Myths and Mortals (Numina Book 2)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I overheard your conversation.”

  Rone bit the inside of his cheek, but the woman made no accusations. Instead, she crouched down and selected an old text from the bottom shelf. She brushed off a bit of dust from the torn cloth cover, and the motes danced in the too-bright sunbeams pouring through the windows.

  “I know about Kolosos.”

  Sandis straightened. “You do?”

  A nod, and the priestess opened the book. “All of us know something of the occult. You must know about your adversary if you’re to protect mankind against it.”

  Sandis tensed. Rone finally gave in to the urge to touch her, putting his hand on her shoulder to let her know he was there. That he wouldn’t let anyone hurt her. Rather, he hoped the touch conveyed that. At the very least, Sandis didn’t shrug him off.

  The priestess flipped to a page near the back of the book and turned the volume around so they could see it. Sandis leaned forward until her nose nearly touched the pages. The skin around her eyes tightened, and she set her jaw.

  The text was handwritten in cursive. Sandis couldn’t read cursive.

  “What does it say?” Rone asked, sparing her the embarrassment of asking.

  The priestess turned the book back toward herself. “‘But as there is light, so there is darkness. Our god created the ethereal plane to separate evil from the world of men. In the depths of this evil lies its antithesis, called Kolosos. The very depths of hell swirl in its heart, and if any could look upon it, their flesh would melt from their bones, for they would look into the nakedness of chaos itself. Blessed be the Lily, who formed this behemoth’s prison. Praise the Celestial, who saves mankind with its bountiful pity.’”

  Sandis turned to stone under Rone’s hand. He rolled his lips together. His father had drilled scripture into him since he could walk, but he’d never heard anything like this.

  The priestess turned the page, and on the next leaf was a diagram of a circle. She pressed her manicured finger to its base.

  “This is an astral sphere . . . a device of the occult used to navigate the ethereal plane.” She shuddered, and Rone nodded, acting as though he were unaware of this information. “At its very base is written that name. Kolosos.” She emphasized it with a whisper. Shook her head. “To think that any mortal could be power hungry enough to seek that monster . . .”

  She noticed Sandis’s stricken expression and shut the book. “My child, forgive me. I’ve frightened you. But I lack the Angelic’s confidence, may he live as long as time. That is a trial of faith I must endure. But . . .” She wiped perspiration from her brow. “I felt you should know. Few of our numbers read the old texts, believing it better to pretend the occult does not exist. But I fear it. I think we all should.”

  Rone nodded. “Thank you. We’ll . . . take it into consideration.”

  That seemed to satisfy the woman. She slid past them and said, “Let me take you to the kitchens.”

  “Wait.” Sandis held up both hands, halting the holy woman. “Thank you for your help. What is your name?”

  The priestess smiled. “Not many ask me. It’s Marisa.”

  “Would you . . . Could you convince the Angelic of the danger, on our behalf?”

  The smile faded, and Priestess Marisa bit her lip. “I have little persuasive power to throw around, but”—she straightened a fraction—“I do think I could plant seeds.”

  Sandis notably relaxed, and Rone drew back his hand from her shoulder. “Thank you,” Sandis said. “Any help we can get—”

  “Of course. But”—her eyes darted over Rone’s shoulder to the door—“let’s keep it between us. Now, you must be hungry. Let me escort you—”

  “To the front door, if you would,” Rone interrupted.

  She blinked. “The meals in the tower are complimentary.”

  “Thank you again,” Sandis said, her voice strained, “but we would like to leave.”

  Priestess Marisa considered for a moment before nodding. Rone’s stomach clenched with want of food when aromas from the kitchen wafted into the hallway, but he didn’t slow. As he stepped out into the evening sun, he nodded his thanks instead of speaking it, and the priestess retreated into her cloister.

  He and Sandis marched back to the wall. The guards at the gate, even at this distance, watched them closely. The setting sun pressed against his back as he walked, the heat tracing up and down his spine. He slipped off his jacket, carefully folding it so the amarinth wouldn’t fall out—ah, but that was right. No amarinth.

