He’d tried to find her, yet every time was confronted by the inevitable question: How? He had no idea when she’d left Enarium—five years, fifty, even five hundred, all were possible given the Bucelarii’s long lifespan—or where she’d gone. He’d had Graeme send out queries to his Hidden Circle contacts around Einan, yet they’d had little more than her name to go on.
The time would come, and soon, that he’d dedicate his efforts to finding her. But not yet. The impossible would have to wait; he needed to focus on dealing with the problem he could solve.
The Hunter dropped onto a lower rooftop, sprinted across the clay tiles, and leapt high into the air. His fingers dug into the rough surface of a stone wall, cracking the masonry, and he hauled himself quickly up onto the roof. A plank bridge gave him easy access to the next building, which was connected to another structure by a tightrope.
He couldn’t help feeling impressed by the Night Guild’s construction. It’s like a damned highway up here, he thought. If the network extended throughout the city, it would cut travel time significantly.
His eyes fell on the bright-colored stalls of Old Town Market in the distance. He’d reach it in less than a minute—the crossing had taken a third of the time his carriage had required to get from the marketplace to The Gardens.
He paused on a rooftop overlooking Old Town Market, crouched in the shadow of a chimney, and scanned the crowd below. Thieves were easy to spot if you knew what to look for. They tended to stay in one spot until they found their mark, then moved toward the target at a slow, purposeful pace. At the last moment, they’d stumble against the mark—a perfect cover to slice purse strings or snatch a wallet—and slither away through the crowd. Never hurrying or running, for that drew attention, but at a casual pace until they were clear. Inevitably, one of their comrades would be waiting nearby for a hand-off.
Minutes ticked by as the Hunter studied the crowd. His eyes roamed the edges, but he found no men, women, or children that fit the profile of a pickpocket or thief.
Decades as an assassin had taught him patience, but right now, he chafed with impatience to return to hunting the Abiarazi he’d come to Praamis to find.
A question popped into his mind. What if the demon’s ruling the Night Guild? It wasn’t a great stretch—two demons had commanded the Bloody Hand in Voramis, and it fit the demons’ vicious, brutal nature to take control of criminals. All the more reason to get my hands on someone in the Night Guild and put them to the question.
Thoughts of the Abiarazi made him reach instinctively for the twin iron daggers, only to remember he no longer carried them. The blades had accompanied him on his journey from Voramis, across Einan, and finally to Enarium. He couldn’t help feeling their absence when he knew he faced the threat of a demon.
Iron was poisonous to demonic blood, both Abiarazi and their Bucelarii offspring. It could kill them slowly, rot their bodies from the inside out. He’d nearly died from something as simple as an iron pin stabbed into his back, though demons took a lot more iron to kill. He’d needed both daggers to put an end to the resilient Abiarazi—one to slow their natural healing abilities, the other to still their hearts or sever their heads.
Once, he’d believed they belonged to the god called the Swordsman, forged from the fragments of the sword used to destroy the evil god Kharna. The truth, he’d learned in Enarium, was far different. They might have been shaped into daggers, but they were in fact keys created by the ancient Serenii to activate the magical mechanisms of the Lost City. He’d left them in Voramis, in the care of Father Reverentus. He could always reclaim them once he’d located and captured the Abiarazi.
The Hunter smiled at the memory of the old priest’s apoplectic expression as he’d listened to the story of Enarium, the Serenii, and the Devourer of Worlds. He’d feared Father Reverentus would keel over, yet the Beggar Priest had surprised him by taking the information in stride.
It had taken the priest time, but he’d come to accept the truth of the religion and gods he’d dedicated his life to. He had been the one to champion the Hunter’s cause—hunting down demons to drag back to Enarium in order to feed Kharna in his struggle against the Devourer of Worlds. The other Cambionari hadn’t yet acclimated to the new order of things, but at least the Hunter no longer had to worry about being hunted by the secret order of Beggar Priests.
That’s a step in the right direction, I suppose.
