“I’ll have another,” he told him. “And I want you to refill whatever the men over there are drinking, too.” He slapped a few more coins down on the bar without counting them and slid off the stool.
The younger man saw him coming before Marcom had made it halfway across the room, but the others were apparently too deep in their discussion to notice. As Marcom reached them, the young human touched his companion’s arm, and the Karikis looked up, startled to see the stranger in their midst.
“Mind if I join you?” Marcom asked and, without waiting for a response, slid into the vacant chair beside the drunkard.
“We’re having a private discussion,” the Karikis growled, baring a most impressive mouthful of exceptionally sharp teeth.
“I could see that,” Marcom said mildly. His gaze flicked from the Karikis to the man beside him. “And I had an idea that you were bartering for some information. I’m wanting to buy some myself, so maybe we can make…a package deal, shall we say?”
In truth, that line of reasoning wouldn’t hold up under much scrutiny, and Marcom was far more interested in finding out what sort of intel the Karikis was trying to buy. It should work as a pretext, though—as long as he could keep them all talking.
“Yes, indeed!” the old man grinned, revealing a mouthful of brown and crooked teeth. “I like this idea, Master Garrett. By all means, let’s bring the man into the negotiations.”
The Karikis—Garrett, presumably—growled low in his throat, and his human mate frowned slightly. The pair exchanged a look, then the younger man shrugged.
“Fine,” Garrett said, turning his attention back to the drunkard. “But I’m out of patience. If you know something—”
He broke off as a woman, hardly out of her girlhood, stopped at their table. She placed Marcom’s whiskey down in front of him, and proceeded to refill the other men’s steins from the clay pitcher she was carrying.
“We didn’t—” the young man started to protest, but Marcom raised a hand to forestall him.
“Consider it a down payment,” he said easily.
The barmaid drifted away without even glancing at any of them, looking tired and overworked.
Garrett lifted his stein and took a long pull from it, and Marcom was afraid the vessel would shatter in the man’s hand with the way he was squeezing it. The Karikis slammed the stein back down onto the table, making a little of the ale slop over the rim.
“You said you’d seen a human woman and a Karikis child together,” Garrett said, and the anger and desperation rolling off of him startled Marcom. “Spit it out, old man. I don’t want to waste any more time playing games. My wife and son are—”
Again, the young man touched his friend’s arm, and Garrett went silent, perhaps realizing that he’d tipped his hand.
Marcom sighed. Nothing all that interesting after all. Just a man in search of a missing wife and child. Pitiable, but not helpful to him. And his gut—usually so accurate—was zero for two tonight.
“Very well, Master Garrett,” the old man said seriously. “For a holder, I’ll tell you what I know of your wife and son.” His grin grew wider, and Marcom found that he did not like—or trust—that grin.
Garrett all but slammed the gold holder on the table in front of the man. It left a faint impression in the rough wood and bounced, reflecting the light of the gas lamp on the wall above the table.
Greedily, the man snatched the coin.
“Thank you, Master Garrett. Now, let me see…”
Garrett and his companion were staring at the old drunkard, and Marcom stared with them. The old man closed his bloodshot eyes, and suddenly, Marcom was uneasy. Something was wrong here…very wrong.
A few seconds passed, then slowly the drunkard opened his eyes again. This time, a thick, milky film was spreading over one of them, pulsing and swirling like a living thing. The other eye caught Marcom and the others in its gaze…and held them.
“Oh, yes,” the man crooned. “That’s right. Your wife is lying in an empty house several miles southeast of here. There’s a dead man of your acquaintance on one side of her—a Mr. Haake—and a Karikis warrior on the other. He’s dead, too. It’s really a frightful mess. There’s a great deal of blood, you see, and one of Mr. Haake’s eyeballs has dribbled out onto the floor.” He tutted theatrically.
“What’s wrong with her? Why is she there?”
