by Jen Printy
“What? Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine,” I say.
“I won’t let him do anything stupid,” Otmar says, his sizable figure darkening the kitchen doorway. “I already promised Artagan I’d keep an eye on him. And I make the same promise to you.”
“Thank you, but I’m capable of keeping an eye on myself,” I say.
“Ha!” Leah looks me straight in the eye, raising her chin in challenge. “The last time you and Death were in the same room, you clocked him in the jaw.”
“She has a point,” Otmar chimes in, a broad grin splitting his face.
I ignore him, or at least I try to. “Like I said, I’ll be fine.”
Leah’s posture has relaxed, but she’s not looking at me. Her eyes are fixed on Otmar. “I feel much better knowing you’ll keep an eye on him. Thank you.” Leah grasps Otmar by the collar of his shirt. He bends at the waist as he lets Leah tow his face toward hers. Then, rolling up onto her tiptoes, she gives him a quick peck on the cheek.
After Leah leaves, Otmar’s attention dallies on the door for a moment. He rubs a large, square hand across his cheek and then breaks out in a deep, rich laugh, sending a rumble through his chest. “She’s as fierce as any berserker.” He blows air out between his lips in mild amusement. “And as persistent as one, too, I have a feeling.”
I smirk. “You don’t know the half of it. Now, about you keeping an eye on me.”
“I have my marching orders. Best you get used to it. Remember, six sharp.” He turns and lumbers away, the matter clearly settled in his mind.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Twinkling Christmas lights decorate the buildings and coil around the branches of the bare trees, shining in colorful splotches in the night. With Leah’s hand tucked in the crook of my arm, we follow Otmar’s broad back through the narrow streets, his long strides making it damn near impossible to keep up at a reasonable pace. The first snow of the season covers Portland in a thick white blanket. It muffles all sounds except for the crunch of our hurried footfalls.
Even with the church still blocks away, I feel Death’s presence. My instincts buck and rear, but against every fiber of my being, I push forward, striving to keep up with Otmar’s unrelenting pace.
Ever since I swung by Old Port Java to walk Leah home after work, she has kept her feelings under lock and key. Quiet and remote, her stone-faced facade secured in place, she will seem to the others a confident and determined girl. However, I know her well enough to see the mire of emotions hidden underneath the well-placed mask. The slight tightening at the corners of her mouth tells me she’s stressed, scared even. The small vertical line between her eyebrows—that soft spot that always beckons me to kiss it—shows concern and hesitation. Despite my attentiveness, she doesn’t look at me. Instead, she keeps her eyes committed to the path in front of her.
As we turn left onto High Street, the wind whooshes, sending a blinding billow of snow into our faces. Icy needles sting my cheeks. I duck my head and force my concentration on the uneven, snow-covered bricks beneath my feet.
“Almost there. The church is just ahead,” Otmar calls over a shoulder.
Looming before us is a lofty tower, a mass of dark stone framed by moonlight. The imposing building lies in darkness. No signs of light shine from the countless stained-glass windows. Otmar leads us around to the south side of the church through a small walled graveyard to the cloister.
Otmar dips his head and walks under one of the low arches, disappearing into the darkness of the covered walkway. With some reluctance, Leah and I follow.
In the protection of the cloister, Otmar points at a shadow along the far wall. “We’ll need to use the shadows from here. We don’t want any prying eyes seeing us enter. Not that anyone is out on a night like this, but better safe than sorry. Ladies first.”
Leah releases my arm and removes her fur-lined hood, the tip of her nose and cheeks pink from the cold. She takes two headlong steps, but at the shadow’s threshold, she wavers. It’s only a brief hesitation, but Otmar notices the pause.
“Let’s not keep them waiting,” he says.
“Just one question.” She turns to face him. “Why didn’t we step into a shadow back by the house? I know Artagan placed a barrier of sorts around it, but—”
“Hmph! Artagan’s idea, not mine,” Otmar says, his shoulders moving upward slightly, not quite a shrug. “He said it’s supposed to help you feel normal, remind you you’re still human. Normalcy in the face of chaos, or some such shit. But since Artagan’s in charge of your training, I follow his instructions.”
