by S. M. Reine
Hell’s Hinges
A Fistful of Daggers
S M Reine
Copyright © 2019 by S M Reine
LM3-v1.0
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
I. Alliance
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part II
Remnants
III. The Herald
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part IV
Until Death
V. Countdown
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part VI
When We Part
VII. Choices and Promises
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Next
About the Author
“The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps.”
— Proverbs 16:9
“When I look at you, I feel I’ve been ridin’ the wrong trail.”
— Hell’s Hinges (1916)
I
Alliance
1
T he Traveler wasn’t surprised when the wards outside the abandoned library pinged with Lincoln Marshall’s presence. There were more than two thousand timeline variants where he would find Sophie Keyes while she was held captive. Of those two thousand timelines, none of them could be allowed to result in Lincoln reaching Sophie; the Traveler’s careful navigation through temporal opportunity guaranteed that.
“I’ll be back,” the Traveler told Sophie, who was sitting against a wall and crying, surrounded by her luggage.
The Traveler was relieved to emerge from the library’s basement and leave those noises behind. Nighttime in Northgate was pleasantly quiet in almost all timelines. The Traveler could see minutes forward and backward in billions of divergent possibilities, and most were peaceful.
Things would not be peaceful for long.
Now that the Traveler was mounting the stairs, there were no more than fifteen minutes until it either disabled or murdered Lincoln Marshall—an unpleasant but necessary eventuality, either way. Lincoln couldn’t be allowed to rescue Sophie. The damage to the Cables—the very fabric of the universe—was extensive enough. If the Traveler could endure hours of Sophie’s helpless weeping to protect the Cables, it could certainly shoot a nosy, would-be hero in the forehead. It had never much cared for lawmen anyway.
It slipped through the library’s stacks, navigating toward the self-checkout stand. Time blossomed and collapsed around the Traveler on every step. If it took the back door out of the library, wet sidewalks would threaten the Traveler’s footing and it would be less likely to defeat Lincoln in combat. If it waited inside for Lincoln to enter the library, its physical vision would be occluded by temporal vision because Lincoln had too many opportunities to get the upper hand in a complex arena like the stacks.
No, it would have to fight out front. He was waiting on the lawn for one of his companions to break into the library, dismantle the wards, and open the main entrance for him. Lincoln was working with gargoyles who were tethered to him by soul links. They would die once he did, ensuring the Traveler’s path would be clear after that.
And so it was with utter confidence that the Traveler stepped out the front door with a loaded pistol already lifted.
It should have been able to aim directly at Lincoln Marshall, who should have been hidden behind the Northgate Library’s sign. It should have been able to send a wall-piercing bullet through the N in the sign to puncture Lincoln’s left aortic valve and begin the process of bleeding him to death out in the rain, on the grass, where he could not threaten the Traveler’s grip on Sophie Keyes.
Its finger was already squeezing to fire.
Then the Traveler crossed the line of wards, and all temporal possibilities blinked out.
A gargoyle caught the Traveler, bracketing its shoulders with a grip so tight that the Traveler felt its clavicle snap under the pressure of an enormous stone thumb. “Impossible,” the Traveler said as time jittered.
It hadn’t seen a path through time where the gargoyle intercepted it like this. This version of reality didn’t exist.
It tried to step backward out of this moment—not even a full minute, but twenty seconds.
It couldn’t jump back. It also couldn’t jump forward.
An impossibly located gargoyle lifted the Traveler off its feet. It could only shriek in helpless rage when the gargoyle smashed it back down on the sidewalk and rendered it unconscious, making all of time fold into a very neat little knot. And then it slept.
Lincoln Marshall, meanwhile, was on the roof of the library, nodding with grim satisfaction at the sight of Tripp suplexing the Traveler. “Any trouble with the wards?”
Junior shook his big stone head. He looked a lot like the gargoyle on the ground: oversized stone body, with broad enough shoulders to support his wings. Unlike Tripp, Junior also had facial features similar to Lincoln’s. Had a tattoo artist tried to sketch out the idea of Lincoln Marshall in broad strokes, he might have drawn the gargoyle that used to be Wilson Dickerson, with pointed ears folding back over the carved lines of his hair, a strong brow, and an excessively brick-shaped jaw. They were half-brothers, Lincoln and Junior, and Junior being transformed into a living statue by Genesis had done little to alter their resemblance.
They were currently waiting by the library’s skylight, alone. The other gargoyles were arrayed around the perimeter to watch. Lincoln didn’t think he’d need that much help against the Traveler. He’d be long gone with Sophie before it recovered from Tripp’s attack.
“Break the glass and reach inside to open the latch, boy,” Inanna said. She crouched at Junior’s side—the wild shadow of a spirit that used to follow Lincoln everywhere. She hadn’t been with Lincoln since the Queen of the Winter Court bound the gargoyles to his spirit. Inanna now followed Junior everywhere he went, and she nagged him instead. The timing was perfect. Lincoln might have gone nuts if he’d had to put up with Inanna’s criticism while searching for Sophie.