He still carried the burden of his vow to Kharna. He’d sworn to find a way to collect enough life energy to seal the rift against the Devourer. He had four hundred and ninety-seven years until the next Withering, when the power of Enarium could be harnessed. The last three years had felt like wading through mud as he tried to figure out how to keep his word.
At least I’m not in the fight alone. The thought lifted his spirit every time.
Hailen had proven instrumental in the battle against both the Abiarazi and the Devourer of Worlds. He was Melechha, pure-blood descendant of the Serenii, and his blood could activate the Serenii mechanisms that would save the world.
Evren had signed on without hesitation. Young, headstrong, and eager to leave the city that held so many unpleasant memories, he’d welcomed the chance for adventure—even if the adventure meant hunting demons no one knew existed.
For the last three years, the Hunter had trained both Hailen and Evren in the ways of battle and combat. Beside him throughout it all had been Kiara.
Kiara, once known as Celicia, the Fourth of the Bloody Hand before the Hunter destroyed the criminal enterprise, had risked her life to protect Hailen. She had gladly joined the Hunter’s mission—“Never did care much for the gods, anyway,” she’d told the Hunter when he explained the truth of the Serenii.
He’d spent a lot of time trying to sort out his feelings for Kiara, but ultimately decided that the situation was too complex to worry about. His wife, Taiana, lay trapped in Enarium, waiting to be freed at the next Withering. That day was still hundreds of years in the future, but Kiara added a brightness to the Hunter’s here and now. He could never stop loving Taiana, yet he’d found room in his heart for Kiara, just as he had with Hailen and, strange as it felt to admit it, Evren.
There was so much to be done, and just the four of them to do it—for now, at least, until he could find more allies. The Cambionari were his best option. They had trained to hunt Bucelarii, which meant they could face a demon without being ripped to pieces. But to convince them, he had to show them just what they were up against.
That meant finding the demon in Praamis and hauling it back to Voramis in chains. And where children are being murdered, there’s likely to be a demon.
He tensed as his sensitive ears caught a hint of sound behind him, on the next rooftop over. His nostrils picked up the smell of steel, leather armor, and an edge of coriander seed. The scent of a fighter.
Only one kind of fighter would be up here on Night Guild turf.
He stood and turned to face the approaching figure. It was a man, broad of shoulder, with two scars running down his right cheek. He wore simple robes, yet the Hunter’s keen eyes caught the green trim along the hems. The fading afternoon sunlight glinted off the blade of the sword in his hand.
The man stopped. “This is Night Guild turf.” The man’s gravelly voice rang with menace, and he pointed his sword at the Hunter’s chest. “Leave or die.”
The Hunter’s face broke into a broad smile. Perfect.
Chapter Nine
Sunset colors bathed the sky as Ilanna approached the run-down building that concealed the secret entrance into the Night Guild. She cast one last longing glance over her shoulder, drinking in the hues of purple, gold, and brilliant pink splashed across the sky, then stepped into the darkened building.
She didn’t need light to traverse the tunnels toward the Night Guild—she’d prowled these hard-packed earth corridors thousands of times over the last twenty-odd years. The darkness hid the scowl that twisted her face as she pondered what she’d l
earned today.
What I haven’t learned, more like. A derisive snort escaped her lips. Rilmine had better have something useful for me, else the entire day has been wasted effort.
She’d come no closer to finding the killer. Her only discovery had been that no one seemed to know where Chantelle had been the night of her murder. That information served her about as much as a one-fingered flautist.
A sense of urgency thrummed within her chest as she hurried toward the lighted section of tunnels occupied by the Night Guild. Instead of directing her steps to her own chambers, she headed straight for House Scorpion. She didn’t even bother to knock on the House’s double doors, simply opened the strange lock—twin steel scorpion claws that had to be opened by pushing one down and one up—and strode in.
The Nest, House Scorpion’s main room, held the tools of the Scorpion’s trade: dozens of long tables cluttered with an assortment of glass vials, bottles, vases, and other containers; metallic tools of all shapes and sizes, and hundreds of jars, crates, and boxes filled with powders and liquids of every conceivable hue. A smith’s furnace blazed at the far end of the Nest. As always, Ilanna allowed her eyes to roam over the colorful stains on the earthen floors and walls, entertaining herself by picturing how those particular experiments had gone wrong.
