Ilanna cocked her head. “Is that so?”
“Yes!” Lady Chasteyn nodded, and tears streamed down her face. “You must save me from him. Surely you, a woman, know what it’s like to fear a violent man who has power over you!”
Ilanna’s gut tightened. She’d known that fear, and it had driven her to be stronger, better, smarter than all the other apprentices and Journeymen in House Hawk. Yet Lady Chasteyn had made a mistake when she tried to draw a comparison between the two of them. Ilanna had fought with every ounce of her strength to save her son, while Lady Chasteyn had killed children the same age Kodyn had been when the fire in Old Town Market had nearly taken him from her. Some crimes could not be forgiven.
Lady Chasteyn must have read that in Ilanna’s eyes, for she went from the tearful, pleading woman to the haughty, cold lady of a noble house once more. She stood, her movements precise and delicate, brushing the dirt from her stained summer dress and fixing Ilanna with a sneer.
“You think to judge me?” Hatred flashed in her eyes. “You, some lowborn criminal?”
Ria snarled, but Ilanna made no move. Now we see the real Lady Chasteyn. The rest had been an act, and now that the noblewoman saw that she wouldn’t deceive her way out of this, she resorted to her true, vile nature.
“Of course you’d take umbrage at a few street brats turning up dead, because you’re one of them!” Lady Chasteyn’s words dripped vitriol and disdain. “You could never understand what it’s like to belong to a noble house.”
“The miserable burdens of wealth and privilege.” Ilanna met Lady Chasteyn’s disdain with her own.
The noblewoman’s eyes went suddenly flat, dead. “I couldn’t kill them fast enough,” she whispered. “They never stopped coming, never stopped wanting more!”
“More food, clothing, shelter?” Anger curled like a fiery serpent in Ilanna’s gut. “Those ingrates, wanting the basic necessities to stay alive!”
“They didn’t deserve to live!” Lady Chasteyn shot back. “Filthy, pitiful creatures, a blight on our city. Devouring my fortune with their endless needs. My father’s greatest pride, and his greatest weakness. One final torment even from beyond the grave. But I will not let him have the final word.”
The icy tone of the noblewoman’s voice sent revulsion shuddering through Ilanna. So much hatred! She knew what it felt like to be consumed by hate, to be driven by a desire for vengeance. But this goes far beyond anything rational.
Hatred was more than just an emotion for Lady Chasteyn—it was her sustenance, her life force, her impetus. Hate alone had kept her alive when she should have shattered long ago.
Had she ended with the murder of her husband, Ilanna wouldn’t have bothered. Hell, she might even have applauded—Praamis could use one fewer nobleman. But when she preyed on the vulnerable, innocent children she pretended to care for, she had crossed a line into a place from which there was no return.
“You killed Holtan?” Lady Chasteyn asked.
The question, the sudden shift in the noblewoman’s tone and line of thought, caught Ilanna by surprise.
“Yes,” Ria growled. “His quick death was a mercy he did not deserve.”
Sorrow—genuine, this time—clouded Lady Chasteyn’s eyes. “Poor Holtan. He always tried his best.” She shook her head. “It was never good enough. Never enough to shield me from wicked men.”
Ilanna turned to Jarl and Errik, who had crossed the zip wire to join them. “Take her. Don’t bother being gentle.”
Lady Chasteyn’s head snapped up, her expression once more growing icy. “You will not lay hands on me!”
The noblewoman’s eyes narrowed as Jarl and Sys stepped forward. She didn’t shrink back in fear, but stood straight, tall, her gaze darting around the room. Her expression went flat once more, that empty look in her eyes as she fixed Ilanna with a haughty smile. “My father was right about me.”
There was a flurry of lace and cloth as Lady Chasteyn darted toward the picture window at the far side of the room. She threw herself at the window before Ilanna could move. Glass shattered and the noblewoman’s body plummeted from view. A moment later, a sickening crunch echoed below, accompanied by the sinister tinkling of a rain of glass shards.
Jarl, Ria, and Errik stood still, too stunned to react. Ilanna had seen Lady Chasteyn’s intention the moment the noblewoman’s eyes had found the window. She hadn’t bothered to stop the woman. A violent end was all Lady Chasteyn deserved.