It had taken days for Lincoln to track down the Historian. Three horrible, excruciating days since Summer Gresham had called Lincoln to ask why Sophie missed the bus to New York. He’d barely slept since. The werewolves had tried to help, but their options were limited. “She’s here somewhere. We can smell her,” Summer told him on one occasion, her eyes so sympathetic that it hurt. “Unfortunately, the Traveler has been spreading Sophie’s scent over our territory to make her impossible to pinpoint.”
“Then couldn’t it be fabricating her scent in the first place?” Inanna had asked.
Lincoln seldom relayed Inanna’s questions to his company. He and the gargoyles were the only ones who could see her, and the fewer people who knew anything about a dead god attached to his soul, the better. But he’d relayed that question. Inanna had been speaking his fears.
“It’s possible the Traveler’s faking it, but it’s also possible that Sophie’s still alive,” Summer had said. “Unless you want to give up…”
“No,” he’d said immediately.
&
nbsp; Summer had smiled. “We’re going to find her.”
And they had. They’d searched every inch of Grove County until determining Sophie Keyes had to be in Northgate’s library.
The pack wasn’t waiting to offer backup tonight. The Alphas had been reluctant to subject anyone to the Traveler’s method of combat, and Lincoln had agreed. Hell, he didn’t want to be subjected to it—hence, hiding on the roof. Tripp’s willingness to dive into the temporal fray made everyone’s lives a lot easier.
The Traveler’s life, on the other hand, was gonna get a lot harder if Lincoln dropped into the library and didn’t find Sophie well.
Junior punched the glass out as Inanna had ordered.
He dropped into the library with an arm around Lincoln. They landed hard on the carpet, which was blue in daylight and dispassionate gray under the veil of night. The library smelled of books older than the world. Not difficult, considering the world was only a few months old. Everything looked to be just so . The librarian’s desk was tidy but unoccupied, as one would expect at this time of night; the organized shelves were arranged in a circle around the room so that the Dewey Decimal signs were easily visible; the lamps hanging overhead were dark without power. Even Northgate couldn’t offer electricity after midnight.
There was no Sophie.
“Downstairs,” said Inanna, her sword drawn and body swathed in leather armor.
Lincoln spoke to Junior, not to the parasite on their joined spirits. “Stay here. Watch for the Traveler.”
Junior couldn’t verbalize beyond rumbling, but Lincoln had spent so much time watching his brother’s stone features these past seventy-two hours that he recognized the resolve in his granite eyes.
Lincoln headed to the basement, where things weren’t as tidy. Everything had been shoved carelessly back to clear the floor, and desks had been pushed against the shelves hard enough to make them fall over. Microfiche readers were crushed under plastic-covered library books.
The Traveler had burned an elaborate rune into the exposed carpet. Candles lit the circumference, welded to the floor by molten wax. There were four bowls to represent the four corners and four elements: salt for earth in the north, water for water in the west, a feather for air in the east, and the charred carcass of a lizard for fire in the south. This was Witchcraft 101—something Lincoln had learned from growing up in a family of witches. He’d never been one for rituals himself, but he was fluent in those runes, the way a child growing up in another country picked up the language. The Traveler was preparing for something big. Bigger than any spell he’d seen in years.
A gasping, whimpering sound reached Lincoln’s ears.
“Shortcake?” he whispered.
The weeping stopped. “Lincoln?”
It came from the back of the room.
If he’d been killed by jumping across the circle of power, he’d have deserved it. Lincoln knew to be careful around magic and just didn’t care. He’d spent three days worrying about Sophie—the longest of his life. He couldn’t take another breath without making sure she was okay.
She sat against the rear wall. She wasn’t wearing the scarf she usually did, and some of her braids had fallen out—Lincoln hadn’t even realized they could do that—which left the curls underneath twisted, messy. Her face was swollen. Her cheeks were damp. Her eyes were red.
She was alive.
“Jesus Christ!” Lincoln reckoned he should have asked permission before pulling Sophie against his chest for a hard hug. She wasn’t the kind of lady who normally appreciated being touched without first being asked, but he’d apologize later. Right then he just needed to feel the way her hands gripped his shoulders, the press of her wet cheek against his, the hitching of her chest as she cried even harder. “Are you okay? Did it hurt you?”
She was incoherent. Lincoln had to hold her at arm’s length to check for injuries. She still wore the outfit she’d been wearing when they said goodbye. He could see no blood or bruises.
It took Lincoln a moment to realize that Sophie’s clutching hands meant she wasn’t tied. Her feet weren’t bound either.
“How are you trapped?” he asked.
“She’s not,” said a voice from the stairs.
