Dark Skies

by Danielle L. Jensen

  “Of course,” she said, then grumbled a few choice curses she’d heard the household guards use. With her luck, she was going to be trapped here until morning. “Help! Someone help me!”

  A hand clamped over her mouth.

  Fiery panic rushed through her, and Lydia lashed out, flinging her body from side to side, but both the sewer grate and the arms holding her were implacable. A low voice said in her ear, “For the love of the Six, girl, shut your bloody mouth before you get us both killed.”

  Lydia quit trying to scream, instinct stilling her. A second later, a young man’s face appeared in her line of sight, his gloved hand still covering her mouth, the other braced against the back of her head. “I’ll help you,” he said. “But you need to stay silent. I don’t aim to end my days in the stomach of the spawn of Derin.”

  She had no idea what he was talking about but nodded anyway. He released her, and as he straightened she noticed the sword belted at his waist.

  “I’m fine,” she said to him, knowing this was a dangerous situation that could turn out very badly for her. “I don’t need any help.”

  “Of course you don’t.” The moon peeked out from behind a cloud, revealing a smile that even a blind woman, which she practically was without her spectacles, would find charming. “Though allowing me to do so would be you doing me a tremendous favor. My self-confidence has been dreadfully low of late and rescuing a damsel in distress”—he held up one hand to forestall protest—“even if she is only pretending to be in distress, has bolstered it tremendously.”

  “You’re mocking me.”

  “Yes, but don’t take it personally. I mock everyone. My brothers consider it my worst character flaw.”

  “You’ve many then?”

  “Brothers or flaws?”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “Both.”

  “Two brothers and flaws beyond counting,” he replied, but his attention had drifted to the sky. “Are you lodged nearby?” He bent to gently tug on her leg, his gloved hand warm against her bare skin. “I’ll take you back to wherever it is you’re staying. Not,” he added, “because you need an escort, but rather for the good of my own conscience.”

  Lydia bit her lip. Did she lie about having a place to stay and send him on his way, or did she confess the truth?

  “You’ve nowhere to go, do you?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll put you up for the night then,” he said. “Clearly we can’t have you wandering the streets, and the crown shelters aren’t fit for rats, much less a girl on her own. Especially one wearing”—he frowned at her—“a dressing gown.”

  “I didn’t plan to be running about outside when I put it on,” she said, her cheeks burning. “And while I appreciate the offer, I have no way to pay.”

  “There are many things in life I need, but coin isn’t one of them. Put in a good word for me the next time you pray to the Six and I’ll count us even.”

  A shiver ran through her at his casual reference to the gods. If she’d needed further confirmation that she had reached the Dark Shores, that was it.

  Grabbing hold of the bars of the grate, he heaved, the fabric of his dark coat straining over the muscles in his arms. “This is quite the predicament.”

  “Who are you?” she asked, using the opportunity to examine his face. He was young—perhaps a year or two older than she was—with skin several hues darker than her own. His strong jaw was clean-shaven, his nose slightly crooked from being broken, but rather than detracting from his rather exceptional good looks, it only gave him a roguish sort of appeal.

  “You must be new to the city if you have to ask.” Letting go of the grate, he turned her leg in various angles. “Killian Calorian,” he said. Then he heaved on her leg.

  Her ankle screamed in pain, and Lydia thrashed, trying to get out of his grip.

  The crippled man chose that moment to sit up out of the fountain and start singing. He only managed two lines of his song before being drowned out by a piercing scream.

  The air filled with a steady thump-thump, like beating drums. Another scream tore through the streets. This time it was closer.

  “Stay still, soldier,” Killian hissed, his eyes on the man. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.”

  Lydia froze, but the crippled soldier had pulled a knife and was waving it at the sky. “Come and get me, you bastards! I still have some fight left in me!”

