They clinked like small stones striking glass. An inaudible sound in most scenarios, but given the hushed state in the warehouse, it was like the breaking of a bottle.
“S’what was that?” The voice belonged to the man who’d first spoken earlier.
“Dunno. Probably a shiking rat or summing.”
A loud and fleshy impact rang out, like an open-handed blow across someone’s face. “That sound like a rat to you?”
“I’ll take a look.” The third speaker sounded resigned, but more so with his companion’s bickering and stupidity. “I’ll holler if I see something. If I go quiet, it’s me taking a piss.”
Snickering filled the warehouse tinged with a single snort from one of the men.
For as much noise as they made, I made equal effort in silencing the space around me. My breath stilled and body followed. I ignored the burning sinews within me from the effort of being crouched. My tendons ached, promising to crack slightly to relieve some of the tension. I shut my eyes and became the stone and mortar of the building itself, strong—rooted—immovable.
My pains dulled and grew distance. The throbbing in my chest, lungs asking for air, quieted as I banished the concern. I needed only to listen.
The sound of feet over hard stone reached my ears. They slowed and grew muted. My quarry had stopped, grumbling something only they could hear. A soft tinkling, like falling coins, came from nearby.
“There’s a bunch of…nails lying about?” The thug coughed. Another chime as one of the slivers of metal bounced off the ground. He’d likely kicked one of them away from himself. “Gonna take a bit more of a look.”
His companions grunted noncommittally from farther ahead.
His footsteps grew louder—closer.
I waited until their sounds emanated below me. My eyes flitted open and I moved with sinuous grace, like the first bands of night encroaching across the sky. I slipped down and behind the brute.
He stood a head taller than me with the broad back and muscles of someone who work tirelessly through the days in hard labor. The man dressed similarly to the men in the alleyway: nothing but simple pants and a shirt of homespun.
I made no sound as I moved, rushing to close the distance between us as he walked on obliviously. A quick leap sent me to the air and allowed me to kick off one of the crates lightly as I passed by. I soared overhead the thug, drawing his attention at the last moment.
He craned his head up, blinking—stupefied.
I grabbed hold of the sides of his skull as I arced by. My weight brought us down, his head crashing into my knee with an impact reserved for a hammer on stone. His body went limp in my grip. No pained sounds escaped his lips. The confrontation had happened in perfect silence. Two more to go.
I grabbed hold of the unconscious man under his shoulders, wincing as the muscles in my back went taught under his weight. Hauling him around the corner took more effort than I would have liked to have exerted. Content he was out of sight, I mantled the next row of crates, skulking along their tops to the where the nearest of the torches burned. My fingers went into one of the pouches over my many belts. I retrieved a pouch, no thicker than the bulb of a man’s nose. A quick snap of my wrist sent it hurtling toward one of the flames.
It burst on impact with a barely audible pfft. A cloud of white dust plumed to life, smothering the fire. I repeated the process in quick succession. Each flick of my hand sent more pouches into the torches, extinguishing them. The room plunged into darkness.
Screaming followed. One of the man hollered, whipping about in the blackness. “What’s going on? Skreet, you there? What’d you find? Oi, answer me?”
I could make him out almost as if it were a dim evening, but his incessant shouting only made my work easier.
“Clep, go check on Skreet.”
“Like hell. I’m not—“
I crashed into the second speaker, taking him by the waist and pulling us both to the ground.
The standing man hadn’t adjusted to the lightless situation. “What was that? Clep.”
I jumped to my feet, putting my weight behind my right fist as it snapped out. It struck the man squarely on his nose, deforming it with a wet crunch like a foot over hard snow. My other hand followed and slammed into his throat.
He pawed at the spot I’d struck, gagging.
I sank to my haunches, grabbing hold of his ankles and wrenching upward.
The man fell to his back. His head struck the unforgiving ground with a noise that made it clear he wouldn’t wake any time soon.
My cloak whirled about as I spun to tackle the last man. He had pushed himself to a shaky stand, hands up. I took him at the knees, delivering a series of short punches that caused the joints to buckle. My heel hurtled into the side of his face as he fell, concluding the fight. I turned my attention to the young child.
The darkness didn’t keep me from making out his features. He had hair the color of sand under sunlight, thin and wispy. His body rested against the ground and curled tight into a ball. The child had a tan around where his shirt failed to cover, indicating he’d spent a good deal of time out along the docks. His bare feet told me he wasn’t one of the better off children running about on little adventures along the waterfront, dreaming of pirates and sailor’s tails. He ran errands for merchants and the like, delivering letters between ships and crews.
Someone unknown. An impoverished child with likely no one of consequence to come looking after them. If anyone bothered at all.
I traced the tip of an index finger along the mouth of another pouch, reaching in to pinch a bit of white powder from it. The small clumps broke easily in my grip as I sprinkled it over the child’s nose.
A second passed and a stench like discarded boiled eggs and rancid fish tickled my nostrils. My acute sense of smell only served to worsen the odor, causing faint pinpricks to blossom within my nose and eyes.