The sound of clashing steel echoed from the room beyond, snapping Ilanna back to the moment. Lady Chasteyn was dead, but she still had Lord Chasteyn—a Keeper-damned demon—to take care of.
Chapter Forty
With a growl, the Hunter raced after the fleeing demon. Coward!
He pursued the creature into the next room, a study with a heavy oak desk, plush armchair, a side table with two crystal goblets and a bottle of Nyslian brandy, and shelves laden with books. His gut clenched as he saw the open door that led out into the hall; he threw himself at the doorway to cut off the demon’s escape.
But Lord Chasteyn didn’t dart through the open door. Instead, he darted toward his desk and snatched up the weapons resting there. He drew the blades, a slim dueling rapier and a long dagger, and whipped around to meet the Hunter.
“I always knew this day would come,” Lord Chasteyn spat. “The Night Guild will not take me so easily!”
The Hunter snorted. “I have not come from the Night Guild.” He leveled his sword at the nobleman. “I’ve come for you, Abiarazi!”
The word caught Lord Chasteyn by surprise. His expression grew puzzled as he drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, and his eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “Bucelarii!”
The Hunter inclined his head. “The last living of my kind.” The only others still alive lay locked in dreamless slumber in Enarium.
“What are you doing here?” Lord Chasteyn dropped his voice to a harsh whisper. “And with the Night Guild?” His eyes narrowed. “Did the Sage send you?”
“In a way.” A smile played at the Hunter’s lips, but cold fury burned in his chest. “It’s thanks to him that I’ve come looking for you.”
The Sage had been the de-facto leader of the demons on Einan, building a vast network of Abiarazi and human agents in every city on the continent. The Hunter had eliminated the demon in Enarium three years ago, but he’d only just begun to dismantle the Sage’s organization.
“Well, what does he want?” The demon wearing Lord Chasteyn’s face lowered his sword. “I’ve heard nothing from him in almost three years, but he’ll be glad to know I’ve kept busy. I have fooled the city into believing that I’m the real Lord Chasteyn, and I have access to his fortune in the Coin Counter’s Temple.” He shook his head, disgust on his face. “Not as sizeable as I’d believed—too much coin spent on keeping that damned House of Mercy afloat—but it’s enough that I’ve been able to buy my way into favor with most of the Royal Council. That damned Duke Phonnis is too sanctimonious and self-righteous to be bought, but when the time comes, I can simply replace him.”
The Hunter’s gut clenched as the demon’s features swam, shifting and writhing, flesh and bone changed from Lord Chasteyn’s face to another unfamiliar one—strong, square-jawed, with dark eyes. That had been the Sage’s plan with the demon masquerading as Queen Asalah in Al Hani. The Abiarazi had intended to murder the al-Malek and replace him, killing off a concubine to explain away the queen’s “death” in a fire. Abiarazi sought to gain power and influence wherever they went, all to further the Sage’s master plan to dominate the world of humans.
How that had played in with his ultimate goal of restoring the god he believed to be Kharna the Destroyer, the Hunter hadn’t known. Perhaps the Sage had believed that humans would put up less resistance if their leaders ordered them not to. Either way, it didn’t matter now. The Sage was dead, and the rest of the demons on Einan would soon follow.
Starting with this one.
“If you’re with
the Night Guild,” the demon said, “that means we’ve got enough power combined to take over this city.” His brow furrowed. “Though, I had heard rumors that the Guild Master was a woman.”
The Hunter shrugged off the question. “When we spoke last, he never mentioned anything about the Gatherers.”
“Ahh, them.” The demon’s face shifted back to Lord Chasteyn’s, and a smug smile broadened the nobleman’s lips. “I took the liberties of getting…creative. I met the Gatherers in Shalandra, and I knew they could prove quite useful in my efforts to destabilize Praamis.”
The Hunter nodded. “Clever.” The Abiarazi he’d encountered loved to speak about their ingenuity and devious schemes—hubris had been their downfall every time.
“Indeed!” Lord Chasteyn’s midnight black eyes—the mark of an Abiarazi—sparkled. “When I heard that Necroset Kytos had been exiled from Shalandra, it seemed too good an opportunity to pass up. I extended the offer to him and his followers to bring their unique flavor of madness to Praamis. Duke Phonnis has quite the hate-on for the Night Guild, so it was a simple matter to blame the deaths on them.”