“Oh, I forgot to mention that, didn’t I? She’s dead, Master Garrett. Dead as the proverbial doornail. And your son is gone—taken, that is.” The man got to his feet. “Now, I’m afraid I must be on my way.” He started away, leaving the three of them to stare after him in stunned silence.
He took a few steps before seeming to remember something and turning back to Marcom. “Oh, and Captain…you’ll find the Broodsmen soon enough.” He winked the eye with that terrifying film over it, and the substance frothed and oozed for a moment longer before receding back into the socket.
There was silence for perhaps another five seconds, then Garrett was on his feet and roaring.
“Liar!”
The table, along with their drinks, was overturned as he barreled after the man, apparently unaware of the obstacles in his way.
Marcom was knocked from his chair and doused in his own whiskey, and by the time he had extricated himself from the overturned table and struggled back to his feet, Garrett was halfway across the tavern, the rumble of his fury so low that Marcom could feel it in his bones. He didn’t see any sign of the old man, though, and there was no way in hell he could have reached the doors and ducked outside already…
Marcom’s thoughts broke off as his gaze fell on the batwing doors. There was a figure standing there—a figure he knew all too well. It was dressed in strange armor, molded to the contours of its alien body, and a glass faceplate distorted the inhuman gray face beyond.
With strangely precise motions, the figure raised one hand as if in greeting to the room. Blue flames appeared in the palm of its silver glove, their light reflected in the glass of its helmet. The brand on Marcom’s forehead throbbed.
For a heartbeat, the whole tavern was still. The Sarqin behind the bar held a filthy rag in one hand and a glass in the other, frozen in place. Somewhere, Marcom heard a woman take a wheezy breath for a scream that never came. Even Garrett had gone silent, staring uneasily at the strange apparition.
With the flick of its wrist and a wide sweeping gesture, the figure seemed to toss the flames out into the air as if they were water. They fanned in an arc, caressing the wooden bar…the tables…the chairs…the walls…
And everything erupted into blue fire.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Marcom dove to the floor as the tremendous heat washed over him. Tables nearest the door exploded into flames, and the air was suddenly filled with the tinkling music of shattering glass. On every side, the world was a roaring hurricane of screams and blue fire, and somewhere—somewhere—an old man was cackling.
Not again, he swore. Not again on my watch.
He rolled over, staying low and trying to see through the forest of table legs and stampeding feet. The patrons were losing their heads, knocking over chairs and climbing onto the bar in a desperate bid to escape the growing blaze. He could hear their wheezing coughs as the smoke thickened. It was the Stay Inn all over again.
“Get down,” he roared, but no one was listening. Only Garrett and his young human companion had dropped as he had, managing to stay below the smoke that was filling the the room.
Getting to his hands and knees, Marcom crawled between the tables, dodging panicked men and women and trying to catch sight of the bastard that had done this. He had to stop the unearthly demon before it moved on to the next hapless crowd. This would not be a repeat of what had happened at Seven Skies; he simply refused to accept that.
Above him, the smoke thickened, and everywhere people were stumbling blindly through it, desperate to find a way out. Marcom doubted they’d have much luck. As far as he’d seen,
the only door had been the one at the front, now blocked by a wall of fire.
There was a series of popping sounds, and he glanced up in time to see the liquor catch fire inside a pair of half-empty glasses on the bar. They shattered, sending burning alcohol spreading across the expanse of filthy oak. Not good…
Behind him, there was an almighty crash, and an enormous gust of wind swept through the tavern, shredding some of the smoke into tatters.
“This way!”
That was Garrett’s voice, he thought. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw the big Karikis busting out more of the flimsy wooden boards that served as the tavern’s back wall. Good man.
Marcom turned back toward the front doors, keeping himself well below the smoke. He caught a glimpse of a foot clad in gleaming armor turning on its heel toward the door. There he was—that son of a bitch!