The child coughed, shivering once before snapping upright. He wheezed and sputtered, wincing as if he could blot the problem away. “Yuck. Foulest”—he coughed again—“what’s it?”
“Magic.” The word came out harsher than I had intended. But bothering to explain the chemistry behind the simple concoction would have been a waste of both our time.
The boy’s eyes widened and he recoiled from me.
I gave thanks he couldn’t make out my features in the dark. He’d have likely thrown a manic fit and been impossible to deal with. I didn’t bother with niceties, having looked him over enough to know he was fine. “Leave the same way you were brought in. Head right alongside the dock and flag down any of the merchants. Tell them of the bounty for aiding in dockside crime. Make sure they alert the constabulary and get Inspector Cardinane down here to investigate.”
The boy opened his mouth to likely protest, but I growled and waved him off.
“Repeat it back to me.”
The boy did, struggling to get to his feet.
I placed a hand at his side and helped ease him. “Now go.”
He didn’t waste a moment, scampering off at a full run, leaving me behind with the unconscious men.
The temptation to string them up and wait for them to rouse built inside me by the moment. I could wheedle whatever information I deemed necessary out of them, but it would come at the expense of time—the other missing children. My options whittled down into two: interrogate one of the men or forge ahead on my own, hoping the extra minutes I saved would lend to my search.
I thought back to the conversation the trio of kidnappers had. They’d alluded to another party coming to take the children. Given that they hadn’t bothered to deliver the boy elsewhere, it meant the warehouse was the final destination as far as they were concerned. Those who meant to take the boy would be doing so from here. The lingering question was: where?
Waiting for the inevitable persons to come take the child meant risking all those already in their grasp. I scowled and set to the task of combing my surroundings.
The c
rates revealed nothing but various kitchenware and pottery. I circled the area again, stopping as the hollow clang of metal sounded beneath me. Looking down revealed a drainage grate wide enough across to swallow my body hole were it not for the bars running between it. No water leaked into the building, nor was there any sign of interior works that moved liquid about and would require the dumping point.
I frowned, looking down into the passage. It led into the sewers, likely flowing back out into the walls along the dock to pour waste. But with no use for it… I kneeled, gripping two of the bars and wrenching on the grate. The metal didn’t groan or creak along the edges in protest. It popped free as if it hadn’t been properly fastened at all, resting in place only by its weight.
I let the piece clatter to the ground beside me and grabbed hold of one the edges of the opening. What better way to come in and out undetected than through the sewers. All I needed to know is where my city’s underworks led—and to whom. I slipped through the opening, falling
more than a dozen feet. The muscles in my legs quivered for the span of a quick breath as I sank to my knees to mitigate some of the impact.
The ground below me was drier than autumn’s last leaves. Enough evidence that the grate had never been used for its actual purpose. My suspicion had been correct, and I decided to follow it through Markham’s hidden veins.
The tunnel was another shade of darkness that would have made the unlit warehouse above seem truly bright in comparison. My eyes took longer than I would have liked to adjust, bringing the world before me into a hazy grey clarity.
A fist-sized orb of light pulsated ahead, jarring my sight and tinging everything a hellish orange. I winced, bringing up a hand to shield against the torch light. That means someone bothers to keep them lit. This passage is well-traveled enough. But that meant someone could just as easily be waiting around the next bend on their way to retrieve the boy.
I leapt over the channel running between and carrying water out of the sewers. Putting myself against the other wall ensured I could close in against the corner without the corona of the light revealing me. Should anyone be lurking there, I wanted to see them before they could put their eyes on me.
My instincts proved right as I rounded the turn.
A slender figure stood in the way, garbed in loose-fitting robes the color of freshly turned earth. A cowl of the same material and shade did little to obscure his face. He had a pinched face, unnaturally pale, likely from his time spent in the sewers. Strands of wispy thin straw hair fell to just above his brows. He didn’t seem perturbed by my sudden appearance. “Are you lost?”
I shook my head, surveying him without moving my head. The man likely didn’t see many strangers wandering through the passages. But given the nature of his work, I believed he had no problem dispatching any who poked too far into his business. This was nothing but a kind and simple way to deter people from snooping. “On some things, yes.”
The man’s mouth spread into a slit of a smile, pulling far more to one side than the other. “Then that is the easiest thing to fix. Turn around. Go back the way you came.” He raised his hands to his sides, making a little flourish. “Then you’re no longer lost.”
I matched his lopsided and thin smile. “Lost on something else, I fear.”
He arched a brow.
“Children have gone missing above. I’ve followed them this far”—I narrowed my eyes, spreading my mouth wider to reveal my teeth—“and I intend to follow them farther.” I inclined my head to the way behind him. “What do you think I’ll find if I go past you?”
“Trouble.” His voice had become something like coarse stones sifting through roug sand. He moved his hand, blurring as he reached for a knife strapped to his waist.
I lunged. The fingers of my right hand stiffened as I formed them into a shape like a crude shovel, striking the hollow of the man’s throat as hard as I could.
His eyes bulged as he leaned forward, dropping the knife to paw at his throat. He racked hacked and released a guttural sound.