  Killian jerked the sword belted at his waist free of its scabbard, pressing Lydia as close to the wall as her trapped leg would allow. She could feel the tension running through him. Tension and fear.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “Deimos.” He held one finger against his lips. “And this fool is going to get himself killed.”

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth then a massive black shape fell from the sky and slammed into the soldier’s back, sending him tumbling across the road. He screamed and tried to rise, but his spine was broken. The black shape dropped from the sky again, but before Lydia could get a good glimpse of it Killian had his sword between the bars, arms straining as he tried to bend them. “Pull,” he said between his teeth, and Lydia heaved, fear chasing away the pain.

  “Harder!”

  The bars groaned as they bent, and then she was free.

  Killian hauled her to her feet, arm supporting her as he pulled her back into a courtyard, then under the shadowed overhang of a doorway.

  The soldier’s screams had ceased, replaced by the clatter of hooves against the cobbles and the sharp sound of tearing fabric. Fear coursed through Lydia, her hands cold and pulse a rapid flutter in her throat. Knowing she might need to run, she put weight on her injured leg. It ached, but not badly enough to be broken or sprained.

  “Is the door open?” Killian whispered.

  She tried the handle, but it was bolted. “No.”

  Two more screams sounded from above and more hooves clattered against the street. Peering around Killian’s shoulder, she stared at the opening to the courtyard. The dead soldier’s remaining leg was visible, and she recoiled as it twitched. A long tail whipped across the opening to the yard, and the body jerked out of view.

  The stink of blood and offal drifted in their direction along with the distinct sound of teeth rending flesh. Lydia thought there must be three deimos on the ground, but there could be more circling above.

  The bulky shadow of one of the creatures appeared in the entrance of the courtyard. It walked inside, the clip-clop of its hooves identical to that of a horse. But what stepped into the moonlight and turned its head to look at them was no horse: it was the stuff of nightmares.

  19

  LYDIA

  The deimos turned its head toward the doorway, saucer-sized eyes piercing the darkness. It was shaped much like a spindly horse, except it had leathery wings that stretched out a dozen feet to either side, a fleshy tail that whipped back and forth across the ground, and dark grey skin that was devoid of fur. Lydia stared at it in horror as it opened its maw and filled the air with a piercing call, cruel fangs white in the moonlight.

  One foreleg reached out, pawing a cloven hoof across the ground.

  “I’m going to need you to get that door open,” Killian muttered.

  “It’s locked!” she hissed.

  “Unless you want to wind up in this thing’s stomach, I suggest you put some muscle into it.” Not waiting for a response, he raised his sword and stepped into the open.

  Lydia flung herself at the door, pounding her fists against the solid wood and screaming for help in every language she knew before clamping her teeth together. No one in their right mind would open the door. Behind her, a battle waged, but she didn’t turn. The deimos was Killian’s problem. Getting inside was hers.

  She could not break it.

  She could not push it in.

  She could force the lock, but the bolts on the door suggested another latch on the inside.

  “Don’t just stand there, woman!”


  Thinking was not just standing there.

  Then a solution presented itself. Whirling, she shouted, “I need a knife! A…” The specifics died on her lips. There was blood everywhere. Was it his? Was it the creature’s?

  Something metallic whistled past her ear and embedded with a thud in the wood of the door. Lydia jerked the knife free and snatched up a loose cobble. Shoving the weapon’s tip into one of the hinges, she hammered on the hilt, driving up the pin. “Come on, come on.”

  It gave, and she pried at it with knife and fingers, cutting herself and scarcely feeling the pain. Then it was out.

  Lydia set to work on the other hinge, sweat and blood making her fingers slick. Her skin crawled with the desire to turn, to defend herself from the danger at her back.

  Focus.

  The hinge pin slid free. Jamming the blade into the narrow gap in the frame, she levered it against the door, slamming her weight against the hilt, praying it wouldn’t break. The door shifted, a black space appearing, taunting her with the safety beyond. Shoving in one shoulder, she pushed, her feet struggling for traction.

  Then she was inside.

