Ink and Shadows

by Rhys Ford

  “We’ll never reach him.” Faith gasped when Beckett grabbed her arm, yanking the immortal around. “There’s no way to him! Charity, just leave him.”

  “There’s no way we’ll ever get this chance again.” Beckett drew a short-barrel gun from the holster at his waist. “Let’s even the odds.”

  Aiming for Death, the magus lifted the muzzle of the gun and pulled the trigger. The gunshot boomed, rebounding and bouncing back in waves of sound through the crowded foyer.

  Min’s heart raced, then stopped dead, her eyes finding the dark-haired Horseman at the head of the darkfae pack. Ari jerked around, his mouth peeled back into a growl, viciously stabbing at the creature closest to him to clear the way to his friend.

  Death stood firm, pulling the scant Veil tight around him. The shock of a projectile weapon passed through him. He was taking a chance, gambling on the age of his body and how long he’d been immersed in the shadows. The bullet shimmered through his flesh, then flew into the wood behind him. A sunburst of gunpowder bloomed on his shirt, minute fragments caught around the hole punctured by the bullet.

  “You said this would work!” Beckett brandished the gun under Charity’s nose, the heat from the muzzle leaving a blister near his lip. “Why the hell didn’t it work?”

  “Maybe he’s too old,” Faith shouted, panic filling her heart. “He has too much of the Veil in him. That’s got to be it.”

  “Damn it.” Charity gritted his teeth. He needed to draw the Horsemen away from the boy. The darkfae were going to be slaughtered, and more importantly, they would lose any chance of securing the human from the Horsemen. He spotted Mal trying to work the door open, the younger immortal nearly sprawling over a fallen body.

  Mal dug his fingers into the broken metal pieces of the door latch. He wished he had more curses in his arsenal, swearing ineffectually when a screw tore at his finger. The darkfae’s blows had made a tangled mess of the mechanism, and he strained to work the whole plate loose.

  “Trust them to protect your back, Mal,” he muttered to himself. “The Four will never let you down.”

  A few more fumblings of the latch, and the whole piece tumbled to the floor, a clattering sound that sang sweet music in Mal’s ears. Hooking his fingers into the empty space, Mal pulled hard on the door, astonished when it refused to open more than an inch. Yanking harder, he felt a softness give under his struggles, then looked down at his feet, the heavy, broad body of a darkfae keeping the door shut.

  “Shit.” Mal crouched, shoving at the corpse. “Didn’t I move you enough?”

  “If Death’s too old, then one of the others. One of the younger ones.” Beckett tried to get a good sighting on Min, but the slender woman was nearly lost behind the darkfae’s thick bodies. Pestilence would have to be his target, hoping Death and War would be drawn off by seeing their youngest’s brains splattered on the wall.

  Shouting for the others to give him a clear shot, Beckett strained to get a good angle on the youngest Horseman. Mal ducked down under the fight, working to remove the darkfae blocking the door. War moved to the right, swearing loudly at the slipperiness underfoot. The foyer’s slick floor wasn’t the best for a fight, something he would mention to Death once they were done.

  Kismet jerked when Mal touched him, his chest heaving with the strain keeping his body under control. Something strange crawled in his blood, licking at his nerves until they ran raw and hot. Craning to get around the Horsemen’s influence, he could see wraithlings drifting along the walls, an inky tide dashing up against the darkfae’s backs. Shivering, Kismet turned over, trying to squeeze the cold out of his bones, his limbs nearly frozen and locked.

  “I can get up,” Kismet reassured Mal, unsteadily trying to get to his knees. “It’s healed up enough. I’m okay.”

  “No, you’re not okay. Stay down,” Mal begged. “Please, Kiz, just stay down.”

  “Can you get the door open?” War shouted at the youngest, kicking at Mal’s thigh with a bloodied foot. “See if you can get the kid inside!”

  “I got the lock part out,” Mal yelled back, panic rising in his chest. “There’s a dead body in the way.”

  Kismet was shutting down beside him, the young man closing up against the addiction tearing his body apart. The denser mass of the dead darkfae were difficult to move, stumps slimy from leaking wounds. Mal heaved the last meaty piece he could manage, then grabbed at Kismet’s waist, hoisting the human to his feet. Grabbing at the edge of the door, Mal pulled at the handle, swinging the portal open just enough to slide through.

