by Nina D'Aleo
The leech’s body suddenly exploded, drenching her in her own hot blood, as Shawe stabbed the creature through.
“You owe me, sunshine,” he said into her ear as he dragged her to her feet.
Right behind them the toads were advancing quickly, and more monster leeches were sliding up out of the mud and inching their way forward. Diega’s legs failed and Shawe grabbed her by the jacket, hauling her backward toward the tree line, where they’d left Copernicus. Caesar ran parallel to them, wading through the thick mud, carrying the Vidris. It was panicking, grabbing at the Pride King’s face with slimy hands. Caesar wore an expression of barely contained revulsion. Behind them a leech lunged forward and latched onto one of the toads and the two groups of animals quickly turned on each other, giving them a chance to widen the gap.
Diega managed to find her feet and fought forward beside the gangsters. A distant buzzing sound reached her ears, and for a horrible moment, she thought the queen’s Neridori guards had found their way into Murkmire, but she was even more horrified when she looked over her shoulder and saw a black mass speeding toward them. Long proboscises hung below the thin dangling legs of hugely oversized swamp mosquitos, attracted by the smell of blood.
Shawe shouted a curse.
Diega knew she didn’t have the strength to outrun the fast-moving bloodsuckers. Every step through the thick mud took supreme effort. Her steps faltered again. Shawe looked over his shoulder and yelled, “You giving up, princess?”
The words and fierce green of his eyes spurred her on. Every muscle in her legs burned and shook.
At the sound of the mosquitos, the leeches had begun to re-bury themselves in the mud and the toads were leaping frantically to get clear of their path. Diega glanced back to see a hungry mosquito catch up with one slower toad and make it a blood meal, draining it to skin in seconds. Another mosquito reached Caesar and attempted to stab its proboscis into his back. The powerful gangster boss swung around with exposed claws and eviscerated the creature in one swipe, the gurgling Slimer clutching harder around his neck.
When they reached the edge of the forest, the plant-breed slid out of Caesar’s arms. It uncovered a burrow in the mud and jumped in, holding it open for them to follow. Caesar and Diega lunged and slid through, with Shawe dragging Copernicus right behind. They crashed down headfirst, falling a short distance into more mud.
Chapter 33
Eli
Aquais
Scorpia (LaNoria)
Open-flame torches, chained to the walls, reached creeping, shadowy fingertips across the uneven stone floor to where Eli lay on his side. Consciousness played at the corners of his mind, returning first in sounds – the rising-falling, wailing screams, the scuttling, scratching and gnashing; then in feeling – the pounding inside his head from where it’d struck the ground, the raw dryness of his throat. He swallowed painfully and lifted a hand to his face. The touch jolted him awake from his half-dream state and he struggled to stand but failed, feeling like the only vertical person in a horizontal universe, carrying all the weight of the worlds on his back. He paused a moment to focus his strength and saw the Morsus Ictus lying beside him. He scrambled for it and snatched it up. Clutching the blade in front of him, Eli looked around, taking in his surroundings. A shiver rippled over his back.
Along the walls of the corridor, blacked-out canvases hung in heavy brass frames tangled in spider webbing. Eli followed the threads up to a low ceiling, a matted mess of intertwining webs, with silks as thick as rope. Eyes gleamed through the gloom. Dust caught in Eli’s throat and he coughed, the sound echoing down the long, narrow corridor. A terrible, howling wind suddenly rushed from the darkness. It paused to taunt Eli, pushing him one way and then the other, before shoving him against a wall and sweeping away cackling. Beside his head, arms reached out of a blackened canvas. One tried to wrap around his neck, while the others pinned him to the stone. He fought violently against them, stabbing Ev’r’s blade deep into their rot-soft flesh. He ripped free and stumbled into the center of the corridor, his eyes darting from the floor to the ceiling, then behind him into blackness. He held his breath and listened. Faint sounds of a struggle, running footsteps and muted yells, reached his ears. Ismail …
With fear pounding in his chest, Eli started to edge toward the sounds. The stone floor creaked, groaned under his boots and something scuttled overhead. He reached a sharp bend and paused. The architecture made it impossible to see what was lurking ahead before turning. He clenched the hilt of Ev’r’s blade and ducked swiftly around the corner. A figure stepped into his path, a two-headed creature with a bleached-white body covered in pus-filled sores. It moaned and lunged for him, razor claws pushing out from slimy fingertips. Eli tried to dodge it, but tripped over and slammed into the ground. It loomed over him, preparing to strike. He scrambled up and leaped around it, fleeing fast, his wings beating and legs moving, possibly faster than they’d ever moved before. He left the staggering miscreation behind him, and took another corner into a wider hallway. Strange and terrifying torture devices hung like art on the walls. He tried not to look at them, running past a metal vault door with screaming and groaning echoing from behind it.