  Killian’s voice came through the door, muffled but clear. “Gods-damn it, woman! You are causing me to question my commitment to chivalry!”

  Fumbling in the darkness, Lydia unfastened both bolt and lock. “Behind you,” she cried, then took a few running steps and threw her weight against the door. The heavy wood tipped, falling with wicked speed.

  Killian danced out of the way. The deimos did not.

  The door hit the creature’s head with a sickening crunch, driving it to the ground where it lay motionless.

  What relief Lydia felt was short-lived as a second deimos appeared. It took one look at them and screamed, the sound piercing deep into Lydia’s skull.

  “Run!” Killian scooped her up and they stumbled into the home, tripping blindly down the midnight hall until his fumbling hands found a door. Pulling her inside, he pressed a gloved finger that tasted like sweat and blood to her lips. Silence.

  The house shuddered and wood splintered.

  Clip-clop. The creature’s hooves reverberated against the wooden floor as it walked down the hall, the claws on its wingtips scratching the plaster.

  Then Killian shoved her hard.

  The wall erupted in a spray of plaster and snapping teeth, the stench of the creature rolling over her as Lydia crawled, trying to get away. Her forehead smacked a chair, and she shoved it aside, clambering under a table, flinching as the tassels on the tablecloth brushed her face.

  “Get upstairs,” Killian shouted. “I’ll lure it onto the street.”

  The floor shook beneath her, wood splintering. The deimos hissed, its wings rustling like a tarp, knocking against shelves and sending glass smashing against the floor. A decanter rolled across the floor and collided with her leg. Lydia snatched it up, the heavy crystal cold against her sweating palms. Shards of wood rained down around her hiding spot as Killian hurled pieces of furniture at the creature to little effect. In the darkness he was fighting blind, but the deimos suffered no such limitation.

  She needed to even the odds.

  Decanter in hand, Lydia grabbed hold of the tablecloth, pulling down the yards of fabric. Prying loose the decanter’s plug, she sloshed the contents over the cloth, then crawled from under the table.

  The deimos and Killian were on the far side of the room, but the blackness made it hard to judge the distance. Something fleshy smacked against her heels, but she kept inching forward. Then before she could lose her nerve, Lydia snapped the tablecloth out high and rushed forward blindly, pulling it down over what she hoped was the animal’s head.

  The deimos screamed, its hooves scrabbling against the floor as it stumbled back.

  “This way!” she shouted. “It’s tangled in the cloth.”

  Boots pounded and Killian half-collided with her, knocking them both against the wall.

  “We have to get out!”

  Holding on to the fabric of his coat, she dragged him with her, fingers brushing plaster as she searched for the door, finding the opening smashed in the wall instead. The deimos careened around the room, senses blinded by cloth and liquor. Any second it could get free. Upstairs would be no safer—they needed to find somewhere the animal couldn’t break inside.

  “There is an open sewer grate just up the street,” Killian whispered. “It’s too small for them to follow us down there.”

  The deimos that had been hit by the falling door was gone, and they eased across the wreckage of wood before peering around the corner of the courtyard at the street. Two were feasting on the corpse of the soldier, but another stood watching them. Its wing was dragging, obviously the one she’d struck with the door. At the sight of them, its nostrils flared, and it turned to snort at the other two.

  One flapped its wings and took to the air, but the other trotted up the street, stopping next to a black opening in the cobbles, and Lydia could just barely make out a grate resting on the ground nearby.

  “You bastards have been watching me.” Killian shook his head, eyes tracking the direction the other deimos was flying. “They know my ways into the sewer. Which grates I’ve pried open.”

  “Can we make it to the guard post?” she asked, her attention shifting to him. Killian leaned against the wall, a streak of blood smeared across one cheek. The right shoulder of his coat was torn open, revealing ragged flesh, and his arm hung uselessly as droplets of blood rained onto the cobbles.

