by Ann Aguirre
I’m sorry, Row. I’m so sorry.
Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t abandon Old Town to search for one soldier. Refugees were still trickling in, straggling militia members who barely made the fallback. Waiting was the worst part. There would likely be one more battle before they broke the invaders entirely.
“Sire? We don’t know what to make of this. It’s been circulating among the officers and someone finally thought to ask you.”
Alastor turned, doing his best to mask his weariness. These men and women were all equally tired, and they’d lost so much, so fast. He accepted a paper with the word S-H-A-L-A-I on it, and his heart almost stopped.
“Where did you get this?”
“It came through the signal machine. We were so surprised, I didn’t even know—”
“Show me.”
Following the young militiaman, he hurried into what looked like an old telemetry room, full of machines that defied qualification. The one in question sat on a battered desk, attended by a man so venerable he made Chancellor Quarles look like a spring flower.
“Did you want to send a reply?” the clerk asked.
“Please. Just one word: Home.”
It was Sheyla; it had to be, for he’d shared that story with nobody else. Yet he couldn’t risk a longer message without confirmation. She had been cautious too, wanting to be sure he was the one who received her communication.
She’s alive. She’s waiting.
St. Casimir might be a rubble heap, but she’d found a way to survive. My clever doctor. His spirit brightened to the point that it hurt. He touched the crumpled note that he kept with him always, such a silly thing.
I’ll miss your face.
Miss yours too, love. Be strong. We’ll be there soon.
While he reflected, the old man worked the device, then gave a satisfied nod. “It’s done.”
There were more pressing matters, but he stared and waited, convinced it wouldn’t take her long to answer. Please, Sheyla. I need this. Give me strength, as you always do.
Seemed like forever, but it was no more than ten minutes when the machine started working again, etching out each letter in response to the signal. “How are you, my prince?”
It’s her.
“Reply?” the clerk asked.
“We hold. Location secure.”
When he left the building, he realized he hadn’t seen Zan for a while. Since the Eldritch had clung like a second skin, that seemed… sinister. In the wake of Rowena’s abduction, he went from zero to red alert in about twenty seconds. Alastor deployed multiple men to help him search, until he stumbled across the Noxblade crumpled near the west wall.
More assassins? I’ll kill every last Talfayen loyalist myself.
He broke into a stumbling run and tumbled to his knees beside the first Eldritch he’d call his friend. “What happened?”
Oddly he didn’t smell blood and in searching, he didn’t find a wound, not even a scratch or pinprick that could’ve delivered some noxious poison. Zan was so fucking pale that Alastor thought he was dead, but as he shook him, the man’s eyes fluttered open.
“Let me help you to the med tent.”
A faint smile. “No point. There’s no cure for this.”
“I don’t understand. If you’re sick, you should’ve told me.” I told you. I trusted you. Alastor couldn’t get the words out. He’d lost too much, too fast, and he felt like tearing his own skin off.
Zan reached for him with a fair, slim hand. Uncomprehending, he took it, unnerved by how weak the grasp, how thready his pulse. “I don’t understand.”
“It was… an adventure,” Zan whispered. “Worth. It. Finish…”
But it was too late. His body slumped forward into Alastor’s arms, and confusion raged through him like a river flooding its banks. For the longest, he just held Zan and swallowed the urge to scream.
When he finally let go and stood, he found Gavriel waiting behind him like a ghost. He didn’t even try to avoid the fist that smashed into his jaw; he just took the hit and fell over.
Alastor spat blood. “Tell me what just happened.”
“All Eldritch have a gift. Zan’s was phenomenal speed, as I’m sure you noted. What you didn’t realize is that our gifts come at a cost. There’s always an energy exchange. The more we use our gifts, the more energy we expand. Deployed sparingly, we tend to live a long, long time. Otherwise—”
“Fuck. Fuck.” Over the past few days, Zan had run constantly, fought like a demon, everywhere at once, defending him.