There wasn’t time to go out the back and cut around without risking losing his quarry, but the heat was almost unbearable now. He could feel the sweat running down his sides in rivers, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to get much closer. But he had to reach the bastard…
All at once, the flickering blue light was blotted out, and Marcom was knocked to the floor by what felt like a ton of bricks. Desperately, he scrambled to get back to his hands and knees; it felt like someone was on top of him.
Finally, he wriggled free, shaking sand out of his face. In a bid to try to smother the fire now that some of the patrons had cleared out the back way, the Sarqin bartender had thrown a bucket of sand over the blaze. It had knocked Marcom flat, but it had also created a path through the flames—however temporarily. Marcom doubted there was any saving the building—there was just too much fire.
As he sprang to his feet, he saw a swirl of cloak vanishing through the batwing doors, and he sprinted after it, coughing as he inhaled a throat full of ash. He burst out onto the street.
This less savory part of Coalhaven wasn’t empty anymore. On the contrary, it was full of panicked people trying to see what was happening. Somewhere in the distance, under all the shouting voices and frantic cries, he could still hear the sounds of music and laughter from the Samhain festivities. The streets were full of people who had no idea what was happening just a few blocks away.
“Are you looking for your friend, Captain?” a voice asked in his ear, sounding amused.
Marcom spun to find the old drunkard standing at his elbow, cupping something that glowed scarlet between his hands. It looked like a piece of burning coal carved into the shape of a grinning skull, but that was impossible. The old man held it up before him, letting its light pool around them both.
“What the devil are you talking about, man?” Marcom snarled.
The drunkard laughed, apparently totally unperturbed. “Look up, Captain.”
Marcom’s gaze flew upward, sweeping across the buildings around them—and then he saw it. The creature stood on one of the rooftops. Even as Marcom caught sight of him, the thing knelt down; there was a flash of blue light, and then the wooden shingles beneath its feet erupted into flames.
“No!” Marcom shouted, and he started forward. The creature leapt down into the midst of the crowd on the street as easily as stepping from a carriage, trailing arcs of blue fire from its palms. Screams cut through the babble as cloaks and tunics were suddenly burning, scorching their wearers’ flesh and filling the air with the acrid stench of burning hair and roasting meat. In panic, one man fruitlessly poured the entire contents of the stein he was still clutching over his head and went reeling away, shrieking for help.
Relentless as a machine, the demon hurtled down the street, its metallic boots clanging on the cobbles.
“What’s happening?” another voice roared beside him. Marcom slowed and looked back over his shoulder. Gods knew he could use some help.
Garrett and the human were behind him. At least those two had brains. Perhaps, between the three of them…
“We have to stop that thing!” Marcom shouted, gesturing. Neither of the others answered, but they followed, forcing the crowd to part before them all. That was easier than Marcom had anticipated; the demon had already cut a swath through the milling crowd, and when people saw someone as large as Garrett bearing down on them, their instinct was to get the hell out of the way.
“Now now, everyone,” the drunkard’s voice boomed behind them, far louder than should have been possible. “No need to make a fuss! This is just the start of tonight’s festivities!”
Not knowing or caring what the old man was blathering on about, Marcom pushed himself harder. On every side, blazing cloaks fluttered and burned faces screamed.
Not again…not again…
Ahead, the demon ducked down an alleyway. How could anything move so fast weighed down like that?
Marcom rounded the corner, running at full tilt, and was met by a wall of blue fire. Desperately, he tried to stop, but his boots slipped in the rotting garbage and dried leaves that carpeted the space between the buildings. He fell to his knees, skidding toward the fire.
Excruciating pain ran down his scalp as a hand caught a fistful of his hair and yanked him backward, away from the blaze. He fell onto his back and found himself staring up into Garrett’s face.
“Are you all right?” Garrett asked, his low voice filled with barely suppressed rage—and suddenly, Marcom was very much aware that this was a powerful man on the edge of madness. He’d been told only minutes before that his wife was dead, his child kidnapped, and then hell had broken loose around him.
“I’m fine,” Marcom said, pulling himself out of Garrett’s grip and getting back to his feet.
