She had killed before. Never pointlessly, but she found it distasteful, not something she relished as Makagesh undoubtedly did.
Would she kill him? Her resolve wavered; she wanted the man dead, her anger demanded no less. But was it necessary? Maybe just striking fear into the core of his soul would be enough.
Drawing up a vivid memory of Maxus, the Collector, snatching the woman’s last connection to her missing husband from her neck, she stopped on the landing to observe her surroundings and reassured herself she was doing the right thing.
Two doors to her left, three to her right with one set at the very end of the hallway. Stepping left to the farthest door, she slipped her glove off and laid a hand against the cool wood of the door. Breathing in, she concentrated on any smells or sounds in this room. Nothing. Mey repeated this process as she moved down the hall toward the Collector’s bedchamber. Tedious but necessary, she couldn’t leave any rooms unchecked behind her though she felt confident of her target’s location.
Makagesh was losing patience. Images of bloody flesh, slashed by the sharp edge of a dagger flashed through her head. A smile curled her lips upward. This hardened side did find satisfaction in the task at hand. Moving as quickly as she dared but still satisfying the need to have nothing threatening at her back, Mey moved to the last door.
Flattening her hand to the panel, she pressed her cheek against the grooved wood, and listened. Breathing emanated from the other side. The pungent stench of sweat assaulted her nose; the faint rustling of cloth as the man shifted in sleep touched her ears. Focusing her attention on the door, she ran her hands lightly around the frame, looking for any tiny imperfections indicating a trap. Her nimble fingers passed over a small hole in the wood, which could be easily mistaken as a flaw in workmanship.
Stopping abruptly, Mey leaned in to examine the minute opening. Moving her eyes down the frame, she found five more of the same likeness, all in a row.
“Clever,” she murmured.
The mechanism to trigger the trap would be either in the door itself as it opened or in the floor. Crouching to examine the floorboards first, she looked for anything out of place. There were no loose panels or movable sections of wood. As she prepared to move up the door, her keen eyes caught a slight glimmer. Leaning closer, the glimmer proved to be a thin tripwire stretched from one end of the door to the other, just at shin height.
Shaking her head, she pulled out a small razor-sharp blade. With a steady hand, Mey touched the sharp edge to the tripwire and in one flick of the wrist, cut it, leaning back in case it triggered the trap. When nothing happened, she let out a breath.
Ever cautious and thinking it had been much too easy, she continued her slow, intense scrutiny of the door. As her eyes roved over the handle, she found a small protrusion. A tiny lever, no more than a half-inch jutted out near the handle, clearly meant to be depressed when someone attempted to open the door. A breathless chuckle escaped her.
This man definitely didn’t feel safe.
Moving back a step, she took the tip of a dagger and, quick as lightning, pushed the lever and pulled her arm back to her side, never losing grip on the weapon. Sure enough, six small darts—poisonous, no doubt—shot across the doorway, and thudded into the frame on the other side.
Waiting to see if the small noise had wakened her prey, Mey again leaned in close and placed an ear against the door. There was no change in the sounds beyond. She could still hear the breathing and the rustle of cloth as the man tossed and turned in sleep. Carefully avoiding the small darts, she turned the handle slowly. Opening the door a few inches, she slid her body into the room, closing it soundlessly behind her.
Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and found Maxus just where she expected him; sleeping on the large, lush bed, wrapped in fine silken sheets.
Creeping on the balls of her feet, she noted her surroundings. In only seconds, she knew the layout and contents of the space. Looking down, a sneer found its way to her face. She watched his tortured sleep. Covered in sweat, brow twisted, Maxus moved his head. She wasn’t sure how long she stood there watching; long enough to conjure up the image again in her mind of him snatching the woman’s necklace away as she begged for his mercy.
She bent very close to his ear, her voice full of hate, and whispered “Wake up.” Had she not been totally detached, she might have been surprised it came from her at all.