  Beckett took aim and shot, grim and determined to hit at least one of the Horsemen. The spout of blood splattering War’s face sent a wicked grin over the magus’s face, the man thinking he’d hit the blond.

  Turning, Ari shouted something Beckett couldn’t hear over the rush of the dying screams of the darkfae. His victory turned to horror when Faith grabbed at his arm, the immortal’s horrified words a piercing scream in his ear.

  “You shot the boy!” Faith clutched the stained folds of her dress. “You’ve killed him!”

  Kismet screamed when the bullet struck him, intense pain dancing black stars over his eyes.

  Struggling to stay alert, he stumbled and caught at Mal’s arm, sobbing from the torment working into his flesh. His muscles shook with a rolling spasm, unable to respond to the simple command to move forward, the dubious safety of the partially open door nearly in reach. Kismet’s knee struck the wooden floor as he fell, his kneecap cracking hard under his weight.

  Min hacked at a nearby head, splitting open the creature’s temple with a sharp blow. As the darkfae stumbled, she planted her foot in the center of his shoulder blades and vaulted to get closer to the other Horsemen. Spotting the woman, Death slid around to War’s right, covering Ari’s side as the blond ducked to avoid a blow. With no slack in his stride, Death grabbed one of Ari’s shorter blades, then jabbed upward into the underside of a darkfae’s jaw, cracking open the creature’s chin.

  “Kismet!” Mal held the young man’s body up from the floor, not wanting the ocean of darkfae blood to enter the wound. Mal felt War at his side, the older Horseman’s steady hand on the youngest’s shoulder. “Ari, I can’t tell how badly he’s hurt.”

  The fabric of Kismet’s torn shirt was too sodden to absorb any more blood. His wound dripped, a trickling flow forming near the still healing gash on his chest. The edges of the gunshot were frayed from the bullet’s impact. Coughing, Kismet gasped, unable to process the pain in his side. Clearing the gore with spit and his fingers, Mal found the wound along the boy’s upper rib cage, now barely seeping. The hole had already begun closing, the bruised skin around the entrance wound a violent purple.

  “God, this fucking hurts,” Kismet gasped, his breath shortened with the effort to pull air into his lungs. His addiction ran under the breadth of the pain, hidden below his screaming nerves. An icy cold spread over his chest, his ribs aching with each slight shift he made in an effort to ease his anguish. “Shit.”

  “That kid is cursed,” War muttered to Death. “Just so you know.”

  Min’s opponent feinted in, trying to draw the woman out with a rounded fist. Min dodged the blow, bending almost in half as Death’s blade sliced across the creature’s face. Nearly losing her balance, Min backpedaled, easing onto her heels to recover. Slamming his elbow up into the Veiled’s soft throat, Death pushed the creature back to give Min room to fight. The other remaining darkfae pressed in, their flat-faced leader berating them.

  “Charity’s yours, War,” Death replied. “Faith’s mine.”

  “Death, what do I do?” Mal called out.

  “Cut it out of him, Mal.” Death kicked over one of the darkfae’s dropped knives. “Use this. Don’t nick his heart.”

  Ari grumbled under his breath, barely loud enough for Mal to hear, “Try to keep him alive long enough for me to kill him. He’s the reason for all of this mess.”

  “I can’t believe you got shot.” Mal cr
ouched over Kismet, wondering if he could keep his hands steady enough to carve into the young man. “Damn them. I can’t believe they shot you.”

  “You have to stop!” Faith grabbed at Beckett’s hand, pulling at the gun. “We can’t do this. They’ll kill you.”

  Min jerked at the sound of another gunshot ringing out, nearly losing her grip on her weapon. The incident at the motel had rattled her more than she cared to admit, the heat of Mal’s blood on her hands still a thing of her nightmares. A small pain in her side panicked Min until she realized it was a slice of a blade over her skin, the cutting wound soothing despite the stinging of her severed nerves. Looking around, she scanned her own people before looking toward Faith, the speckle of gunpowder mottling her breast.

  Faith stared down at the blood on her chest, her fingers finding the edges of the hole in her body.

