Smoke and Summons (Numina Book 1)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  Rone dashed after her. Before he caught up, she spun around, dirty rain whipping from her hair. Her hood fell back.

  “Please.” She was begging now. “I need it more than you. You don’t understand.” She backed up, searching the road again.

  “I severely doubt that.” He seized her wrist. Enough of this.

  “You can’t be seen with me!”

  He spun her around, pinning her back to his chest. She tried to stomp on his foot. He shifted, and she missed. He checked another pocket, then stuck his hand inside her coat. Felt a familiar lump. Finally. He pulled the golden trinket free.

  A gun hammer clicked alarmingly close to his head.

  Rone and Sandis both froze. His grip on her loosened. She took a single step forward, then stopped as a second gunman emerged from behind a squat building, holding a fancy-looking pistol in his hands. Rone recognized him from the tavern.

  The muzzle of the first gun pressed into the back of his head.

  Yeah, he was pretty positive he needed the amarinth the most right now.

  “They followed you,” Sandis whispered, sending chills up Rone’s arms. “Please tell me you have a gun.”

  He didn’t; guns were too clunky and too loud for his line of work. He didn’t bother explaining.

  “You again,” the second gunman said, appraising Rone before his gaze darted back to Sandis. Why were they after her? What was so special about her?

  “What’s your name?” the first gunman asked.

  “I’ll give you a hint,” he said, trying to measure where the man behind him stood. “It rhymes with Muck Kerself.”

  They didn’t laugh. Sandis looked at him with eyes as wide as a hungry puppy’s. She visibly trembled. She was terrified.

  The second gunman trained his pistol on her.

  She whispered, “Kazen won’t let you put a hole in me.”

  What in the Celestial’s name was going on?

  Rone spun the amarinth—relief rushing through him when it responded—and chucked it toward the gutter.

  He ducked and threw his elbow behind him, hitting the first gunman in the rib. The guy shot, and his bullet grazed Rone’s bad shoulder, barely missing the girl. The second gunman lifted his pistol from Sandis to Rone. Rone launched forward and grabbed the muzzle, shoving it against his neck just as the man fired.

  The bullet didn’t hurt, only felt like pressure. Like his throat was going the wrong direction and he’d swallowed a huge chunk of meat.

  It passed through his neck and went right into the face of the man standing behind him.

  Sandis screamed.

  Rone pushed the pistol away and slammed his fist into the second gunman.

  Sandis spun in the pelting rain. “They’re coming,” she croaked.

  Rone shoved a knee into his assailant’s groin and let him fall to the ground. “Who?”

  She hesitated a moment. Perhaps she didn’t want to tell him. She met his gaze; rain dripped from her eyelashes. “The grafters.”

  Rone’s skin became almost too heavy to hold up. “What?”

  Grafters? These men were grafters?

  He swore.

  Sandis moved for the still-spinning amarinth and swiped it. Rone grabbed her wrist. Cursed again.

  This was a very, very bad day.

  He dragged her across the street, but Sandis took his wrist in her free hand and pulled him back the way they had come. “This way!”

  He didn’t have time to question her. He ran, towing Sandis behind him, though she kept up moderately well. He should have ripped the amarinth from her fingers and ditched her, but the terror in her eyes—

  And bloody grafters. He wouldn’t leave anyone to those nightmare-worshipping scumsacks if he could help it, even a thief.

  His eyes searched for a sewer lid. He didn’t see one, but the alleyways between the flats up ahead were narrow and winding. Changing direction as suddenly as Sandis had before, he wound through the maze. His own place wasn’t far from here.

  He crossed a road, turned toward a factory—

  Sandis pulled back on his hand, forcing him to stop.

  She bent over, wheezing. “They’re . . . gone.”

  “How the hell do you know?”

  She looked up at him, disheveled and gaunt. But the fear had receded from her eyes. Now she just looked angry.

  She didn’t answer him.

  God’s tower, she looked like a wet, beaten dog. He glanced at her other hand. No amarinth. Was it stowed in her coat, or had she chucked it somewhere?