Instantly, his eyes flew open, his body froze and she saw his throat work to swallow. He turned his head until their faces were mere inches apart. His eyes widened at first, his tension ebbing slowly. Knowing what she did about him, Mey figured he didn’t feel so threatened by a woman in his bedchamber; a lesson he would learn too late this night.
“Wh-who…” he tried, but his voice caught in his throat.
“…am I?” she finished for him. “We’ll get to that soon enough.” Standing upright, Mey moved back a step. “Now, I want you to sit up.”
He arose slowly, nodding once; his trembling hand wiping sweat from his brow. His gaze flicked to the nightstand and back to her. There was a small dagger there, she had noted earlier. Surely he wasn’t stupid enough to go for it, but as he glanced back at her, he began to lunge for the weapon. In the blink of an eye, two daggers thudded into the headboard of the bed inches from the Collector’s head, pulling him up short.
“I wouldn’t,” Mey warned.
Looking back, he squinted hard trying to see past the shadows to her face hidden beneath the hood of her cloak. He raised his hands in surrender.
“Maxus,” she began once he was fully upright. “You’re probably asking yourself right about now what this could possibly be about. And if you’re thinking it is related to your duties as a Collector, you would be right.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “But you would be wrong as to your first guess at why.”
He cleared his throat. “Seems you have me at a disadvantage. You know me. However, I’ve not had the pleasure of knowing you.”
“All in due time.”
Cut him. Make him bleed. The words floated through her head. She pushed Makagesh to the side for the time being; not gone; for she certainly agreed with his sentiment to make this foul being bleed. But first, she wanted answers.
Producing the jeweled dagger from her belt, Mey lounged in a chair across from the bed. Watching the Collector, she was satisfied that his gaze never left her. He watched every move she made.
“I’d like to see your collections from the day.”
A smile broke his face. “A robbery? Is that what this is all about?”
Mey paused and looked directly at the man. “More a robbery reversal.” Going back to her bored examination of the dagger, she continued, “You see, I intend to give the money back to the people. Now, if you would be so kind, where are the collections?”
His eyes cut briefly to the left, then quickly snapped back to her.
Chuckling, she rose slowly. Did he think her that stupid? It was so obvious he was purposefully misleading her. My, but he did have a low opinion of women. She sauntered to where he sat on the edge of his bed, leaned close to him, but not quite close enough for him to see through the shadows that hid her face.
“Lie to me again, Collector, and I will cut your throat.” The dagger sang as it flashed to his neck. The voice in her mind was full of delight. Yes! The throat! Slit his throat! “Or cooperate, and there could be much less mess.” She was still wavering on the idea of killing the man.
He swallowed audibly, the knot in his throat bobbing against the blade she held there. Makagesh laughed with anticipation. “In th-the study,” he stuttered.
“Lead the way,” she said casually and prodded him with the tip of the blade.
Maxus stood slowly and carefully, making no sudden movements before obeying her command. She followed him down to the first floor and into a room off the main chamber. Leather-bound ledgers lined the shelves. The large oakwood desk was carved with intricate patterns of crawling vines encircling the outs
ide edge. Silver filigree wound through the pattern.
Mey grimaced at the excessiveness.
He continued on behind the desk to the bookshelf. Glancing over a shoulder at her, he quickly pulled a ledger halfway out and the bottom of the shelf popped open. Out of the false wall, the Collector took a medium-sized chest and, with a heft, placed it on the desk.
“Open it.”
From his wrist, he produced a key attached by a bit of cord. He unlocked the chest and threw the lid back.
Mey exhaled slowly. That’s a lot of gold and gems. There were various trinkets thrown in the mix as well, made from all manner of precious metals. On top sat a thin silver chain with a small silver circle set in ivory. Within the ivory center, two overlapping hearts were carved in elaborate detail. The words of the woman came back to her: It’s the last connection I have to my husband. Grinding her teeth, she narrowed her eyes as she felt a familiar heat starting in her middle.
“Tell me something.” She pushed the dagger into the soft flesh of his neck. “What part of this is your take?”