  The decision was stolen from them as the deimos exploded out the front door of the house, the tablecloth wound around one wing. Its eyes fixed on them, and then it shrieked and broke into a gallop.

  “Run!”

  Lydia dashed after him, barely feeling the stones beneath her battered feet.

  Ahead, the wall and the gates came into view, but her heart sank at the sight of the portcullis barring the opening.

  The guards stood frozen, gaping at the monster careening toward them. They were safe, locked between bars of heavy steel and thick blocks of stone, showing no intention of allowing her and Killian in.

  Lydia slammed against the metal bars. “Help us,” she pleaded. “Open the gate. Let us in.” The words came out in a garbled mix of languages. “Please!” She reached through a gap toward one of the old men, but he shrank away.

  “Sorry, miss,” he said. “We’ve got our orders.”

  “The Seventh take you!” Killian snarled, slamming the hilt of his sword against the bars, the motion splattering droplets of blood across the ground.

  Scrape.

  Lydia shrank into the corner of the gateway. The deimos stood a few dozen paces away from them, teeth bared.

  Scrape. Its hoof pawed across the cobbles.

  A hand closed around her forearm, drawing her up. “I’ll distract it,” Killian said. “You’ll run.”

  Her legs felt too stiff to move, knees locked into place. “Where? Who will let me in?”

  “On my mark, you’ll go left,” he said. “Keep to the shadows of the wall so the others don’t see you, then take your first right. Third house down with the blue door. They’ll let you in. Not everyone in this blasted city is a coward.”

  His voice was as steady as though he were giving her directions to a party. “What about you?” she asked.

  He smiled and pulled a knife out of his sleeve. “Run.”

  In the second it took her to react, the blade flashed through the air, embedding itself in the deimos’s shoulder. She stood frozen, watching as Killian stepped away from the shadow of the wall even as the creature shrieked, jaws clamping down on the knife, jerking it free.

  “Run, girl!” Hands shoved at her from between the bars, but Lydia held her ground, watching the young man approach the deimos, sword raised.

  She knew how this would end.

  Whirling around, she reached through the bars. “Give me a weapon,” she shouted. “Something. Anything.”

  The guard
s stared at her, the flicker of their torches illuminating the fear in their eyes.

  Fire.

  “Give me your torch!” she screamed.

  When one of them finally moved, it seemed at a snail’s pace. The butt end of a torch slipped through the bars, flames flaring bright in the darkness. “The gods be with you, miss,” the guard said, but Lydia only jerked the torch out of his grip and stepped away from the gate.

  She walked toward the deimos, waving the torch from side to side. Its attention veered from Killian to her, and it snorted and retreated, wings flapping in an attempt to dislodge the tablecloth.

  “Run, you idiot,” Killian snapped, moving to cut her off. She dodged him, driving the creature back as she brandished the torch. It recoiled several paces, then jerked its wings tight and charged.

  Every instinct screamed, Run.

  Lydia held her ground.

  She waited until it was almost upon her, then lunged sideways, shoving the torch into the tangled folds of the tablecloth. For a heartbeat, she thought her plan had failed, but then the liquor-soaked cloth burst into flame.

  The deimos shrieked and reared, hooves lashing out at her head, trying to kill her even as it burned.

  “Move!” Killian slammed into her, pulling them both into a roll that didn’t stop until they hit the side of a building. Extracting herself from his grip, Lydia watched the deimos run down a side street, wings burning like paper until it collapsed in a shuddering heap.

  Except it wasn’t dead. Not yet.

  Shaking, Lydia climbed to her feet and retrieved Killian’s sword from where he’d dropped it, the hilt still warm from his grip. Knees bent like springs ready to launch her back, she approached, sourness filling her mouth as she noted the labored rise and fall of its flank. The way its pulse throbbed in its throat. Before she could lose her nerve, she shoved the tip of the blade into the creature’s flesh, allowing the sword to rest against the ground as blood pooled around her feet and the creature went still.