Myths and Mortals (Numina Book 2)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, Rone tilted his head toward the shop. “This way. Let’s—”

  “Bastien?”

  All three of them, including the numen, turned around at the baritone voice. It came from the left, from a shadow that moved carefully, slowly down the narrow road sandwiched between two tall brick buildings.

  Bastien took a step toward it. “R-Rist?”

  The figure strode toward them until it stepped into the muted moonlight. He lowered a pistol. Rone vaguely recognized him. He was about Rone’s height and probably a few years younger. His straight dark-brown hair was overgrown and hung over one of his eyes. He was broad-shouldered but looked like he could use a meal. Or five.

  Sandis’s plan had worked.

  Rist eyed Rone. “You were the one following her all over the city.” He paused, his eyes dropping to Hapshi. Rone had first seen Rist on the back of Kazen’s horse, chasing after them with the rest of the summoner’s men. Then his numen form had sheltered the bastard when Sandis first summoned Ireth into herself.

  Rist hesitated before shifting his attention to Bastien and the numen.

  “Sandis.” Bastien twisted his braid as the oversized rodent sniffed the cobblestone. “I . . . summoned into her.”

  Rist didn’t show any surprise, just rubbed the back of his neck. “When I sensed you . . . I didn’t know who you were. I thought Oz, maybe.”

  “Oz?” Rone asked. He’d heard the name before.

  Bastien licked his lips. “My master, before Kazen.”

  Great. More grafters. Rone shoved his hands into his pockets. “So you thought you’d get caught again? Work for someone else?”

  Rist shot him a glare. “I thought I could make a deal.”

  “A deal? For what?” Bastien moved closer.

  Rist’s shoulders slackened. “Kaili. She’s . . . sick. I haven’t been able to find a job. Can’t afford a doctor. Managed to pocket something for her, but it didn’t help.”

  So they’d stuck together—Sandis would be relieved they’d found two for the price of one. She deserved a victory.

  He wondered what Kaili needed a doctor for.

  “We can help,” he said. “Take us to her.”

  Rist lit a candle and took it over to a pallet on the ground. They’d slipped through a grating into an underground delivery tunnel that connected a warehouse and what had once been a cotton factory. When Rone asked, Rist had muttered something about the factory going bankrupt and someone repurposing it for clockworks. The warehouse, no longer needed, had been divided into storage rooms and offices that were rented out to whoever could make the monthly payments. The tunnel was more or less forgotten, except by the handful of homeless who had claimed different nooks and offshoots of it.

  Rist led them to one of the nooks—a short hall that branched off from the main tunnel and split into two rooms, one of which looked like an old closet. They followed him into the larger room, and Bastien shut the door behind them.

  Even in the poor lighting, Rone could see the reason for Kaili’s sickness, even before Rist knelt beside her and gingerly removed the makeshift bandages across her back.

  The woman’s golden script shimmered in the candlelight, marred between her shoulder blades by a dark split in the skin that pussed at the edges. Tendrils of red snaked between the Noscon symbols.

  “We split up.” Rist’s tone was suddenly softer, almost reverent. “Lost each other in the confusion. I didn’t know where she went, so I helped Jak get home—”

  “Jak?” Rone asked.

  Rist frowned. “One of the new kids Kazen took to brand. His parents were still around. But Kaili got scared and took a knife to her script, not wanting to be arrested. She thought maybe she could plead her innocence if it was obvious she didn’t want to be a vessel.” He shook his head. “I’ve cleaned it out, used salve. Washed the bandages. I just don’t have the right supplies.”

  The pain in his voice was clear. Kaili stirred but didn’t wake.

  Rist added, “She’s been sleeping more and more.”

  “I’ve got money. We’ll get the supplies,” Rone said, and for the first time, Rist looked at him with benevolence. “I have a flat we can take her to—”

  “Too risky,” Rist cut in.

  Rone gritted his teeth. “Do you want her to sleep on the dirty floor or a bed? It’s not far. She can take San—Hapshi.”