He hesitated, probably wondering if a lie at this point was worth his life. “Half,” he finally said.
A muscle in her jaw ticked as the heat started to bubble through her.
“Why is the temple taxing the people so harshly?”
“On edict from the Elder. Every temple is to ask the people for a tithe.”
“A tithe, yes.” The dagger slid down to his chest where it pressed mercilessly. “This, however”—she gestured with her free hand—“is robbery.”
“I have only done my job,” the Collector said, wincing as the dagger pressed deeper.
Mey ignored him. Grabbing his hand with massive strength that only came with the heat she forced it atop the ornate desk.
“Now, what is the sentence for robbery?”
She moved her eyes toward his face to watch the reaction. Makagesh roared with delight.
Raising an eyebrow, she watched sweat break out on his forehead. Her face still hidden beneath the cloak, she smiled and a quiet chuckle escaped her. She had no need to glance back at the dagger; it moved of its own volition.
“Loss of a finger isn’t it?” she asked.
Maxus was visibly shaken. He nodded once. He opened his mouth to speak but the words seemed stuck. He cleared his throat and whispered, “Yes.”
“Hmmm. A finger for each offense.” She laughed. “I daresay you don’t have enough fingers.” She clucked her tongue in mock disappointment.
In the next instant, the Collector’s face blanched white, his mouth opened in an “O”. After a moment of shock, the scream came. Mey placed a hand over his mouth.
“Shhh,” she cooed. Heat filled her now and it felt good. Elation rolled from Makagesh and sped through every vein in her body.
“Would you like to spare your other fingers?” she asked. Her voice had hardened into a timbre foreign to her own ears.
A tear slid down the Collector’s cheek. He nodded vigorously beneath the hand clasping his mouth.
“I want answers. Every time you are, in any way, less than truthful with me, I take another. Understand?” Moving her hand so that he could speak, she tilted her head to one side. The dagger never wavered as she moved it over the next digit.
“I understand.” His voice was strangled with pain.
“Now, why has the Elder ordered this massive collection of taxes?”
“As p-payment,” he said. “Th-the Elder has acquired m-massive debts as of late.”
“Debts?” Mey was more than curious. What sort of debts would the Elder, head of every sect of priests in Cantor, possibly have? “What debts?”
“I don’t know,” the Collector sobbed.
Mey shook her head and clucked her tongue again. Another scream bubbled up from the man’s throat. He swayed and fell to one knee. She held fast to his hand, though, keeping it securely in place on the desk, slick with the thick blood that seeped from each wound. Her mouth twisted up on one side.
“Care to try again?” She shifted the dagger to the next finger.
Maxus’s breathing had become labored and his eyes rolled back.
“Stay with me,” she told him. “Now, again. What debts has the Elder amassed?”
“H-he has hired a m-mage.” His voice was so low, Mey had to lean close to hear.
A mage? That took her off guard. Priests and mages working in tandem? For what purpose? A hundred more questions flew through her head.
Makagesh’s cry tore into her thoughts. MORE!
“Why?”
The Collector whimpered. But only hesitated for a second. Evidently, he decided to keep the rest of his hand intact. “To track and stop the Descendant,” he blurted out in a strangled cry.
Completely taken off guard this time, Mey leaned back with an abrupt gasp. “What?”
“The Descendant…is supposed to…bring back the dragons.” His head lolled from side to side and he sagged down to both knees, kneeling in front of the desk. “That cannot be allowed. Dragons will…kill…” His head fell forward.
Letting go of the man’s hand, it fell to his side. She took a handful of hair, pulling his head up. Still breathing. Makagesh’s disappointment left a foul taste in her mouth. He wanted more blood.
She slapped him hard. Twice. His sluggish eyes reflected obvious pain. Forcing him to look directly at her, she moved her other hand to the hood of her cloak and slid it back, fully revealing her face.
His eyes widened and he mouthed the question. “You?”