She gave a polite nod to the Scorpion Journeymen and apprentices working in the Nest, but didn’t slow to greet them. Her confident stride led her through the high-vaulted chamber, down a short tunnel, and into the chamber reserved for Journeyman Rilmine’s strange research. As ever, the potent smell of chemicals struck like a physical blow. When she laid eyes on the small body on the table, her stomach nearly emptied then and there.
Journeyman Rilmine’s wicked tools had laid open Arashi’s corpse, a Y-shaped incision running from the boy’s shoulders across his chest and down to his waist. Thick flaps of skin held the body’s chest cavity open, exposing sawed-through ribs and bloody guts beneath.
With a supreme effort of will, Ilanna shoved down her distaste. “Tell me you have something useful,” she snapped.
Journeyman Rilmine straightened from his examination of the dead Fox apprentice. “I believe I do, Guild Massster.” Half of his face rose into a grin. “In fact, it’sss possible I have a few sssomethingsss ussseful.”
Ilanna ground her teeth at the irritating sibilance of his words. “Show me.”
“Look here.” The hairless, pale Rilmine pointed to the Fox’s forehead. “Onccce I removed the plassster, I found thessse.”
Ilanna narrowed her eyes. The boy’s skin was marred with small, round burn marks, seven of them set close together. “Someone burned him?”
“Yesss.” Rilmine nodded. “Before applying the plassster, but after his death.”
Ilanna recoiled. “What?”
“Burnsss inflicted before death are redder, blissstered. The burn marksss here are hard, dry, yellow, with no rednesss. Made after the heart ssstopped pumping.” His long, pale fingers swept down the boy’s body toward the strange symbol carved into his chest. “Thessse alssso, made after death.”
Ilanna contemplated the wounds. “So if the burn marks were made after he was dead, that means the plaster was also applied after death as well, right?”
Journeyman Rilmine’s bald head bobbed. “Correct. It wasss poissson that killed him. Sssomething in the family of belladonna. I believe the oil of the Night Petal, to be precccissse. Very rare, very potent.”
Ilanna nodded. “How rare?”
“Nearly imposssible to find here in Praamisss.” The Journeyman frowned. “I’ve no idea where it comesss from, but perhapsss Massster Ssscorpion would.”
“Either way, if it killed Arashi, it means someone here in Praamis has it.” Ilanna’s lips split into a fierce, humorless smile. “And where there’s something rare to be found, there’s someone willing to buy it.”
“Then perhapsss thisss will be of interessst asss well.”
Rilmine waved her over to the other body, the one that had been found in Old Town Market that morning. The boy had been stripped naked, his chest opened just like Arashi’s. The sight brought another wave of acid surging into Ilanna’s throat. She’d seen death before—done her fair share of killing, even—but this was different. It reminded her of deconstructing the locking mechanism of Lord Auslan’s vault, but this mechanism was made of flesh and blood, once a living thing rather than a clockwork device of steel and brass.
“The lipsss tell a curiousss tale.” Journeyman Rilmine blinked up at her, a hideous smile twisting the side of his face. “Poisssoned, but not the sssame. Thisss is the effect of Flaming Tansssy. Sssimilar in nature to arsssenic—fatty build-up in the liver, hemorrhage in the heart, leading to death by blood losss.” He jerked a thumb toward the organs hanging in the mechanical balance beside the table. “But thisss poissson is rarer even than Night Petal. The flower only growsss in the land of Fehl, acrosss the water.”
Ilanna’s brow furrowed. “The same killer, but a different poison?”
Rilmine shrugged. “Or, a sssecond killer.”
“Wait.” Ilanna’s mind raced as she tried to follow the Journeyman’s train of thought. “You think two different people are killing children with two different poisons? And it just so happens that both bodies show up on the same day?” She chewed on those words. “They were both found near Old Town Market—one in an alleyway, the other in the sewers—but they weren’t exactly laid side by side.”