  He tensed.

  “I . . . have . . . it,” she huffed.

  Rone set his jaw. Growled.

  “Come on.” He tugged her down the road, not as quickly as before, but she stumbled at the pace anyway.

  Looked like Rone was taking her home after all. Just not in the way he’d originally hoped.

  Chapter 7

  She’d sensed a numen. Which one, she wasn’t sure. Maybe Kuracean, the level-six numen bound to Rist, Heath’s brother. Or perhaps it had been Alys or Kaili with Isepia. That numen was more humanoid in appearance. Kazen would want to use one of the less obvious ones. That he’d come for her himself, and in daylight, told her how angry he must be. And while part of Sandis yearned to see one of the other vessels again, she knew what getting too close would mean. Pain for them and pain for her. Sandis didn’t think she could bear it.

  Did Rist know how his brother had died? Did he mourn? Had he been allowed to?

  Sandis pushed that thought away. Regardless, she had sensed a numen nearby, and Ireth had pressed fire into her mind. What strange comfort that small act had given her. If only the fire horse weren’t trapped on the ethereal plane, far from Sandis’s reach.

  She couldn’t tell Rone.

  He knelt across from her in a moderately sized flat, furnished simply but with sturdy chairs and tables. It even had a second room and a small hallway, which she assumed led to a toilet. His hallway and toilet. His flat. He’d taken her, a thief, out of harm’s way and to temporary safety.

  She’d painted a target on his back.

  Rone groaned. “Take off the coat. It’s soaking wet.”

  Sandis pulled the itchy, sodden garment closer around her instead. The brand on her back seemed to sizzle against it.

  Rone leaned back on his hands. He sat on the floor, his legs loosely crossed, giving her a decent-sized berth.

  He wiped a hand down his face. “I can’t believe I said ‘muck kerself’ to a grafter.”

  Several expletives followed the statement.

  Sandis bowed her head. “I’m sorry.” Her neck itched where it was coated in sludgy rain. She didn’t scratch it.

  Another realization surfaced. Kazen was looking for her himself . . . and he’d taken a fresh sample of blood from her the day she’d run. How long would it take for her blood to leave his system? She frantically began counting . . . three days. It had been three days. Kazen usually refreshed himself every week or two, depending on how often he had to use Ireth. But was that to prevent any lapse of control, or did his system clear her blood out that quickly? If he found her before that time was up . . .

  “What are you thinking?”

  Sandis’s head snapped up. She must have worn quite an expression, for surprise passed over Rone’s features and he held his hands up in mock surrender. “Just asking. Your breathing quickened all of a sudden.”

  Sandis breathed deeply to calm herself. “Nothing.”

  Rone frowned. “You’re a grafter, aren’t you?”

  The brand burned anew beneath her coat. Better that he should suspect her of being a grafter, associated with the occult, than of being a direct part of it.

  Rone tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Closed his eyes. His lungs inflated, deflated. Judging from his tight forehead and slack spine, he wasn’t angry, just . . . exasperated. Or simply exhausted. He muttered something about Godobia, the country immediately south of Kolingrad. A few more second
s passed before he asked, “And why are you in trouble?”

  There were all sorts of reasons a grafter could be in trouble with another grafter. Sandis could think of three valid ones off the top of her head: She owed someone money. She’d killed a useful colleague. She’d traded insider secrets.

  It felt wrong to lie to Rone, so she simply said nothing.

  A growl echoed in his throat. He stood and ran a hand back through his hair, only to pull it free with a scowl—his fingers were covered with lingering rain sludge. He tromped toward the door.

  “Stop.”

  Rone paused and looked at her.

  Sandis swallowed. “You can’t go out there. They want you, too, now.”

  He shook his head. “They don’t know who I am.”

  “They do. Or they will.” She looked back at the hardwood floor beneath her. It was old and stained. She picked at a crack between planks. “It’s not hard for them to find the information they need. If you’re connected to me . . . they’ll do whatever they can to bring you down, too. They move like shadows.”