The corridor led into another with rows of crypts fixed to both walls, guarded by statue gargoyles. They watched him pass, their dead stone eyes swiveling to keep him in sight. At the next turn he came to a quick stop, hearing the fighting sounds just ahead. He crawled through the shadows and peered around the corner. A clan of mutant creatures, fused forms of machine and flesh, some slithering, some lumbering, others tapping on many insect legs, had Ismail surrounded and pinned to the floor. The scullion struggled against them, using all his skills with little effect. Ismail snarled and sunk his teeth into one of the mutants’ necks, half ripping its head off. The others sought revenge, pounding and kicking him in a frenzy. Eli held the Morsus Ictus in one shaking hand and edged forward, preparing to rush them, but before he could, they stopped. The mutants dragged Ismail to a row of dusty tombs built into the side of the corridor. They hoisted up his struggling form and dumped him into one. From below, dead hands wrapped around the scullion, holding him down, while the mutants slammed the lid and locked it from a place beneath the tomb. Eli could hear Ismail kicking from inside the crypt. The creatures moved away arguing over Ismail’s belongings with grating, raucous voices. They’d taken Ev’r’s backpack and journal – everything she had owned, except for the Morsus Ictus.
As soon as the sounds of the mutants died down, Eli rushed for the tomb, leaping over the fallen mutant’s body. Ismail’s knocking had become slower and fainter and finally stopped as Eli reached the crypt. He struggled for a moment to open the lid, but it was firmly sealed. He dropped to his knees and looked beneath it for the unlocking latch. His fingers crept through webs and grime until finally they found what seemed to be a keyhole. He grabbed the lock-pick from his weapon belt and shoved it into the hole, twisting. The mechanism was stubborn with rust and refused to budge. Eli worked at it, holding his breath, his throat dry and torrents of sweat streaming down his face, stinging his eyes. His arm began to cramp.
“Come on!” he exploded after twisting at it for what felt like hours. He shoved the pick further in and felt it click. The lid of the tomb lifted. Eli scrambled to his feet and looked inside.
It was empty.
He leaned further in and rotting claws grabbed him by the neck and yanked him down. He dropped without relief, wings smashing against rock, until a hand shot out from one side and seized him.
Chapter 34
Croy
Kullra Fornax
Nÿr-Corum (The Filter)
Croy brought her dragger down on the floating jetty. Halfway to the Tower, she’d had a sudden memory of the Quartermaine interrogation. She’d heard Kellor talking about why she’d taken Victoria Kilner’s body to the filter … I wanted to take her home … Not to Saint Arabel Borough, where Victoria had lived in the Purple Wing neighborhood, but home to the Filter �
� where she was remade. The laboratory, or traces of it, had to be here – somewhere.
Croy had spoken to the guards at the top of the Filter, posted there since Victoria was found, and told them she was continuing her investigation. They’d waved her through and now she found herself alone on the jetty. The ten or so on-shift Filter workers had glimpsed her black cloak and retreated to their shed on the other side of the facility.
Croy moved along the jetty, stepping lightly on her scarred leg out of habit even though she felt no more pain. She stopped at the end of the structure where Kellor had chained Victoria’s body between two anchor poles. For a moment, she saw Victoria still there, with the symbols carved in her flesh. Suddenly her dead eyes flickered open and she reached a shaking hand toward Croy. Then the image vanished, leaving Croy’s heart racing.
She fought to hold her composure, scanning the rippling waters all around her. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for – a clue? a key? She felt strongly the truth of Shah-Jahan’s words, and a part of her mind had already broken down and crumbled from the pain of the implications, but somehow she was able to shut off that part and focus coldly on the search. She had to find something, otherwise Nÿr-Corum and everyone in it would be destroyed. Already the influence of the Arequium Mors was infecting the city. Her thoughts turned to the dead smugglers on the Strip and to the fight she’d witnessed at the Old Docks. She realized now they were both fueled by the Mors, and it was only a matter of time before the whole city erupted into violence.
Croy checked behind her, searching for darting shadows, but the darkness was still and the only noises in the Filter were the slow grinding whirr of machinery and the lapping of the waters. Croy recalled the positioning of Victoria’s body, arms outstretched, chained midway down the anchor poles. Why like that, why there? It had to be significant. Croy turned and stepped back, gripping the steel rings on the poles where the chains had been fastened, and leaned out over the water. After a moment of consideration, she leaned back in. She placed her Firestorm and I-Sect down on the edge of the jetty and gripped the rings again. One leg at a time she lowered herself into the water and maneuvered herself down until she was in the exact position Kellor had placed Victoria, with her face parallel with the pier. She heard something beep and a light flashed in the waters beneath her. No fire she knew of could exist under water. Something else was down there. Croy had only been fully submerged in water three times in her life, all in shallow tubs, and the thought of dropping below the surface now was terrifying, but less so than what would happen to the city if they couldn’t stop the Mors.
Croy took in a deep breath and released her grasp, sinking down into the cold water. It closed over her head and face, and she fought against the panic to get back to the air, just letting herself fall down, down, toward the blurred flashing lights – until her feet hit something solid. She felt it shift and start sliding, drawing her inward toward a large dark form. It took her into an enclosed chamber and she heard the shudder of doors closing. In a roaring rush, the waters around her began to drain out. She pushed off the bottom and broke the surface, taking in a gasp of air. The water level lowered all the way until her boots clunked down on metal.