  Strangely, the wound didn’t hurt as much as she thought it would. Rather, it spiraled out into tentacles, sucking and releasing sharp pangs along her limbs. The world became taller all of a sudden, her mind slow to realize that she’d fallen to her knees. It was then that the pain began, screaming wretches clawing into the back of her skull. Her heart strained, trying to fill the vacuum left by the blood pouring from the breach in her chest.

  With the agony of her body being violated by a small piece of metal, Faith surrendered to the terror in her heart, allowing it to take her. She fell, and her lungs exhaled hard from the impact. The floor felt so hard beneath her, her fingers digging to gain some grip on the slick surface. Faith’s breath came in little pants, panic cold in her lungs. With the Veil pushed thin into the building’s perimeter, the immortal strained to reach the tiniest shred of shadow.

  “Faith!” Charity caught at the woman, supporting the back of her head. Numb, the magus stood, holding the gun in his limp fingers. “What the hell did you do?”

  “I don’t know.” Beckett fell forward, casting the weapon to the ground. “She grabbed at the gun. It just went off.”

  “We need to get you out of here.” Gripping Faith’s waist, he lifted her up, straining to find a thick enough shadow to push her through. “If we can get you to Peace, he can help. See if you can find a call, anything to help you.”

  Faith heard only an echoing nothingness in the shadows that tasted of the Horsemen. The Veil retreated around her, a wasteland of ghosts. She tried to reach at least the youngest of their Three. Hope was the easiest immortal to call, an ethereal hold on the Veil, but she couldn’t feel even the faintest whisper of the little girl.

  In pain, Faith choked on the bitterness in her throat. She felt her lover’s hand on her face, the same hand that shot her. Charity’s desperate voice sounded like a distant echo, drowned out by the anger she could feel rolling through the darkness from Death. War shouted at Mal to help the boy, a buzzing echo fading into a soft hum. The Second Horseman would sooner help a human than another immortal, Faith realized, the burring noise of voices now a rushing ocean of sound.

  “Charity, I’m so sorry. Take care of Michael for me. Please,” the woman cried, her eyes weeping hot fire. Faith let herself slide away, ashamed she’d strayed so far from why she’d manifested. Whispering a final apology to her absent lover, the woman released her will and wished herself gone.

  The last face Faith saw before returning to the Veil was Beckett’s, his expression fixed with shock. Without the phantom world between them, the magus watched the woman who lured him into love disappear from his arms, leaving nothing behind but the searing anger in his heart.

  IN A house on a grassy hill, Hope lifted her head from her play, petite hands stilling over the long blonde hair of her doll. Peace watched the smallest of the immortals, the eternal child, tilt her head and close her eyes, sunbursts of blue hidden behind a pale wash of café au lait skin. Sitting on a long stretch of mahogany carpet, Hope checked the attendees to her tea party, a collection of dolls and plush animals arranged in a semicircle near the sweep of windows overlooking a lake.

  Solemn and near the end of her term as Hope, the little girl pondered speaking for a moment, her words lost in the tumbling shadows whispering through the Veil. The murmuring increased, a gossiping sibilance weaving across the miles. A flicker of thought crossed her mind, a still statue of quiet amid the rush of sound carved from far-off screams.

  Hope’s lashes flitting open, she found the tiny pink plastic brush she’d set down and began brushing another length of doll hair, her fingers wrapped around golden strands. The Veil shook again, a shuddering tremor attuned to the Three Gifts. Hope caught the edge of it on her thoughts, the stilled scream of a woman’s voice tinting the dark curtain’s flutter.

  Hope turned her face toward the man who once made their Three a Four, staring with all-seeing eyes at Peace’s shock, his nerveless fingers gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. A teapot whistled shrill for his attention, the steam rising in an angry column toward the high ceiling.

  “Oh, Faith.” Peace’s anguish broke into his voice, shattering his heart. “What are you and Charity doing?”

  “I hope this next Faith likes kids, Penelope.” Hope undid the buckle of one shoe, then slid it onto her doll’s unwieldy foot. “It would be nice if there was someone who would play with us.”