She closed her eyes and let the heat fully consume her. She felt the unmistakable strength as her dragon blood took over. When she opened her eyes again, Maxus let out a smothered cry. He began to sob uncontrollably, trying to shake his head but she still held tight to his hair.
“You have been punished for your thievery of the people in Sorga,” she said. Grasping the delicate necklace from the chest, she held it up in front of his face. “But for this…” She leaned in so close her body was mere inches from his. “You should die.”
She wanted to sink the dagger smoothly into his chest, watch his silent scream. The image of blood trickling from the corner of his lip and running in a rivulet down his throat as she plunged the blade deeper into his heart assailed her. Makagesh wanted her to kill him as well. She felt a wave of ecstasy as he howled in her mind.
The image repeated itself over and over as Makagesh’s voice grew louder. Do it! Kill him! He deserves it! She wanted to. Wanted to turn herself over to the force of the sentient dragon.
Thom. His image hit her like a blow to the gut. She couldn’t breathe. She squeezed her eyes shut and Thom’s smiling face was there, etched on the backs of her lids. Acceptance in his eyes, he reached out to her. It felt right, even through the heat and barrage of hallucinations from Makagesh.
Thom felt right.
“No,” she screamed at the dragon, shattering the images of death he had woven through her mind. Tears slid down her face and she screamed over and over, “No, no, no.” Each time another binding strand snapped, freeing her from his hold.
Opening her eyes, she saw Maxus cringing before her. His sobs turned to whimpers.
“Tell them,” she spat at him through clenched jaws. “Tell them they cannot stop me! I am here for the people of Cantor and I will bring justice.”
He could only nod, cradling his wounded hand.
Hastily closing the lid of the chest, she hefted it with one arm and snatched the key from the Collector’s wrist.
She needed to get back to the others. The servant wouldn’t awaken for several hours, at least. But it wouldn’t take long for Maxus to come to his senses and alert his masters to the fact that the Descendant stood in their midst.
The best bet was to make a swift departure—from the temple, from this town. Damn this perpetual darkness. It was harder to calculate the passing of time, but she figured at least a couple of hours had passed while she was with the Collector. The rest of her plan had to
wait until she could clean herself up a bit.
Moving silently through the darkness, finding her way back to the temple of Sirrah, she snuck back to her small sleeping chamber without being seen.
Leaning her forehead against her door as it clicked closed, she felt herself connect once more to that side of her she had pushed away. A small knot of remorse made it hard for her to breath. Her senses still hyper-aware, the hairs on her neck prickled.
The atmosphere felt wrong.
Someone was here. Her eyes snapped open and she whirled around.
“Mey?” Thom’s eyes were wide as he took in her blood-spattered appearance. He had been sitting on the edge of the small cot but stood as he spoke her name. His gaze landed on the chest, still in her arms, and his brow pulled together in a look of complete confusion.
NINETEEN
Stunned silence hung in the room for half a heartbeat. Coming to her senses, Mey moved, setting the chest on the cot and yanked her cloak free to toss over it.
Thom let out a strangled sound and burst into action. He quickly descended upon her, intense concern blazing in his eyes. “Mey! What happened? Where are you hurt? I’ll get Elerbee.” He grabbed her shoulders and held her at arms’ length, scrutinizing her, evident worry in his voice.
What in the lower planes of Hell was he talking about?
“What do you mean, ‘am I hurt’?” she said, twisting to break free of his grip.
“You’re covered in blood!” he said, gesturing at her. “I’m getting Elerbee.” Starting toward the door, Mey had to jump to catch him.
“Wait!”
He didn’t even bother to turn. “I will not wait. You need healing.”
“The blood’s not mine.”
He froze in his tracks. Everything slowed down and he turned back toward her. Skeptical but at least he was listening now.
Mey let out a long sigh. “None of it is mine. I’m not hurt.”
“What? Who?”
Damn! Did he have to ask this now? “It doesn’t matter right now, I can explain on the way. We have to get the others and leave as quickly as possible.”
Reborn (The Dragons of Cantor Book 1) Page 20