“We need to find another way around,” Garrett’s companion said, and Marcom glanced at the man—except he wasn’t a man at all, was he? Under the beginnings of a beard, he was still just a boy.
“Do you know a quick way around?” Marcom asked, raising his voice over the rising crackle of flames.
“I do,” Garrett said. “Come on, Michael.”
The pair retraced their steps, and Marcom followed. In the distance, he could hear fresh shouts of alarm—more screams.
“Faster,” he growled, mostly to himself, but Garrett and Michael picked up the pace.
They headed for a door leading into one of the buildings beside the alley. Garrett tried the handle, and the door swung open easily. Behind them, the drunkard’s words rose like a barker’s above the babble of voices, full of laughter and empty promises.
“ …a Samhain like you’ve never known, my friends…”
Garrett ducked through the doorway and led the way along a narrow, gloomy corridor. To their left, blue light flickered in from high, cracked windows along the wall that bordered the alley. Those walls, Marcom noted, were only partially made of stone—the rest was rough timber and plaster; they may as well be kindling. Was it growing warmer in here, or was that his imagination? Sweat was running down his sides as he raced to keep up with the big Karikis, the boy, Michael, at his side.
“This place is going to go up in smoke any second,” he panted.
“It’s not far,” Garrett growled, not even bothering to look back. At the end of the hall, he turned down a shorter passage that led to an enormous oak door. Marcom started to slow, but Garrett didn’t. He raised his arms in front of him and barreled into the door at full speed, ripping it from its hinges with a deafening crash.
Dazzling light struck Marcom full in the face like a punch and he stumbled over the threshold and onto the street just behind Michael. For a moment, the three men stood there, blinking in the sudden glare and trying to make sense of what they were seeing.
The entire street was on fire. Blue flames were everywhere, gradually turning to orange as the blaze spread between the closely packed buildings. With a booming crash, the windows of the building across from them blew out, raining shards of multicolored glass into the gutter.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a quiet voice said behind him.
Marcom spun to find the o
ld man behind him again, still holding his burning skull, though its light was lost in the brilliance around them. How the deuce had he arrived here so quickly?
“Who the hell—” he started to say.
“Move!” Michael shouted, and he tackled Marcom to the ground. The pair of them rolled as part of the roof of the building they’d just exited broke apart and showered smoldering shingles down on the street below. A heavy wooden beam clattered across the cobbles where Marcom had been standing, slid toward him, and finally stopped inches from his nose.
“Sorry…sorry,” Michael grunted, getting back to his feet and offering Marcom his hand.
“Thanks,” Marcom said. He scanned the street for the drunkard. “Where’s the old man?”
“Jack?” Michael glanced around. “I heard someone, but I didn’t see who it was.”
“If that’s the old drunk you were talkin’ to at the tavern, yeah. He was right here.”
More debris slid from the rooftop overhead, bringing flaming streamers in its wake and forcing them both to dodge out of the way again.
As Marcom turned to look for Garrett, he caught sight of the demon thing leaping high into the air from the shadows between two buildings farther along the street. Such a maneuver should have been impossible, yet the thing made it look easy. With a dull clunk, it landed neatly on the bare wooden boards of a balcony some twenty feet above the cobbles.
“There!”
He gave chase again, dodging out of the way of more blazing shingles as they cascaded from the rooftops. Broken shutters, bits of plaster, and rounded stones began to rain down around him now, too, streaking through the air like the firedancers the children set off to mark the end of Samhain.
Bonfire Night’s come early this year, he thought distractedly.
He didn’t look behind him for the others; all his focus was on the demon that had wrought havoc on Seven Skies and was now doing the same to Coalhaven.
The demon danced a sort of jig across the balcony, touching blue fire to the shutters and rough wooden rail. Without slowing, it sprang back down to street level and hurtled toward the end of the street, its cloak billowing behind it and its strange armor gleaming in the firelight.
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