  He slung the jacket over his shoulder and kicked a rock sitting on the side of the narrow road as he walked. Silence hung between him and Sandis, but he didn’t know how to fill it. Maybe he—

  Prickles kissed the back of his neck, like he was being watched. He looked back and scanned the tower and the space around it, but saw no one.

  Shaking off the feeling, he quickened his step to catch up with Sandis, but the prickling didn’t cease. He surveyed the wall looming ahead of them. Must have just been one of the guards.

  He rubbed his neck all the same.

  They had almost reached the wall when Sandis said, “I hope Alys is okay.”

  Rone’s step stumbled. “What?”

  “Alys. She housed Isepia.”

  The one-winged she-demon who tried to kill me. I remember. “I’m sure she’s . . . fine.”

  Sandis slipped into silence, twisting a piece of hair around her finger as she walked, but thirty feet short of the gate, she came to an abrupt stop.

  Rone ran into her arm. He hadn’t realized he’d been walking so close.

  Sandis turned to him, the red sunlight turning her hair copper. Her eyes were wide, and in them he saw . . . hope?

  “I know who can help us,” she whispered.

  Rone made note of the guards, who watched them but were still well out of hearing range. “Who?”

  “Grim Rig.”

  For a moment Rone thought she was joking. But there was no mirth in her voice. No smile on her face. Only that glint of hope in her eyes.

  She clasped her hands together. “He’ll talk to us. I know where he is—Kazen took me there once. I remember . . .” A sliver of sadness crossed her face. “I remember a little of it. Grim Rig hates Kazen. And like you said, Kazen is still reeling. If we can make an alliance, we might be able to stop him. And we can save the others, too.”

  Rone swallowed. “The other vessels?”

  She nodded. “And the children from the newspaper.”

  He didn’t have his amarinth. He didn’t have his backup.

  He didn’t have any better or safer ideas. And the hope in her eyes . . .

  Hunching, Rone planted his hands on his hips. “You want to waltz up to a mob boss and ask him for help? Sure, why not.”

  He wasn’t certain if she picked up on the sarcasm. Yet as he said it, he thought he saw the slightest twitch of her cheek. Almost. Almost a smile.

  Perhaps this was a risk Rone was willing to take.

  Chapter 8

  Mobsmen were untrustworthy, but any fear Sandis might feel was eclipsed by budding hope, which she tended like a master gardener would his prize rose. This. This was what she had needed to do all along. To act against Kazen rather than merely run from him.

  Stop Kazen, stop Kolosos. Infiltrate the lair, free the other vessels. She could finally apologize to Alys. Make everything right. Her great-uncle had not given her the warmth and kinship she’d hoped to find with the last living member of her family, but perhaps she could find that with Alys, Kaili, Dar, and Rist. They could be true friends, away from Kazen’s rules and walls.

  “Sandis?”

  She blinked, the map on the floor coming into focus, followed by the undecorated walls of Rone’s apartment, the old sofa that sank in on the far end. Rone sat across from her, watching her, a half-eaten bowl of soup in his hands. Hers was untouched, near her feet.

  She tapped her finger on the map. “G
rim Rig’s stronghold is here, unless he moved it. But when you’re that deep into the city, there isn’t much opportunity to do so. And Grim Rig . . .” She pried at her memory. “All the mob leaders are prideful. Resilient. He wouldn’t leave his space even after Kazen threatened or hurt him. He wouldn’t want to look scared.”

  Vessels weren’t supposed to remember what happened when they were possessed, but Sandis had begun to do so in the last six months of her bond with Ireth. Grim Rig was one of the memories she had partially retained. She didn’t have the entire story, only glimpses of it, from up high. Though she’d never seen the fire horse with her own human eyes, he was larger than she was, and the flashes of memory she retained came from a taller perspective.

  There was arguing, raised voices she couldn’t understand. Galt was there. A charred body lay on the ground, and Grim Rig stood nearby, red faced, pointing at it over and over and over again. Jutting his finger toward the corpse and yelling. Pointing like doing so would somehow take the black from his comrade’s skin and resurrect him. But not even the Celestial had power over the dead.