  “Is that how you knew they were coming?” he asked, sarcasm weighing down his words. “You saw ‘shadows’?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I saved your life.”

  “It wouldn’t have needed saving if you hadn’t stolen my amarinth. Speaking of which.” He strode toward her with his hand outstretched.

  Sandis scooted backward until her shoulder hit a chair.

  Rone groaned. “I’d rather not force it from you, but I need it.”

  “It’s dead for twenty-three hours,” she countered.

  Rone grabbed another dirty fistful of his hair. “You are incredibly frustrating. It doesn’t matter. I want it. It’s mine.” Another growl. “I don’t have time for this—any of this. I have to find someone sooner, not later, and—”

  Sandis perked. “You’re looking for someone?”

  Rone’s forehead wrinkled. “Yeah, and now I’ll have to do it discreetly because your scumsack posse is probably infesting the whole damn neighborhood.” He moved toward the door and punched it, then shook out his hand.

  “I’m sorry,” she offered.

  He glanced at her.

  Sandis steeled herself. “I know I haven’t exactly earned your favor, but please, hear me out.”

  He waited.

  She stood. It felt appropriate to stand. Her wet clothes itched with grit and rain. “I need help.”

  “I don’t get involved with grafters.” Rone folded his arms.

  “I’m not a grafter.”

  Rone spoke over her. “I did once, and I swore it would be the last time. No offense, but they’re nasty sons of whores who will skin you alive if you so much as look at them wrong.”

  “I’m aware.” The words were flat and without feeling. Rone frowned.

  She took a deep breath. “I’m looking for someone, too. A family member. His name is Talbur Gwenwig.” She waited for recognition to pass Rone’s face, but it didn’t, and her hope dwindled. If only it could be that easy. “The grafters are after me because I ran away from them. I saw this man’s name in a bank record, and I thought he might be related to me.”

  “Sandis Gwenwig?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I . . . I don’t have any other family. I’ve never run before, because while the grafters are horrible—” A lump formed in her throat as dozens of memories churned through her mind. Most of them didn’t even involve her, outside of as a witness. She swallowed. “—horrible people, they fed and clothed me. I had . . . friends . . . there. I told myself it was better than living and dying on the street. But I thought, if I could just find Talbur Gwenwig . . . I’m sure he’s related to me. It’s not a common surname. If I could just find him, maybe he would take me in and help me. Hide me. Pay Kazen off.” But maybe I would bring the grafters down on him, too. Unless they couldn’t find him, either.

  Rone dropped his arms. “You’re a slave.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I didn’t choose to be.”

  Rone turned away. Grabbed the back of his neck with both hands. Turned back. “Ah hell.”

  “I’m sorry,” she tried again. “I’ll give it back. Here.” She plucked the amarinth from the back of her waistband and held it out to him. “I didn’t plan on taking it . . . I just thought it could help me. And it has. I should thank you for not finding me sooner.”

  Rone stared at the amarinth. “Helped you how?”

  “I jumped off the clock tower.”

  He looked impressed.

  She continued holding out her hand to him. “Please, take it. Just help me find Talbur Gwenwig.”

  Rone stepped forward and snatched the amarinth from her palm. His countenance instantly relaxed. But he shook his head. “I don’t get involved with grafters.”

  “I’m not a grafter.”

  “Close enough.”

  Her hope sputtered to an ember. She sat down in the chair behind her. Stared at the floor. Rubbed her eyes.

  She felt the impression of fire beneath her fingertips. You can do this. The words were hers, not Ireth’s, but it wasn’t difficult to imagine the numen encouraging her.

  Rone walked toward the other room.

  “Kazen is the leader of that group of grafters,” she said, her voice quieter. As far as she knew, his group was the largest in the city. “I left because he started these . . . experiments. He hurts people.” The name Kolosos echoed in her thoughts, and the warmth she’d felt from Ireth instantly chilled. Were the others still all right? Would Kazen unbind Dar and use him next? “I think he has bigger plans, ones that might be a danger to all of us, but I don’t know what they are. He killed one of my friends.”

  Heath had been so scared . . .