  Rist eyed the rodent. Rone wondered exactly how long they had before it just poofed back into a naked woman. Did numina poof?

  Bastien said, “Please, Rist. Sandis . . . she’s the reason we found you. She wants us together again. To fight Kazen.”

  Rist reeled back. “Are you crazy?”

  “The way I see it,” Rone butted in, “is you come with us, get your girlfriend the medicine she needs, and listen to what Sandis has to say when she comes to, or you can fester here and watch Kaili die.”

  Rist shot up to his feet. “You piece of—”

  “Kolosos.”

  The name was weak, the feminine voice groggy. Rone watched the fight leak out of Rist like water from a sponge. In less than a second, he was at Kaili’s side again, smoothing hair from her face. Hair, Rone noted, that was cut in the same style as Sandis’s.

  Kaili pressed her hand against the floor as if to get up, but her elbow buckled. Bastien moved the candle closer to her pale face.

  “He killed your brother,” she whispered. Rist tensed. “We should . . . listen.”

  Rone wiped a hand down his face. It wouldn’t matter—even if they got Kaili well, her script was ruined. Just like he’d thought it would be. Sandis’s plan had already failed. However . . . Rist had sensed Hapshi’s closeness and said he’d planned on making a deal with whatever summoner roamed the streets. Which meant . . .

  “Rist.”

  The younger man glanced at him.

  “Your script?” he asked.

  Rist frowned. “I haven’t broken it yet. I didn’t want . . . to end up like her.”

  Rone took a deep breath and let it all out at once. “Get her on the rat. We’ll argue about it in the morning.”

  Chapter 18

  Once, Kazen had been convinced the heavy smoke pumping from the factories made him sick. He’d thought he needed fresher air. A new way of thinking. A divine purpose. So he’d sought it out. In the end, it had nearly destroyed him.

  The time had long since passed for him to return the favor.

  He considered this as he approached an oversized factory, one that pressed into the street, ruining its symmetry. Valves and pipes wound up one side, and a single smokestack belched from its secondary building. The security guard outside the door sized up Kazen. He expected no less; his coat fit too well for a menial factory worker, the material too expensive. His hands lacked the calluses, though he admitted the largeness of his knuckles made him appear to be one who stressed his fingers in labor. Not so, but it wouldn’t matter regardless. The clothing was enough.

  In a city like Dresberg, the wealthy always had the upper hand.

  The sounds of clinking metal pressed against the walls of the small foyer he stepped into, a space that offered no comforts—no chairs, rugs, or refreshments. The right and left walls had large glass windows that revealed rooms filled with working employees, all paid barely enough to live on. Kazen ignored them.

  Instead, he stood in front of one of the windows and pressed his silver-capped cane into the floor before him, resting both hands on it. He stood erect, though the joints of his lower back protested, trying to make him feel his age. His posture remained stiff.

  It took a few minutes before someone noticed him and ran off, and a few more before a short yet burly man stepped through the door. He looked to be in his forties, pale with a round face. He ate well. Yes, he was a superior.

  Excellent.

  “I’m here to review your employee roster,” Kazen said, reaching into his well-tailored coat to retrieve a badge he’d purchased for an overly handsome sum i
n the dark market. It was a bronze medallion the length of his palm and about two-thirds its width, the front engraved with a sailless boat. Words in all capitals surrounded it, but no one paid attention to those. Most of the laboring class couldn’t even read. It was the shape of the badge and that boat that mattered. Made him look like a city officer.

  The man frowned, but he gestured Kazen back through the door he’d exited. “What’s this about?”

  The sounds of clanking metal increased threefold as Kazen stepped out of the foyer. Men broke up sheet metal to his right; to his left, children broke down boxes and pallets. The air carried the scents of oil, sweat, and chloride lime. It was oddly humid.

  “That is information I cannot share, my good man. Your name, for the record?” Kazen didn’t care who the fool was so long as he proved useful, but a police officer would have asked, and Kazen did not make mistakes.