  Her stomach churned. Thinking of Ireth’s destruction made her queasy. It wasn’t the fire horse’s fault; Kazen, who’d kept Sandis’s blood inside his own veins, had controlled him as surely as he did Sandis. Neither of them had been able to escape his grasp. Not then.

  In truth, they still hadn’t escaped.

  She cleared her throat. “It will be guarded, so we definitely can’t walk in. We’ll need to state our purpose up front and make it interesting. Interesting enough that Grim Rig will want to see us at once.”

  “Agreed. We can’t give Kazen any more time to regroup his resources.”

  Rone made a good point. Sandis didn’t know where Kazen got his lackeys from, but it was smarter to attack sooner rather than later. They’d already waited long enough. And Sandis didn’t want to lose her courage.

  She glanced behind her, half expecting to see something there.

  “We can use that.” She pulled away from the map. “Like I said, Grim Rig hates Kazen. Kazen killed one of his men . . . I don’t know who, but he was mad about it.” In the back of her mind, that finger continued pointing, pointing, pointing. Ireth’s fire had flared, Grim Rig had backed off . . . and then it was dark, and Sandis had woken up.

  “So”—Rone set down his bowl—“we wave Kazen’s weakness in front of this guy’s nose and give him an opportunity he can’t turn down. The location of the lair. Information about its layout and Kazen’s present lack of employees.” Rone tapped his nose with his spoon. “We can offer the money as added motivation. Surely Kazen keeps a safe on hand.”

  Sandis took in a deep breath. “Okay.” But would it be enough? What if Grim Rig thought it was a trap? Or worse, what if he recognized her and decided he’d much rather kill her out of revenge than help her with her plan?

  An idea struck her. “You could be my summoner.”

  His hand dropped. “Pardon?”

  “My summoner. We can’t just go in with a gift and a smile and expect him to thank us. These men . . .” She struggled for the words. “They’re . . . vindictive. Cunning. They’re not nice.”

  “Riggers aren’t nice? Shocker.”

  Sandis gave him an exasperated look. “We have to have power, too. Grim Rig might recognize me. Maybe he’ll decide what Kazen made Ireth do was my fault.”

  Rone frowned. “I didn’t think of that. Maybe I should go in alone. I don’t think he’ll be happy to see you.”

  But Sandis shook her head. “No. You’re strong, Rone—”

  “Why, thank you.” He flashed her a smile.

  Sandis tried to ignore the twinge behind her heart. “—but you can’t take down an entire mob. Especially without the amarinth.”

  His smile faded.

  “He won’t know I lost Ireth. He won’t know you’re not a summoner, unless Engel worked with him before?”

  “No. But we probably shouldn’t use that alias.”

  She nodded. “We’ll need to go late. When Kazen attacked him, he approached the cavern from this side.” She drew her finger along the map. Rone leaned forward and watched, listening. The look on his face assured her that he would do this for her. With her.

  Part of her hated relying on Rone for something so delicate, something that could so easily be turned against her, just like before. But she didn’t think she could persuade the mobsmen alone. A vessel was nothing without her summoner.

  She said a small prayer in her head that their plan would work. If it didn’t, Sandis would have nothing left, again.

  For a startling minute, Sandis was lost.

  She stood nearly in the center of the smoke ring. Despite the late hour, a few factories still ran, keeping their furnaces hot and smokestacks billowing. Between the pollution and the darkened sky, the street looked fuzzy and smelled like cigar butts. Every building here had at least one glowing light on its eaves, and the smoke pulled the light into stretched-out halos. The crowd was thinner now that the last bell had rung, but the streets were hardly empty. As she scanned her surroundings, someone bumped into her and continued on without so much as an “excuse me.”

  She knew it was this direction, and yet none of this looked familiar. It had been some time since Kazen had walked her to Grim Rig’s hideaway. That little leather shop was new, wasn’t it? Had that factory been expanded? Did the street always curve right here?