“You understand. He burned through his entire life in days. For you. I didn’t ask him to guard you. He volunteered. And…” Gavriel’s jaw clenched. Alastor saw from the Noxblade’s balled fist that he wanted to hit him again. “He was my best friend. To this madness, I’ve lost my blood brother and my oath-sworn swordmate. What more will you hell born brutes and beasts take?” The words became a howl and Gavriel sent a blade skimming past his ear.
He didn’t flinch, even when it pinged off the wall and rattled by his feet. “I’m sorry. If I’d known—”
“That’s why he didn’t tell you. ‘We need the prince to unite the Gol’, that’s what Zan said to me. ‘Whereas I am expendable’.”
“He planned to die?” Alastor asked, incredulous.
“Not as such, but he understood that he might be pushed to it.”
How am I supposed to walk beneath the weight of so much sacrifice?
The answer came, clear as if Sheyla had whispered the truth in his ear. It was even her voice he heard, framing the words.
You remember what they’ve given, but you don’t allow that to prevent personal progress. The dead are not clinging to our ankles. Each year when we light candles and speak of their deeds, it is tribute enough for their honor and consolation.
“Please,” Alastor said. “Take him. I wish to participate in whatever sacred rites your people cherish, but now isn’t the time.”
“You and I are finally in agreement,” Gavriel muttered, as if it pained him.
At the Noxblade captain’s signal, men came for Zan’s body, conveying him to the makeshift mortuary, already filled with Latents, the unlucky, the frail, and the young. Zan joined the number, and as the doors shut, Alastor rubbed his chest. He talked himself silently through the bronchial attack, brought on by the pall in the air and the weight of grief. The tightness doubled him over; Gavriel didn’t move to console him. Just as well, he didn’t want him to.
Somewhere in the camp, a small child was singing. As he struggled for oxygen, the sweetness of it pierced him like a blade. “Mother, keep me safe and warm. Mother, carry me to your light. Mother, bear me in your arms. Mother, guard me from the night.”
It was an ancient, simple hymn yet and as that little girl sang the second verse, more voices joined her, deep and low, light as air. “Father, cradle me to your chest, hold me up as waters rise, and you who guard your family best, take me home so I can rest.”
By the final verse, it sounded as if every soul in Old Town was singing with all their hearts, a choir that could reach heaven itself. Alastor was too tired and broken to believe, but he took comfort in the way the citizens of Hallowell reached for each other while the city burned.
The shout came from the walls then. “Sire! The enemy’s on the march.”
The people sang on.
Alastor nodded. “We’ve done what we can. Let them come.”
26.
Sheyla was half-deafened with the cheers, and the entire staff passed around the messages like they were Holy Writ. It held a special resonance when the paper finally reached Dedrick’s hands. The big guard stared for a long moment at the scant words and then put his head back, his entire being a study in relief.
Little by little, the small crowd dispersed, until it was just the two of them by the signal machine. Besides Dr. Seagram, she was the only one who knew how to use it anyway.
“Looks like he’s coping without us,” Sheyla said.
“I can’t get used to that,” he muttered.
With a silent shrug, she went cat and sprang to the third bunk in a graceful leap. Up here, it was warm and private. No need for blankets. She dug her claws into the thin mattress, arched and stretched. Since she was used to napping in duty rooms and offices, she had no trouble passing out.
When she woke, it was dark and still. They hadn’t dimmed the lights in the lounge before. Maybe Seagram said we need to conserve energy? Sensing someone nearby, she raised her head warily, only to spot Dedrick curled at the other end of the bunk. It seemed as if he’d come up to stand guard over her—highly unnecessary if endearing—and ended up dozing off against the wall.
He is still recovering, after all.
Lazily, she groomed while watching him sleep, contemplating whether it was possible to nudge him onto his side without waking him. He’ll probably have a stiff neck. When Sheyla drew near enough to try, he started and slammed his head against the wall.
“Your eyes glow in the dark!”
She opened her mouth on a silent laugh.