“Next time, how about we ignore him and take the shortcut. I won’t tell, I promise. If I knew we weren’t shadow walking here, I would have worn jeans, too, instead of this skirt. You are the one who said to dress nice,” Leah adds, scrutinizing his casual choice of apparel—jeans and the collar of a faded T-shirt peeking past a beaten-to-hell brown biker jacket.
Otmar gives another grunt. “No, I said decent.” He raises one sizable finger and wags it with the slow tempo of his words. “No holes, no tears, that’s decent. You and Kemisi, geez. Like peas in a pod.”
Leah darts a quick glance in my direction.
My definition of decent had been more in line with Otmar’s, minus the T-shirt, but Leah had insisted I swap my jeans for a pair of slacks and add a tie. With her as tense as she was, I wasn’t about to argue. I reach up to loosen the Winchester knot and unbutton my collar.
Otmar smiles, his teeth gleaming white in the beard. “She made you wear that, didn’t she?” He chuckles, eyes focused on the navy tie. Not waiting for a response, he turns his attention back to Leah. “Artagan warned me about you. Enough stalling. Ready?”
Leah bites her lower lip and shakes her head before her face lapses back into remoteness. Then with a deep inhalation, she straightens her slouched shoulders and says, “Let’s do this.”
She seizes my hand. I squeeze back in reassurance, and with that, we step together into the shadow.
Inside, the only illumination comes from the streetlights shining in through the cobwebbed windows, sending elongated splotches of light along the high, vaulted ceiling. From a thick coat of dust and filth, it’s clear the parishioners abandoned this building some time ago. Stale air dries out my mouth and replaces the moisture with the unpleasant taste of must. It is warmer here, though—a surprise I’m grateful for after the bitter cold outside.
I straighten my tie and turn to Leah. Occupied with stomping every ounce of snow off her calf-high boots, she takes a moment to realize I’m watching her. She gives me a weak smile and slips off her parka, pulling in a deep breath. She tugs at her sweater then brings a hand to her locket and pats it.
“Ready?” Otmar asks, sounding annoyed.
Leah sighs and nods.
We trail Otmar toward a set of double doors that leads to the inner sanctum. He stops short, his massive head still spangled with melting snow. One hand lingering on a handle of the door, his gaze passes over Leah and zeros in on me. He proceeds to repeat one of Artagan’s lectures on etiquette. It’s hard not to notice the recurrent theme—keeping my big mouth shut. Less heartfelt than one of Artagan’s many homilies, the speech sounds rehearsed. All the while, I nod and hope, with no resistance on my part, his part will conclude more quickly.
An explosion of shouts and cheers erupts from behind the doors, causing Otmar to break off mid-sentence.
“Swina bqllr! They’ve started,” he says, flinging open the door.
In the heart of the nave, an assembly of onlookers has convened in rowdy conversation. The hum of voices is like an electric current through the long and cavernous room. Another round of cheers erupts, and the crowd shifts, revealing a grisly scene. Kemisi sits mounted on the chest of a lankily built man, his white shirt smeared with blood. Her legs lock the man’s arms to his side. She holds a bronze knife in each hand. Their thick, curv
ed blades, plunged into the man’s shoulders, pin him to the floor. Dark-red, almost burgundy, blood oozes from the wounds. The buzz of voices grows louder.
“Say it!” Kemisi shouts. Then with a smile, she twists the blades.
I watch as the helpless man’s face contorts, and a whimper of pain escapes through his grimacing lips.
“You’re all monsters,” I hiss through my teeth then take a step forward, unsure of what I will do, only knowing I must do something, since I can’t, in good conscience, stand by and watch while Kemisi tortures this man.
Otmar seizes me by the shoulder and breaks into a laugh when he sees my expression.
“It’s not what you think,” he whispers. “He agreed to this, believe it or not. When he did, I doubt he thought he’d get his ass whipped. Cocky bastard.” His eyes return to the action. “He’s not gonna die, no matter how much he might wish it right now. Serevo’s immortal, just like the rest of us.”