I grabbed hold him by his hair, twisting to slam his skill into the brick lining Markham’s underbelly. She was as hard and unforgiving here as she was above.
His eyes lost their focus, but not dimming completely.
“Answer me if you don’t want to end up a floater.” I nodded to the slow moving waters in the channel.
His smile widened, making his choice clear before he spoke. “I float well as any man—”
I slammed his head back into the wall, taking care not to dash his brains out. Cloudiness filled his eyes as I leaned him toward the channel. My grip slackened and he fell into the water, unconscious and drifting away. Taking the time to make him talk wouldn’t have been worth it at this point.
I trudged forward, rounding more twists and turns for close an hour until I came to the only point that looked promising.
A long recess sat in the wall before me. Sconces on either side illuminated it with a golden-orange tinge from torches. Rungs of steel, no thicker than my thumb, ran upward like a crude ladder. A hatch sat dozens of feet above.
Lack of a grate and the way up indicated one thing as far as I was concerned: this was where the children were brought.
I grasped a rung and climbed up, taking care to muffle the sounds of my boots impacting the metal. Thoughts on what was to come flooded me. Every possibility of what I could find, every threat to go in hand with it. I buried them all knowing that no matter what, Markham would provide for me.
She always did.
I climbed up the makeshift ladder, reaching the hatch. If my instincts were right—and they always were—I’d find the children in the room above. And whoever took them. I sucked in a short breath, holding it in my chest as I pushed against the wooden board above me. It inched open, faint bands of torchlight seeping through the crack.
It took me the span of a few breaths to adjust to the lighting and make out the room properly.
Spacious, and a great deal of visible effort went to keeping it that way. The only objects in view were the wooden altar, solid in construction, and iron cages.
My teeth ground as I made out what occupied the metal structures: Children. Each of them lay slumped against the thin bars of the iron frame. Sedated.
I counted half a dozen. A longer look revealed pairs of slippers, rich in material and earthy brown in color. I tallied up the number of shuffling feet, putting the number at one person per trapped child. It could have been nothing more than coincidence.
But Markham wasn’t a city for that sort of thing. No. She always had something at work, whether it was nefarious in nature or not. The secluded area, far below ground and out of the way, pointed me to one thought. Everything else from the numbers, the presences of the altar, and the hems of rippling robes, solidified my theory.
A ritual. And Markham exacted a heavy toll when it came to those. She didn’t have a reputation for light and ethereal sort of magical practices. She was the home to dark and macabre things. And those children wouldn’t be walking away from the end of this if I didn’t intervene.
Easing into the room soundlessly wasn’t an option. My limited view showed enough to make it clear all eyes would fix on me the instant I entered fully.
Then I should do my best to give them something to truly see and remember. Something to haunt them. Show them what else prowls the dark.
I reached into another pouch, pulling free several beads of fragile glass the shape and size of apple seeds. Another breath stilled me for what was to come. I released my hold on the metal rungs, thrusting a palm into the hatch with thunderous force. Wood splintered, showering the room with slivers as I pushed off the ladder with all the might I could muster in my legs. I sprang onto the floor and snapped my wrist before the occupants could register what happened.
The beads cracked onto the ground, sounding like hailstorm on glass windows. Plumes of thick smoke billowed from each of the artificial seeds. A sulfurous odor filled the room, forcing the
robed and cowl-covered figures to raise their hands to their mouths as they hacked.
I used the spare moment to assess the contents littering the altar: a silver bowl, stained red around the lip. A curved knife, more ornamental in design than for function by the looks of it. It still carried a visibly wicked edge. Clumps of hair in varying colors sat across the end of the wooden surface, each fistful of hair bound tight in a leather thong.
It was enough to know what had been done to children prior. And I was going make sure it would stop here tonight.
A primal scream left me, echoing through the room as I rushed toward the closest of the robed figures. My hands closed around the outermost edge of their cowl, balling tight around the fabric. I pulled down and launched my knee into where their forehead would be. The blow cut their legs out from under them as if they were lifeless. The figure slumped, cowl slipping from their face.
The woman could have been in her thirties by looks alone. Fair skinned without a hint of crease and weathering to her face. Her hair held all of its dark color, showing no signs of gray. But I recognized her. And the woman should have been well into the latter half of her life—visibly so.
The Lady Mayorca had turned to something else to restore her youth. Not the bottles and cure-alls hawked about in the marketplace. Those trinkets all promised to ward off age and bring about a new lease of beauty. No. She’d turned to stealing the years from elsewhere.
I glanced at the children, then the altar. None of those missing folk had been rumored to have been found or returned home. That left only one outcome.
The thought galvanized me into action. I surged forward, leaping to one side as a robed figure swiped blindly at me. My foot snapped out and struck the base of their jaw. Their head rocked back, letting me take advantage of his upset balance. I closed in, grabbing their collar and twisting, my hips bracing against theirs. The cultist flipped over my side to crash hard against the legs of another figure, taking them to the ground as well.
Parallel Worlds- the Heroes Within Page 11