“And, there isss thisss.” Journeyman Rilmine pointed to the boy’s forehead.
Ilanna tried to see what the Scorpion was talking about, but she saw nothing. The boy’s skin was smooth, unblemished. Realization sent a jolt of lightning through her. “No burn marks!”
“And no plassster,” Journeyman Rilmine said with a nod. “Two different methodsss of killing.”
“Which speaks of two different killers.” Ilanna’s gut clenched. “Keeper’s teeth!”
Her job had just gotten twice as hard.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” she asked Rilmine. “Beyond the fact that poison was used. Anything to point at who killed them?”
Rilmine shook his head, his expression growing mournful. “Alasss, the bodiesss have yielded no more information than I have relayed to you. However, I will continue my examination to sssee what sssecretsss may yet be unlocked.”
“Good.” Ilanna nodded. “If you find out anything else, send a message to Darreth, and he will see that it reaches me at all speed.”
“Of courssse, Guild Massster.” Journeyman Rilmine gave Ilanna a jerky, awkward half-bow.
Ilanna strode from the room, glad to be free of the foul odors and nauseating sights of Rilmine’s chamber of death. She stopped the first Scorpion she passed, a sandy-haired apprentice whose name she couldn’t remember.
“Is Master Scorpion in his chambers?” she demanded.
“Y-Yes, Master Gold.”
“Good.” Ilanna strode past the youth and headed straight for the House Master’s quarters. She knocked at the huge door, and Tyman’s voice echoed “Enter” a moment later.
The silvery white-haired Master Scorpion squinted in her direction, then brightened as he recognized her. “Master Gold, what brings you to my House?”
“Poison.” The word came out harsh, angry. She quickly recounted what Journeyman Rilmine had told her about the two victims.
“Night Petal and Flaming Tansy.” Tyman’s age-lined face creased into a frown. “Potent, and very rare, indeed.”
“Do you know where the killer—or killers, perhaps—could have gotten them?” Ilanna demanded.
“Not from us, on that you can be certain.” Age hadn’t dulled Master Scorpion’s edge or weakened his strong temperament.
“You’re sure?” Ilanna raised an eyebrow. “There’s no way any of your inventory went missing?”
“People may consider poisons the weapon of women and cowards,” Journeyman Tyman snapped, “but here in House Scorpion, they are wo
rks of art. Poisons that can kill without leaving a trace, that can kill with a single drop, or that only kill when in concert with a specific food or drink—those are masterpieces my Journeymen have labored their entire lives to create. Any idiot alchemist can concoct cyanide or crush pokeberries into a glass of wine, but only an artist can craft the sort of poisons that line the shelves of House Scorpion.”
Ilanna smiled. “And what artist would be so easily parted with his work?”
“Precisely.” Master Tyman nodded. “House Scorpion takes its role in the Night Guild with utmost seriousness. I would swear on my life that our stores of these poisons are complete, as our records will soon prove.”
He picked up a small ballpeen hammer from his desk and tapped it to a metal plate anchored to the wall. The strike created a high ringing like a clarion, but rather than echoing in the room, the sound seemed to travel through the walls. A moment later, Ilanna heard the clarion sound ring out in the Nest. She studied the strange metal contraption, but was interrupted ten seconds later when an apprentice entered the room.
“You called, Master Scorpion?” It was the same sandy-haired apprentice Ilanna had stopped.
“Ikar, fetch the records from Shelf 2B,” Tyman instructed.
“Of course.” With a bow, the youth disappeared. He returned a minute later, a heavy leather-bound volume in his hands.
“Anything else, Master Scorpion?” he asked as he set the book down on Tyman’s desk.
“Yes. Summon every Journeyman to my chambers at once.”
“Of course, Master Scorpion.” Another bow, and the boy closed the door behind him.
Tyman opened the book and flipped through the pages, muttering to himself as he scanned the contents. Ilanna caught a glimpse of neat, precise handwriting, perfectly delineated tables, and numbers she had no hope of understanding. It bore a strong resemblance to the system Darreth used to organize the minutia of keeping the Guild running.
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