“Serevo?” My eyes snap back to Vita’s chosen one, any sympathy I had for the man vanishing. Vita had given her council seat to Serevo with her dying breath, the seat that Leah now holds. Having it snatched away couldn’t have sat well with him. I can’t help worrying that Vita’s vindictiveness runs through Serevo’s veins, too, and if it does, I’m sure Leah will be his first target.
“Last chance,” Kemisi says over the taunting exclamations of the crowd. “Say it now, or I’ll gut you like a pig and restrain you until you’ve healed with your intestines hanging out. How long do you think it would take before you’d live that down?” She twists the blades again. Then, removing one in a quick motion, she presses the point into the base of his throat.
Serevo squirms. “Kemisi is the best.”
“Louder,” she says.
“Kemisi is the best!” he cries.
She smiles. “And?”
“I am but a lowly worm,” he chokes out.
Shouts and hails follow. Kemisi jumps to her feet with the nimbleness of a gazelle. She wipes the blades off on Serevo’s shirt, her mouth quirking upward as she glances at him now sitting cross-legged on the floor, hunched over in pain.
“Took you long enough,” she says.
Otmar grumbles something about Serevo still needing his mother’s teat. Then, raising his voice above the chatter, he says, “Sir, if I may have a moment.”
All faces turn in our direction, few of whom I recognize, with two notable absentees. Neither Artagan nor Domitilla is among them.
Dressed in a suit—black from head to toe—Death drifts forward, separating himself from the crowd with an unnerving grace. Thanatos and a small inky-haired man, whom I remember to be Akio, move with Death in perfect synchronicity.
Death comes to a stop in front of Leah. He takes her hands in his and kisses them both. Every ounce of me wants to step between them, but I stand firm, pressing my clenched hands into the sides of my legs to keep from breaking my promise.
“It is so good to see you, my dear Leah,” Death says. “I’ve heard remarkable things about your training. I’m so pleased.” His eyes glide past me, searching, and he cocks an eyebrow in Otmar’s direction. “Where’s Artagan?”
“He’s running late. Met a redhead in Cadiz. Can’t fault him for that, though, can we?” A giant-sized grin stretches across Otmar’s face.
“Be sure he sees me when he arrives.” From his tone, Death can fault Artagan for his absence and already does.
Otmar’s smile vanishes, and he nods.
Death glances at me, his face freezing in cool reserve.
“Sir.” I bend at the waist, hoping my expression doesn’t give away any of the hatred I feel.
Death’s keen eyes narrow, but then his expression relaxes into a controlled calmness before his focus shifts back to Leah. “You’ve met Thanatos. And this is Akio.”
The honey-skinned man slaps his hands to his sides and gives a rigid bow.
“Come. Let me introduce you to the others.” Death offers his arm, and Leah steps forward to accept it.
Seeming to appear out of nowhere, Kemisi steps to Otmar’s side as Death and Leah stroll away.
“Where is Artagan really?” Kemisi asks, brushing back the locks that curl damply around her face.
“No idea. I thought he’d be here by now,” Otmar says low enough that no one else can hear. “He left this morning with only a word or two.”
“Typical,” Kemisi says. Her gaze slides to me. “It’s good to see you again, Jack. Ahlan wa sahlan. Now you respond, ahlan bīk.”
“Ahlan bīk.” I bow my head.
Kemisi smiles and then eyes Otmar with renewed interest. She scans his choice of apparel with a grudging scowl. Then, tossing her ringlets, she walks away toward the nearest shadow.
Otmar chuckles. “What is it with women and ties?”
I cast him a quick, knowing smile, and then I turn to follow Leah, but I’m towed backward, Otmar’s hand gripping my shoulder, stopping any progress.
“Let’s observe from up there.” Otmar gestures to a small bowed balcony situated high at the foot of a Rosetta stained-glass window.
I heave a sigh. “Do I have a choice?”
Otmar shakes his head. Then, taking me by the arm, he hustles me toward a spiral staircase tucked in the back corner.