He fixed the Hunter with a triumphant gaze. “Tell me you’ve come with word from the Sage that now is the time to strike! The situation in Praamis has never been more tenuous, and a single word from me could plunge the city into chaos. With you by my side, we can fight our way through these Night Guild thugs with ease and be free to take control.”
The Hunter hid a cruel grin. “I’ve come with a message, but I’m not certain you’ll want to hear it.”
Lord Chasteyn cocked his head. “What does the Sage have to say?”
“The Sage is beyond speaking,” the Hunter growled. “He was consumed by the Devourer of Worlds, and the world is now free of his filth.” He lifted his sword. “And he’s sent me to ensure that you follow him to the grave.”
“You…killed the Sage?” Lord Chasteyn’s expression grew puzzled. “Impossible! His Elivasti—”
“Are now free of him and the Warmaster forever.” The Hunter gave him a cold smile. “And, once I hunt down the rest of you, they will no longer be bound by their oath.”
“B-But, y-you are Bucelarii,” Lord Chasteyn stammered. “You’re one of us! Our blood!”
“Yes.” The Hunter nodded. “And that is precisely why it falls to me to eradicate you.”
None of the other demons he’d encountered on Einan had seemed to understand why he chose to kill them rather than join them. They had all failed to account for one thing: he was only half-demon. His human side—the side that loved Taiana, Kiara, Hailen, and Evren; the side that had cared for Farida, Bardin, and all the others that had fallen along the way—held far more sway over his heart and mind than the bloodlust and cruelty instilled in him by his Abiarazi heritage.
He would never truly belong in the world of humans, but he had found a place of peace, of belonging among a few of them. For that reason alone, he would never allow the demons to bring chaos, death, and destruction to the world. His world.
He was the Hunter. Assassin, slayer, guardian. The threat of the demons was far beyond what most humans could ever imagine, much less handle. It fell to him to protect those who could not protect themselves.
“But why?” Again, Lord Chasteyn seemed confused.
“Because of the blood on your hands,” the Hunter snarled, and stalked toward the demon.
“My hands are clean,” Lord Chasteyn protested. “The Gatherers were killing anyway, I simply helped to focus their efforts. And Lady Chasteyn, her actions are far worse than anything I would have suggested.”
The Hunter couldn’t argue with that. Over his years as an assassin, he’d seen the worst of humanity, yet he’d learned that humans could also be good, honest, and decent. Not all, certainly not even the majority, but enough that he couldn’t allow creatures like the Sage, the First of the Bloody Hand, or Lord Chasteyn to live. All demons were vile monsters, but some humans were worth saving.
The Hunter charged, swinging his sword across in a vicious stroke. His heavier blade could snap Lord Chasteyn’s lighter, slimmer rapier with a few well-placed blows. He attacked in a flurry of strikes aimed at the nobleman’s head, chest, sides, knees, and thighs. Lord Chasteyn knocked furniture in the Hunter’s path as he retreated around his heavy oak desk, using rapier and dagger together to deflect the blows, evading whenever possible. His expression flashed from puzzled to angry to enraged in the space of a moment.
With an inhuman roar, the demon went on the offensive. His lighter blade moved with blurring speed, and the Hunter found himself leaping back to evade a thrust that would have skewered his heart and tore open a lung. Even with his Bucelarii speed, he was too slow to avoid the sword’s point. A hand’s breadth of steel punched through his chest and slid painfully along his sternum before he was out of range.
The demon, encouraged, pressed his momentary advantage. His eyes were fixed on Soulhunger, clutched in the Hunter’s left hand, and his strikes aimed at knocking or cutting the dagger from the Hunter’s grip. They both knew that whoever wielded Soulhunger—Thanal Eth’ Athaur, in the tongue of the Serenii—would ultimately win this fight.
Steel could pierce Abiarazi and Bucelarii flesh, could cause enormous damage and pain, but it could not kill. Without iron—a metal poisonous to demonic blood—they would collapse from blood loss, only to awake as their bodies healed. Neither wielded weapons of iron, so only Soulhunger’s soul-stealing powers would put an end to the battle.