If she shifted so they could talk, this encounter would take on a different tone, so she’d stay cheetah a bit longer. In this form, she detected layers in Dedrick’s scent, pheromones that told an engaging story. There was a fading trace of fear, but also an enduring warmth. That note brightened as he put out a hand in the dark and then just left it hovering.
She tipped her head.
“Is it all right? If I touch you?”
Like the Golgoth with their braids, the request for such contact construed an intimate overture, but she answered by nudging his palm with her cheek. His hand was gentler than she might have expected as he ran it over her head, barely brushed the tips of her ears.
Tickles.
She bit his fingers, lightly, to discourage that. He was intuitive enough not to reach beyond her shoulders, or she would’ve really sunk her teeth in. When he rubbed the spot at the base of her head, just so, Sheyla purred to let him know that was perfect. The sound startled him, but she saw clearly in the dark; he was smiling.
“This is… nice,” he whispered with a faint note of surprise. “I never thought I’d be this close to an Animari.”
Sheyla could’ve said the same thing. She had the urge to tussle, but she couldn’t be sure how he’d react to being tackled by a giant cat. In his current shape, he was large enough to handle her, but his skin wasn’t thick, and he needed to take it easy.
Right, no wrestling.
“You look like you’re sizing me up.” Proof that he was always on alert, reading cues, and making clever judgments.
Trilling an affirmative sound, Sheyla waited to see what he made of it. She got another stroke at the base of her skull. “That’s a yes?”
I’m glad I didn’t leave you to awaken among strangers, she decided.
The sound of the signal machine stirring drew her gaze and she leapt to the ground and shifted, nearly in the same motion. By the time Dedrick reached the floor, she had her shirt on. She felt him looking, then pointedly not as she pulled her pants up, and stifled a smile. Both he and Alastor were adorable in that respect.
After switching on only the bank of lights near the desk to keep from bothering the people who were still sleeping, she settled to read the latest message. “Enemy inbound. Should be over soon. Status?”
She turned to Dedrick, who had stepped to her shoulder. “What shall I say?”
Together, they worked out a concise yet informative reply and she carefully tapped out the signal. “Bunker. St. Casimir. Safe. Waiting. Inspect site? Advise on above-ground status, pronounce all clear.”
That should do it.
“If there’s rubble or the lift is compromised, they’ll have to dig us out.” Sheyla wasn’t normally suggestible, but that prospect send a cold shudder through her.
To her surprise, Dedrick wrapped his hand around hers. “We just need to stay calm a little longer.”
“It sucks, waiting to be saved.” She didn’t pull her hand away; the contact was welcome and translated to comfort.
Dedrick grinned. “It would be worse if we were waiting to be slaughtered.”
“You… make a compelling case.”
Letting go of her, he retrieved a large chair from a nearby grouping and settled beside her. In companionable silence, they waited for Alastor’s next reply. This one came faster, and it was more personal.
“Acknowledged. Dispatched Korin to scout. Will advise soon. Miss your face. Dedrick?”
“At last that bastard thinks to ask about me,” the guard muttered.
Laughing softly, she nudged his shoulder with hers as she’d seen Alastor do. “Don’t blame him, he has a lot on his mind.”
That earned her a delighted smile.
“Dedrick safe,” she sent back. “Waiting for your word.”
Soon, we might be leaving soon.
It was hard to restrain the urge to race around the room screaming, but that would only aggravate everyone else. They’d been penned up, but she suspected the hardships of the bunker paled against the atrocities of war. I wish I could’ve been there. That thought was half-hearted, however; the rest of her was sick over the destruction she’d witnessed in Ash Valley and Sheyla appreciated that Alastor had sent her to St. Casimir. Where she’d only seen one death, instead of thousands—with Hallowell embattled.
The triage tents must be a nightmare.
“That is…a burdened expression.” Dedrick didn’t ask what she was thinking.
Perversely, it made her want to tell him. “You saw how it was in Ash Valley. Before and after.”