The Traveler had escaped Tripp. But just like how Sophie wasn’t running, the white-draped witch wasn’t attacking either. “Sophie Keyes and I have an agreement, and you’re not welcome here.”
2
L incoln would have thought it surreal to sit idle while the Traveler finished preparing its spell, but surreality suggested that reality had any sort of commonness left to it. Even the new normalcy Lincoln had been building was blown apart by one visit to the hospice in Mortise, and now he didn’t know what to expect from anything.
Still, being at a momentary detente with a time-traveling assassin was stretching the bounds of disbelief.
“The Traveler convinced you to let yourself be detained?” Lincoln asked.
“I did break the Precept,” Sophie said. “They are the foundational boundaries of our universe. Violating them puts life as we know it at risk, so a cost-benefit analysis makes things clear: I must travel back in time to correct my error and save untold lives.”
“Does fixing the Precept mean traveling back in time and dying before you break it?” Lincoln struggled to think of any other reason she could be crying this hard if she wanted to be there.
Sophie didn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t have to die to fix it. But…if I change this, I don’t—I don’t know if I can…” She swallowed, hand over her mouth. Her eyes welled up again. Sophie was going to let herself die to save the universe.
There was enough candlelight in the basement that Lincoln could see clearly, but her despair dragged him somewhere so dark inside that he couldn’t remember what hope felt like. He couldn’t see, couldn’t feel. He smelled death. He choked on it.
“Junior!” Lincoln shouted, rising from his chair. He grabbed Sophie and threw her over his shoulder. She was too shocked to react. Sophie was a small woman, practically weightless hanging over Lincoln’s back.
Junior punched through the library’s floor. The gargoyle landed in the midst of rubble right at the center of the Traveler’s circle. The witch had been distracted by painting runes at the southernmost corner, where the dead lizard rested; it nearly got beaned by a chunk of cement.
“Help us—” Lincoln started to call to Junior.
And then Lincoln was kneeling in front of Sophie again.
The library was dark. She was crying, surrounded by her luggage.
Time had jumped, sending them back a half an hour. Sophie was clinging to Lincoln. She was nestled against his chest, sobbing again, unaware that Lincoln had skipped through time. “Shit,” he said.
“What?” Sophie asked, blinking wetly at him.
There was no time to explain. He threw Sophie over his shoulder—again—and bolted toward the stairs before he realized the Traveler was already there.
“Put her down!” it commanded.
Time spun.
Lincoln was sitting at the table across from Sophie. The Traveler was casting its spell, drawing a rune by the lizard.
He’d fallen out of his seat. It was knocked over next to him, making him look a fool. Sophie wouldn’t have been aware of the double jump in the timeline—first back to Lincoln’s arrival, and then to the moment before Junior punched through the floor. “Are you okay?” she asked, throat thick with tears as she offered him a hand.
Lincoln pulled on her wrist. “We gotta get out of here!”
The world swirled.
He was back in his chair. Sophie was crying into her arms.
The Traveler stood over him. “Stop trying to seize the timeline! I don’t know why the laws of the world don’t apply to you, but I’ve had multiple eternities to develop my stubbornness, and you won’t beat me.”
“I don’t have to beat you. I just have to run faster.” Lincoln rose from his chair, and then cool fingers touched his wrist.
Sophie.
“Stop fighting with it,” she said. “I’ve made my choice.”
“Dying isn’t a choice!” Lincoln’s throat was so pricked by heat that he was surprised he didn’t immolate.
“You weren’t supposed to find me,” Sophie said.
As if that made anything better.
This is all your fault.
The words were seared into Lincoln’s mind, as if in his dying moments, John Marshall had forged a brand, dipped it in fire, and smashed it through his son’s skull.
Sophie spoke quickly. “I have to go back in time to fix this Precept. The Traveler has said there are infinite possibilities. If there’s one where I can fix it and stand to live, I will find it. I erred deeply in my past. I will die with the rest of our world if I don’t repair it. You must see the reasoning.”
Lincoln didn’t see anything reasonable for miles and miles.
But he didn’t throw Sophie over his shoulder and try to run again, either.
“Remember, I will always win,” the Traveler said ominously before returning to its work at the circle. “I’ve seen the likes of you before. You can’t do anything I won’t see coming.”
Junior was pacing upstairs, enormous stone feet thudding against carpet. The sound of it muted Lincoln’s voice, lowered to a whisper as he sat beside Sophie again. “What’s your plan?” he asked.
“I don’t really have a plan.” A fresh tear tracked Sophie’s cheek. “I have to make a different choice. The Traveler said it will take me back to the beginning, a couple of years before I broke the Precept, and then I can change circumstances subtly without harming the timeline.”
“So let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Lincoln said. “You’re going to go back in time and try to make a different choice—a choice that’s got you all a wreck—and then you’re probably gonna die because you won’t be able to live with yourself. For the sake of the world. That’s your whole plan?”