast passage, then the mildew-matted ceiling, making sure the Seer wasn’t hiding anywhere inside. “But your opinions don’t bother me.”
“If you had any self-respect, my opinions would compel you to act. Honorable Inborns commit suicide rather than live as abominations.”
Snofrid cringed at her words. It was true: many halfbreeds committed suicide rather than endure a life of shame. However, she refused to do it, not because she was afraid, but because she didn’t despise either of her natures.
She switched on her Taser flashlight at a fork in the tunnel. “Tell me which way,” she said to Hessia. “But if you lead me into a dead-end, know that I’ll blame you for
being late.”
“Oh, but it’s easy to get lost down here—even for the practiced navigator. Some get lost in these tunnels for weeks…without food, without water.”
Snofrid scrunched her fingers around her flashlight. “You won’t do anything to me. You need me to be your bait.”
“Before the hunt we do, but not afterwards.” Hessia hissed, like a deflating tire. “After the hunt, I’m going to kill you, halfbreed. I’m going to scalp off your Halo with my teeth and bring it to the Empyrean City as tribute.”
Snofrid’s last fuse blew out. “I’m helping you kill the welx. Isn’t that ENOUGH?”
“Even if you laid down your life for me, it wouldn’t be enough. You’d still be filth.”
Snofrid’s animosity toward the Seer busted its restraints, like an incensed dog. According to the Covenant, Hessia couldn’t touch her until the welx was destroyed. But Snofrid was determined not to stick around that long.
Hurrying, she turned down a corkscrew staircase hewn from rock. At the bottom, she tottered into a cave with a buffed marble floor.
“Cross the bridge at the end of the hall.”
Snofrid looked down at a rock pool as she crossed. Hessia continued to lead her through a number of drafty tunnels that descended for what felt like ten minutes. By the time Snofrid had descended her third staircase, she suspected that the Seer was leading her astray.
“How much farther?” she demanded.
“When you reach the end of this next tunnel, turn right. The Canvass Chamber is through the Mock Wall.”
“There are two kinds of Mock Walls,” Snofrid pointed out. “Which kind is it?”
“The kind that desolidifies in intervals. You’ll have five seconds to run through the rock, no longer, or you’ll be crushed inside.”
“You’re a liar,” Snofrid accused. “The longest setting on a Mock Wall is three seconds.”
“I won’t confirm or deny.”
Hatred Day Page 21