“You’re wondering about Hallowell.” It was a logical leap, but not an implausible one.
Impressed, Sheyla studied him for a moment before replying. “Alastor truly has been blessed to have spent so much of his life with you.”
Dedrick lowered his face, as if she’d said something wrong. “If you want the truth, I had no choice.”
“He told me a little, nothing too specific, but since I’ve heard quite a lot about Tycho, I can imagine—”
“You can’t. Not really. And I would prefer not to talk about.”
Quite suddenly, the mood was sad and grim, and she felt as if she’d inadvertently stepped on a butterfly. Sheyla had spent much of her life saying the wrong things—to the point that she preferred not talking at all. Yet she had seldom meant an apology more sincerely than the simple, “I’m sorry” she offered just then.
“You should stop caring about my feelings,” he said. “If you persist, I’ll start liking you.”
It was an olive branch, a shaky one, but proffered nonetheless. He’d gotten his demons under control; they weren’t hers to wrangle. She pursed her lips, a silly face.
“That would be a shame.”
He lifted a hand, but she wasn’t to learn what he would’ve done with it. The machine vibrated to life, and when she had the message in hand, she couldn’t suppress a shout of pure jubilation. Ded read it next and he plucked her out of her chair, tossed her three feet up, whirled her until she couldn’t see straight, then hugged her so tight, her kidneys might pop. Gasping, she waved the paper like a victory sign.
“What the hell is going on?” Dr. Seagram demanded.
Soon they had everyone on staff in the lounge, all yelling the same question. Even the ones who were supposed to be working.
Sheyla passed over sheet to Dr. Seagram, who read it in a booming voice. “All clear.”
Per Korin’s report, there were no hostiles near St. Casimir.
Half the complex had caved in, but the side where the old clerk claimed the bunker was located hadn’t co
llapsed. Alastor wished he could oversee the rescue effort straightaway, but there were five hundred warriors marching on Old Town, a third of them Elite.
All that’s left of the thousands Tycho sent to sack Hallowell. We have artillery enough to obliterate them.
Victory hovered just out of reach, but he was so damned sick of the killing. His illness might be saving him from falling prey to the bloodlust, the way other Gol got lost in it, until death and sex became inextricably entwined. He’d tasted that briefly and managed to stagger away. Since he lacked the stamina to finish the battle in brute form, it also meant that he wasn’t lost in a haze that demanded more bones for the charnel house.
Aching from head to toe, Alastor went to the walls to track the enemy’s movement. Alone. So many people he wished were beside him in this pivotal moment; reflexively he touched the names of the siblings he’d lost. Rowena should be here. Dedrick. Sheyla. Even Zan. Instead, that damned red-eyed Noxblade climbed the crumbling stone steps and joined him.
Rowena was out there, somewhere. Or maybe she was on her way to Golgerra by now. Between Zan’s death and Rowena being taken, he ached as if he’d been shot. The way Rowena had looked that day in the cathedral, full of melancholy acceptance, it was like she’d known something terrible was about to happen to her and she was still willing to make that sacrifice.
For me.
“You’re begging a sniper to end you,” Gavriel said.
I probably deserve it.
He shrugged instead of speaking his bleak thoughts. “They’re seventeen hundred meters out. More power to him if he can make the shot.”
Gavriel snorted a laugh. “You’re bent.”
“Often and enthusiastically.” He wasn’t paying full attention to the exchange, however. Being sardonic and playful was his autopilot. Once he got his mind off Rowena, the situation chewed at him. Something’s strange. They should’ve struck by now.
Instead, the battalion maintained a slow, steady pace. Eventually, they stopped their progress well outside gunnery range. Each side had an RVAC, so it could come down to mutually assured destruction. If Alastor saw them make a move, he’d rain down on them like the god of vengeance and hellfire. As he contemplated a preemptive strike, an Elite commander broke ranks and lifted a flag, pale gray with a white circle.