  “He’s gone,” Sandis continued, “but Talbur Gwenwig is out there somewhere, and he’s . . . permanent.”

  Rone paused. “What?”

  “Families are permanent.” She looked up. “Something my parents used to say.”

  The hardest curse Sandis knew exited Rone’s mouth. He ran a hand down his face. “Fine. Fine.” His brow was wrinkled with annoyance, and his voice was heavy with it. “God’s tower, could you be any more pathetic?”

  Sandis frowned.

  Now he wiped both hands down his face. “Yes. I’ll help you find this guy. But only if you get the grafters off my case and only after I get my crap done first. Understand?”

  She didn’t think she could do the first, but she nodded. Tears burned her eyes. “Thank you.”

  Rone shook his head. “There’s a washbasin back there and a hose in the wall. Cold water, but it’s better than nothing. Go clean up.” He vanished for a moment, then returned with a gray button-up shirt, which he chucked at her. “Just . . . go.”

  Sandis fingered the clean cotton and jumped to her feet, smiling despite herself. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  Rone turned away and gestured toward the hall.

  Sandis hurried to oblige, but paused halfway to her destination. “It doesn’t stop spinning once it starts, right?”

  Rone glanced at the amarinth. “So you’ve noticed.”

  “Why not pocket it when you fight, instead of leaving it under the table?”

  Rone rolled his eyes. “Do you want to fight with a magical lump of gold shaking and floating in your pocket? It gets in the way and draws unwanted attention.” He mumbled something.

  “What?”

  “It gets linty,” he said, exasperated. He pointed again toward the privy. “Black ashes, woman, just go.”

  She smiled and danced away.

  Cold water had never felt so warm.

  The light wasn’t bright, and yet it was blinding. Liquid flame. Reddish orange and swirling. Split by black cracks. It pressed all around her. Built up the pressure in her head.

  She closed her eyes, but the light permeated her eyelids. It surrounded her. Fire, the sweltering air whispered. Need.

  Ireth?

  A bone-shaking groan sounded low in the
earth—deep and rich. Sandis tried to turn to see it, but her world was full of fiery light and black cracks. She pressed the heels of her hands to her forehead. The pressure began to hurt.

  Fear. Ireth was afraid.

  The cracks shifted at once, pushed by an unfelt wind. They gathered together into a smoking wall, then split apart to form a pointed oval that shifted toward her.

  No. That was an eye.

  Sandis started awake, staring down at her knees. When had she sat up? Her hairline was cold with sweat. The room was dark, yet colored spots marred her vision, as if she’d just stared into the light of a lamp. She breathed hard, the impressions of fire and need slowly receding from her aching head. Her pulse fired in every direction.

  Footsteps. The urge to run struck her, then faded when she elbowed the thin cushion on the couch. She stared at it, memory trickling back to her.

  Couch. Rone’s flat. She was here. She was safe. For now.

  She mouthed Ireth’s name.

  The footsteps paused. “Sandis?”

  She blinked away the spots, straining to remember images from the dream. What? What was that?

  Perhaps it was Sandis’s own mind playing tricks on her, but she felt a single name form on her tongue, one she didn’t dare speak.

  Kolosos.

  Was Ireth trying to show her Kolosos?

  Was that burning, watching thing what had ripped Heath apart?

  She shivered.

  “Sandis.”

  Rone’s voice ripped her from her thoughts. He stood two paces from her, his hair mussed, his nightshirt untucked.

  “S-Sorry,” she whispered. “Nightmare.”

  Rone let out a long breath. “Isn’t it, though?”

  He didn’t explain, merely turned back for the second room. Sandis heard his body plop onto the narrow bed within.

  Rising, Sandis poked about the small kitchen area until she found a cup to fill with water. She drank slowly. The pressure had receded from her head, along with the pain, but the red, orange, and black images stayed fresh.

  Kolosos.

  No wonder Heath had been so afraid. Yet what frightened Sandis was not so much the glimpse of hell Ireth had shown her, but the knowledge that Kazen wanted such a monster under his control.