  Rone kept his hand possessively on the back of her neck. Sandis had told him to do it. Told him how to speak, how to act, how to treat her—all on the off chance Grim Rig had eyes on this route. So far, he’d kept to the script, except when he asked, “This way?”

  “Don’t speak to me,” she’d reminded him. Kazen had never spoken to Sandis on one of their outings.

  “Yeah, but I don’t know where we’re going.”

  And neither, it seemed, did she.

  Sandis swallowed. Continued forward, right down the center of the street. And—there! She recognized that grouping of lamps. Four of them, forming a sort of plus sign, or a diamond, depending on how you drew the lines. The entrance to Grim Rig’s hideout was just under that . . .

  Trying to keep her lips from moving, Sandis said, “The boardinghouse. Just around the corner. A set of stairs in the back leads into the basement. That’s how we get there.”

  Rone’s fingertips pressed into her neck as he guided her. Sandis desperately wanted to see where they were going and who might be on those stairs, but she had to keep her head down. Act passive. Act like a vessel.

  When had it become so difficult to be what she was?

  A shadow passed over the lamplight. “Sniffing up the wrong alley, bud.”

  The voice was low, like it came from a big man. Sandis raised her eyes just enough to see his shoes, which were so polished Rone’s chin reflected in them.

  “I don’t think so,” Rone replied, his tone hard and deep. Almost like it sounded when he talked to his father. “I’m right where I need to be.”

  There was a brief pause. “Is that so?”

  Rone shifted, like he was looking the man up and down. “You his secretary? I need to speak to your boss.”

  Another pause. “I don’t know you.”

  “A pity.”

  The softest growl came from the man’s throat. He must have gestured to someone, because a new person came up the stairs, his shadow mixing with that of the first. Sandis saw the underside of his nose in his equally polished shoes.

  “You know this guy?” the first asked.

  But the second replied, “Who’s the girl?”

  “If you don’t let me have my say, I’ll show you,” Rone threatened.

  Another pause. There was a shift in the light reflecting off the men’s shoes, like they’d exchanged a look. Finally, the second murmured, “She looks like . . . doesn’t she? The hair.”

  The first stepped over, fully blocking the stairwell. For a terrifying moment, Sandis thought they wouldn’t let them pass
. “What’s your name?”

  “Jase Kipf,” Rone answered.

  Another pause. Did the name sound fake? But it shouldn’t—Jase was such a common name, and there had been a grafter named Kipf in Kazen’s retinue. No, the pause wasn’t for the name. The name was perfect.

  To his comrade, the first Rigger said, “Go check. You two, wait here.”

  The pressure of Rone’s fingertips increased on Sandis’s neck. She forced her head to remain down.

  After what felt like an hour, but could have been only a few minutes, the second man returned, huffing. “Take him to the wait while the others get ready. Count of eighty.”

  That meant a side room where Sandis and Rone would bide their time while Grim Rig and his fellow mobsmen armed themselves. Sandis shivered. Had this been a bad idea?

  Rone pushed her forward, and they went down the long set of cement stairs, following the first man. Sandis saw the back of his head—he was surprisingly tan and had a shaved scalp. Enormously broad shoulders. How had Rone mustered such a confident tone in front of such an intimidating figure?

  They were never left alone; the large man guarded them in the “wait,” which was barely larger than the room Kazen used for solitary confinement. He checked both Sandis and Rone for weapons; Sandis froze when his hand reached up her shirt and passed over her brands. There would be no doubt as to what she was now. She only hoped he didn’t check Rone for the same brands. After all, all summoners had once been vessels. Even Kazen had given up his body to a numen at some point, only to later slice a long scar down his back so no one could ever use him that way again.

  Sandis counted to eighty in her head—the number the man had been given—but nothing happened, so she counted again. Then a third time.

  Finally, a rhythmic knock sounded against the door. Sandis heard the clicking of a gun and stiffened. Rone’s hand went clammy against her skin—or was that her skin sweating against his?

  “Come on.” The man opened the door and gestured them out. The end of his barrel flashed in Sandis’s peripheral vision.