Croy looked around a chamber that appeared to be a vault. It was lit not by fire, but by strange, glowing circular glass-like structures. If the Filter had been full to the top with water, as it had been not so long ago, there would be no way a person could swim down to this place in one breath, and Croy could only assume that whoever had built it had a means of breathing underwater – though the idea seemed impossible.
Ahead of her, Croy saw a transparent door. She stepped to it, looking into a room beyond. A light blazed right in front of her face, running down the length of her body. The doors parted from the center and Croy drew her knife and entered.
The room was large and empty, the walls and floor coated in a white, shiny substance Croy had never seen before. She walked further in, dripping water with each step. She stood in the middle of the space, looking around, until she spotted a small flashing light on the ceiling and stared at it. She saw the light reflect off the shrapnel pedant hanging around her neck – and then it flared into a life-size image of John L. Croy was so shocked that she fell over backward and scrambled away. She gasped as the image moved and she could see, behind John L, the same laboratory where she was now – except it wasn’t empty, it was full of machines and work desks. John L lifted his head and looked straight at her and Croy swallowed back the emotion rushing up inside her. So many annums had passed since she’d seen anything more than a charcoal sketch of him – and now he stood before her as vividly as if he were alive.
“Saint Croy,” John L said and tears sprung to her eyes. He was the one who had made up that nickname after she’d refused as a child to answer to her real name, Barastyna. She used to try to give her belongings away to other kids who she thought needed them more, and he’d call her the Saint, not without some bemusement.
John L’s gray eyes shifted as he gathered his thoughts. Windscars carved deep ridges in his battle-hardened face. “You’re here – it means you know. And I want to say before anything else – that I deserve your hate. We used you. We used all of you, with no regard for your lives, or your suffering. You weren’t people to us, you were just data.” His voice caught on the last word. She’d never seen him cry, but he looked close to it. “I’m not the person you think I am – there are things and people I could blame for what I’ve become, for what I’ve done, but I won’t. All I need to say, all I want you to understand is this – you changed me, having you in my life made me feel when before I was just frozen. I didn’t want to care for you, adopting you was just supposed to be a cover, but it just happened. I couldn’t stop it.” He touched his chest. “You became my child, my daughter – and I loved … I loved … Perhaps you’ll remember me with nothing but hate …” He lowered his eyes, looking suddenly aged and tired. “But I’m shutting down this program, and corrupting all the files. They’ll kill me for it, but I’m not afraid to die. I only wish my death could take away what I did to you … but nothing can. If anyone can survive this, you will. Never forget – you’re a storm. You’re —” John L cut his words short as the doors behind him opened and other people started to file in. Croy recognized Ezra Quartermaine and Van Pritchard, and another man she assumed was Rogan Kisslefish from his oversized mouth. They all had some kind of transparent mask over their noses and mouths, with tubes leading to tanks on their backs.
John watched them out of the corner of his eye and spoke very quietly.
“Everything you need is here – just remember what you used to call the third ship I flew on.” He looked back to her. He opened his mouth, trying to say something, but couldn’t form the words. He reached out and his image faltered and vanished.
“John!” Croy cried out and the word echoed around the empty chamber. She grabbed at a sharp ache in her chest, feeling crushed and suffocated. She gasped, forcing herself to get control, to focus on his words – everything you need is here – just remember what you used to call the third ship I flew on. The third Fleetship he’d served on was the Talouse – but when she was a child, first leaning to speak, she’d called it …
“The Tooth,” she said aloud.
From beside her feet a bench rose up from the ground with a small box resting on it. The box had light shining from inside it, beaming up in the shape of a book. Croy hesitated, then touched a finger to the light. The image opened like a real parchment book. She started reading the words, many of them not making any sense to her until she found a section on the project brief: to create human–Dray hybrids that could be controlled by Pritchard and the rest of them to block the Arequium Mors. She flicked again through images of experiments, of people they’d used and destroyed. The pictures were gruesome, but she already felt so numb and disconnected that she barely registered the horror until she found a long list of names. All the names were darkened except for a handful that were highli
ghted in green light. She read over the lit names – Barastyna Croy, Kellor and Castor Quartermaine, Victoria Kilner, Darius DeCavisi.
Seeing Darius there sent a wave of shock through her. She touched a finger to her partner’s name and the pages flicked again to information about Darius. She skimmed it, feeling lightheaded and nauseous, really taking in only one part of the writing – the bit that spoke about them impregnating his mother with Dray DNA. After he was born, his father became suspicious, so they eliminated both his parents and made it look like a Dray attack in the mines. Their execution was carried out by John L. Tears trickled down her face and part of her wanted to reject it, deny it, ignore it, but she’d come too far to return to ignorance. Instead she flicked back to the list of names and pressed on her own.
She was, as Shah-Jahan had said, the first test subject. Her mother had caught John L stealing her from her bedroom and he had killed her and Croy’s father. Their images flashed up and she leaned low over the pictures, crying into them, her tears falling through the light. She’d never seen her parents before, but recognized herself in their features. They were so young, their eyes bright with hope of what was to come.