“This is ridiculous,” I say, pulling from his grip. “You’ve got to realize that, right?”
“And damn embarrassing, too, I imagine. But orders are orders. After you.”
A string of obscenities flows through my head, but I only repeat two aloud. Then I straighten my shoulders, and with as much dignity as I can muster, I ascend the stairs, the whole time listening to Otmar’s chuckles trailing behind me.
From my new perch, I watch as the guests assemble in small groups and engage in seamless conversation. The murmur of their voices blends into a soothing whirr. Muan and his brothers keep to themselves, for the most part, observing the others from the farthest side of the nave with an air of superiority and alertness.
“Besides the council members, who are all these people?” I ask.
“Many are descendants like you. That’s Keiko over there. The perky brunette.” Otmar points at a small girl in a pink kimono, giggling at something Leah said. “She’s one of Akio’s. And the tall, fair-haired man at her side belongs to Thanatos.”
As Otmar introduces the cast of characters, my focus returns to Leah again and again. Death escorts her through the gauntlet of greeters. She holds her face in a perpetual smile, clearly overwhelmed. In passing, she glances up at me. I give her my best boyish grin and then push a thought into Leah’s head. See. I’m behaving. This first attempt goes well, and the gesture has the desired effect. The strain in Leah’s face eases, and she laughs. Weak and brief, but I’ll take it.
In the far corner of an opposing balcony, movement draws my attention. I spot a figure lurking at the edge of a shadow. Domitilla steps forward out of the darkness and lounges against the railing. I study Domitilla out of the corner of my eye, her aqua irises glinting in the firelight. As she watches Leah, Domitilla appears serene, except for her hands. Those she clenches into tight little fists.
She senses my attention and turns to look at me, straightening her posture. Her eyes widen, and in them, I see the flicker of recognition, all suggestion of tranquility gone. Then, as quickly as I drew her interest, it falls away, settling on something on the far side of the room.
“There was a man in the village my last wife was from,” Otmar says, beckoning my attention back. “Balder, his name was. He got a particular look whenever he saw my Freya. She was a beauty, with hair like fire, it was so red. Still, understanding can only go so far, and it didn’t stop me from snapping that arsehole’s neck,” Otmar says curtly.
“What brought that up?”
“That’s the same look that Balder got.” He points with his chin to whe
re Leah now stands with Muan.
Muan stares at her, his eyes shining. A slow smile builds across his face. Now and again, his tongue darts out to lick his lips as he moves closer, erasing the distance between them. The sight sounds numerous alarm bells. For what feels like the thousandth time this evening, my neck prickles. The sensation grows, pushing out the snarl forming in the back of my throat.
Artagan’s voice comes out of the darkness behind me. “Your job was to keep the boy calm, not light him up like a stick of dynamite.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“You’re late,” Otmar says. A broad smile lifts his high, flat cheeks.
“It couldn’t be helped.” Artagan glances in my direction, giving me a grudging smile. “Muan’s curious. They all are. It’s only natural.”
Probably sensing he has become a feature attraction, the Soulless moves away and returns to his brothers’ company.
“See,” Artagan says, removing a box of cigarettes and holding it open for the taking. I decline, while Otmar takes two, keeping one and stuffing the other behind his ear. “What did I miss?”
“Just Kemisi whooping Serevo’s ass and making him say uncle,” Otmar says. “The exact phrase was ‘Kemisi is the best. I am but a lowly worm.’”
Artagan laughs loud enough to bring several sets of eyes in our direction, including Kemisi’s, her black leather pants and T-shirt now replaced by a low-cut cocktail dress in bright red.
“Attagirl,” Artagan whispers.
“Death has been parading Leah around like a prized peacock ever since.” There’s an undeniable lack of humor in Otmar’s voice.
“How are they accepting her?”
“Much as expected. You’ll be happy to know Dom has kept her distance. Mosi, too. Oh, and dear old Dad wants to see you. He was wondering what kept you. I told him you were with a broad from Cadiz,” Otmar says with a smirk.
“Cadiz, huh? Well, at least you have good taste.”