The Hunter hissed as the slim rapier carved a long gash down his left forearm, and only a supreme effort of will kept his fingers tight around Soulhunger’s hilt. No matter how much ground he gave, the lightning quick strikes of the nimble Lord Chasteyn awaited him. His long sword proved slow, almost clumsy compared to the fencing rapier in the hands of the inhumanly fast demon. Warm crimson trickled from a dozen cuts, puncture wounds, and gashes on his face, hands, arms, chest, and legs. He could feel a numb, sluggishness creeping over him as he bled out.
“You made a mistake, coming for me!” Triumph shone in Lord Chasteyn’s eyes in anticipation of his victory. “Doubly so, when you revealed that the Sage is dead. Now, I can rule Einan in his stead.”
The demon lashed out with his dagger, batting aside the Hunter’s sword, and raised his rapier to drive into the Hunter’s chest. The Hunter barely managed to deflect the blow with Soulhunger, but failed to anticipate Lord Chasteyn’s next attack. He grunted at a sudden pain in his side and stumbled backward, staring down at the hilt nobleman’s dagger protruding from between his ribs.
But the Hunter did not fall. He refused to succumb to the pain. He had faced the Warmaster, the self-proclaimed greatest warrior of the Abiarazi, and defeated him. He had killed demons far stronger and more skilled than this one. He was the Hunter, and the Abiarazi were his prey.
He ripped the dagger from his side and hurled it at the nobleman. Droplets of blood—his blood—spattered Lord Chasteyn’s face and clothes as the dagger flew. The cast was poor, his aim thrown off by his wounds, and the nobleman batted it aside with a contemptuous swipe of his rapier.
Just as the Hunter had intended. The movement sent his sword wide, away from his body, and the Hunter was already moving as the blade cut through the air. His long sword punched into the demon’s gut with sickening ease and he drove it home with all the force of his rage. Even as the demon cried out, the Hunter attacked high, slashing Soulhunger’s razor-sharp edge across his throat.
Crimson gushed from the severed vein in the nobleman’s throat, and Lord Chasteyn sagged to one knee, hands clasped to his bleeding neck. “Bas…tard!” he gurgled through bloodstained teeth. “Trai…tor!”
The Hunter raised Soulhunger to strike, and defiance filled Lord Chasteyn’s eyes as he glared up at the Hunter.
Soulhunger descended, and the gemstone set into its pommel slammed into the nobleman’s forehead with bone-crunching force. Lord Chasteyn keeled over, unconscious, splashing into the ever-wideni
ng pool of his own blood.
The Hunter stared down at the senseless demon. The Abiarazi would live, his body repairing the damage to his throat and the section of skull crushed inward by the Hunter’s powerful blow. But it would take time. And in that time…
“Hunter?” The Guild Master’s voice sounded from the doorway to the bedroom. He looked up and found Ilanna staring at him, wide-eyed.
“Where are they?” he demanded. “Where are the chains?”
She couldn’t seem to tear eyes away from his torn, bloodstained clothing, the wounds even now healing on his arms and face, and the body lying at his feet. Her expression revealed mingled surprise and confusion.
“The chains!” he roared. “Before the bastard wakes up.”
Ilanna seemed to move in a daze, her movements slow as she called out “Jarl!”
The huge man rushed into the room, but stopped at the sight of the crimson-covered Hunter.
“Cuff his wrists and ankles behind his back,” the Hunter ordered the big man. “Break his bones if you have to.”
Jarl shot a glance at Ilanna, who gave a slow nod. “Do it,” she said.
The big, blonde man picked his way through the overturned furniture littering the floor and crouched in the puddle of the demon’s blood. His huge hands moved with practiced ease as he pulled four lengths of wrist-thick chains from the sack.
The Hunter gave the manacles a wide berth. The stink of iron flooded his nostrils, and he felt his skin crawling in memory of the metal’s effects. The slightest touch of iron could seep through his skin, and if it got into his blood, it would turn his blood to sludge and kill him as surely as a viper’s bite killed a human.
For the demon, however, it would cause enormous amounts of pain and hold him bound, but it would not kill him. It took far more than just iron chains to put an end to the bastards.
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