  The man muttered an answer Kazen barely heard. They wound around men and machines until they reached a cramped closet space filled with boxes and filing cabinets. The man took an aggravating amount of time sifting through them to find what Kazen had requested.

  Disorder. Filth. Incompetence. All things Kazen loathed. He’d loathed Galt for similar reasons. But he waited with practiced patience, the only sign of his frustration the tapping of his index finger on his cane.

  “Here we are,” the factory worker said. “What years are you looking for?”

  “Last ten.”

  He pulled out a thick book, then another, and set them atop a stack of boxes. “Don’t take them, just look. Sir.” He checked a clock on the wall. “I need to check on a line.”

  Kazen merely nodded, and the thick man pushed past him to the door, which Kazen closed with his heel. He brushed off his sleeve where the man had touched him and opened the book.

  Its records ended last year. He flipped back pages, scanning inked passages. Flipped, scanned. Careful, slow. He did not enjoy doing things twice. Precision was the key to success.

  By the time he found the name he sought, his unwanted partner had returned. “Well?”

  Kazen pressed the tip of his finger to the name. The man leaned in and looked it over.

  “Oh, I remember him.” He sounded surprised, as though the functioning of his own brain was a shock. “Good one. Left a few years back. Lily Tower, so I heard.”

  Kazen pressed his lips together and let out a small hum of confirmation. The Lily Tower, was it? How interesting.

  Leaving the book open, Kazen turned and stalked out of the room.

  “Hey, do you need . . .” the man called after him, but Kazen was already gone.

  Chapter 19

  Sandis’s eyes shot open, and her lungs gasped for air. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. Didn’t recognize the uneven paint strokes on the ceiling above her or the drawn curtains over the window to her left. The bed—this wasn’t her cot. Nor was it the wide, soft bed she’d been given in her great-uncle’s home.

  Rone’s mother’s bed. Rone’s mother’s flat.

  She sat up and cradled her head, her blanket slipping down to her hips. Her pulse throbbed under her skull, but the awakening was different this time. The numen she’d hosted was not the creature that had once been part of her very soul. She blinked, eyelids sticking to her dry eyes. She noticed a pitcher of water and a cup on the small table next the bed and blessed Bastien—Rone—whoever had left it there.

  Ignoring the cup, Sandis gulped straight from the pitcher, dribbling cool, stale water down her naked chest. It hit her stomach like ball bearings, but she downed nearly half the contents before setting it aside and wiping her mouth. No nightmares this time. Just blissful emptiness. Praise the Celestial.

  Then she remembered.

  Gooseflesh rose on her skin as her memory relived those last moments.

  Bastien’s shaking hand sliding over her forehead. The splitting, tearing, ripping sensation of being possessed. And then utter darkness. She remembered nothing of the night’s journey. But she remembered before.

  The cavern, the dark market, the screams as fire engulfed everything. How many people had she killed? But they were slavers, criminals, killers. Celesia condemned them.

  Just like it condemned her.

  Her headache spiked, and she winced. It felt like another lifetime, a different story set beside hers on a bookshelf. Oh, Ireth, forgive me. She wiped grit from her eyes. I used you, too.

  She glanced at the light edging the curtains. What time was it? Afternoon?

  Then she heard voices.

  Slipping from the mattress, she listened. Rone’s voice, smooth and mellow. She couldn’t hear what he said, but the sound of him reminded her of the pain medicine Kazen had given her after a summoning. She’d had too much once, and its sweet relief had faded into a feeling worse than the headache.

  She closed her eyes, but that made her focus on the pounding in her head.

  Another voice. A man’s. Too low to be Bastien . . .

  Sandis snapped to attention. Rist? Had they found Rist?

  Hope sparked in her like lit gunpowder. Sandis ran to the dresser with two broken drawers, where she had placed her dress before last night’s summoning. She pulled it on, nearly popping a button, and ran out of the bedroom, headache forgotten.

  She ogled them in amazement. They sat at the dining table—Rone on the left, Bastien at the right, and at the head was Rist, who met her gaze as she barreled in. He looked a little ashen, a little tired, but he was here.

  Her plan had worked.

  “You came,” she whispered, stumbling toward the table. Rone stood to help her, but she gripped the table edge and held herself upright. “We found you, and you came.”

  “Hi, Sandis.”

  She spun at the woman’s voice. The sight of Kaili stretched across the couch, propped up on pillows, brought moisture to her eyes. She looked awful—too pale, with dark rings around her eyes—but she smiled, and that sad but sweet expression reminded Sandis of her first week in Kazen’s lair. Kaili had crept to Sandis’s cot in the dark and whispered that everything was going to be okay.

  Sandis rushed to Kaili’s side, burning her knees on the carpet in her haste to get closer. “Are you sick? Are you okay?”

  “Just an infection.” She offered another weak smile. “Feels like I got my brands all over again.”

  It was then that Sandis noticed the bandages sticking above her collar. The shirt wasn’t the open-backed sort they’d worn as vessels, but it was too big for her. An alarm like the gong of a bell tower sang in Sandis’s head, and for a moment she thought someone had skinned her friend, taken her gold . . .

  But Kaili wouldn’t be alive if someone had done that.

  The second option dawned on her. Sandis’s shoulders drooped.

  “You cut your script.”

  Kaili nodded. “I didn’t have a reason to keep it. I did it wrong. But your friend here got me medicine, and it doesn’t hurt as much today.”

  Rone met her eyes briefly before looking away.

  “Thank you,” Sandis said. And if the medicine somehow failed to stop the infection, they had the amarinth as backup.

  Rone shrugged. “You still can’t use her to summon.”

  “But she’s going to be okay.” Her gaze shifted to Rist. “Right?”

  Rist didn’t answer. He looked like worry personified. Kaili answered for him, “I’ll be fine. And Rist is still good.”

  That tenacious hope sparked inside Sandis again. “Your script is still intact?” And she assumed, he and Kaili hadn’t . . . With her infection, they probably couldn’t have . . . done anything else to hurt their summoning ability.

  Rist scowled. “I escaped that place so I wouldn’t have to be some demon’s puppet anymore.”

  Rone snorted.

  Glowering, Rist asked, “What?”

  “I think you mean we freed you from that place so you wouldn’t have to be a demon’s puppet anymore.”

  “Rone,” Sandis warned.r />
  Bastien looked between the two before muttering, “But we did it . . . no strings attached.”

  Rist wheeled on him. “Do you think now is a good time for your stupid jokes?”

  “Rist, please,” Kaili said, then coughed, and Rist deflated like a struck dog. He mumbled something that sounded like an apology, but wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

  Kaili’s too-warm hand reached over and took Sandis’s. “I’m glad you came back for us. And that you didn’t go the way Heath and the others did.”

  The others were the kidnapped children from the newspaper. At least one of them had survived. Sandis paused, then glanced to Bastien and Rone, stiff. “You told her? About the summoning?”

  “Just the summoning,” Rone said, a subtle promise that her nightmares weren’t common knowledge. He sounded tired, reserved. He looked . . . sad, but why? She couldn’t tell. He had become harder and harder to read ever since—

  “I had my suspicions,” Rist said, studying the tabletop. “I’d seen notes. I . . .” He set his jaw.

  “But you couldn’t read them,” Sandis filled in for him.

  Rist looked at her, but his gaze was annoyed. “I can read. So could Heath. Kazen knew it, too. Why else would he have thrown me in solitary for snooping?”

  This was news to Sandis. “He knew?” she asked, at the same time Bastien said, “You can?”

  They both looked to Kaili.

  She shook her head. “I can’t. Neither can Alys.”

  The vessel’s name pierced Sandis like an icicle. Her breath caught, drawing the others’ attention to her.

  Averting her eyes, Sandis bit the inside of her cheek to stay present.

  “What’s wrong?” Kaili asked.

  A moment passed before Bastien answered, “Alys . . . couldn’t read.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Sandis glanced back in time to see Rist rise from his chair. “Couldn’t,” he repeated.