  Debating if she should retire to her room, Hope decided the fog-drenched lake would make a better backdrop for her gathering, a spray of roses just under the windowsill lending an English tea touch to the festivities.

  Besides, the immortal thought to herself, she would want to be presentable when their new Faith arrived. Charity would be in no right mind to deal with anyone, and someone would have to be strong.

  Gathering up the Veil in her mind, Hope pinched off the trembling call from Faith, slicing the woman off from the Three and banishing her to the shadows that fed off the weak.

  “There,” Hope said to herself. “That’s better. It’ll be better now, Penelope.”

  Penelope’s second shoe took longer to wrestle on, Hope’s small fingers struggling with the minute buckle. Sighing hard, she bent to the task, working the leather over the doll’s foot. Satisfied, she gave one last pull on the doll’s filmy socks before returning her to her place at the gathering. The tea would have to be brewed from air, Hope decided, the sounds of Peace’s sorrow continuing behind her. No matter, the little girl shrugged as she poured a ghostly chai into a dainty porcelain cup. The view was more than enough to make up for the lack of tea, and the dolls certainly weren’t going to complain.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  BECKETT FELL to his knees, eyes wet with pain. He raged and wept, his heart speeding with intense agony. Charity’s hands were on his shoulders, the immortal’s fingers clenching hard enough to bruise down to the bone. He couldn’t see past the tears, but he could hear the whispers for revenge in the back of his mind.

  “They need to die.”

  Charity nodded at Beckett’s words, his face wrinkled into an anguished mask. “You can do that,” the immortal reminded him. “Call something. There’s enough of what you need inside of me. Pull it out. Make them hurt, Beckett. Let them watch each other die.”

  Gathering the power Beckett kept simmering in the well of his soul, he lashed out, pulling at the tiny shadowed edges around him. Enough of the Veil pulsed in the darkness, giving the man a channel outward to where inky wraiths thrived. Hitting a thread leading out of the penthouse exterior, Beckett poured his energy outward, his ire and pain at Faith’s loss hot with fierce emotion.

  Mal eased Kismet over, his hands gentle on the boy’s shoulders. The young man’s face gleamed ivory, the blood bleached out of his skin. Kismet grabbed at Mal’s hands with cold fingers, holding the Horseman’s arms tight across his upper chest. Bending his head down, Mal rubbed his cheek against the human’s, hoping to warm the chill in Kismet’s flesh.

  “Kiz, you’ve got to stay still,” Mal pleaded. Kismet blinked, hoping to hold on to his consciousness just long enough to curse at Mal for jostling him. “You’re ma
king me more nervous.”

  “What are you doing?” Gasping, Kismet hissed. Harsh pains jabbed his stomach, the muscles battling convulsive waves. Fighting Mal’s hold, he turned before nearly blacking out from the agony of his body ratcheting and failing. “God, fuck. That hurts more.”

  “Just do it, Mal.” Death ducked behind Ari, trying to keep his attention on the fight while glancing at the bleeding human. The paleness of Kismet’s face didn’t bode well. Mal’s palpable fear did little to help the situation. “His body isn’t strong enough to push the bullet out.”

  “Please, trust me,” Mal said, his voice soft in Kismet’s ear. The scent of his own shampoo blended with the erotic sweet musk he’d come to identify with the feral human he’d taken in. “I’m not trying to hurt you, not on purpose. But I think Death’s right. That’s got to come out of you before it kills you.”

  “Trust you to carve me apart?” Kismet closed his eyes tight, swallowing at the thick spit on his tongue. “Shit.”

  “Yeah,” Mal admitted. “But it’s either me, or you wait for Ari.”

  “Screw that.” Kismet laughed, a sharp pang in his chest. “Hell, use a chopstick if you have to.”

  Behind them, Mal heard Death telling Min to move in closer, tightening up the space between them. Fingers shaking, Mal cut into the human’s tender skin. Kismet hissed, loosing a torrent of swear words, the profanity mingled on the blood of his bitten tongue. Gritting his teeth, Mal dug the blade in deeper to widen the opening.

  Kismet’s belly clenched, hot bile rushing to his throat. Mal turned the young man’s face, hoping the rush of warm fluids would pass freely onto the floor. He couldn’t risk him choking. The tremors would drive the bullet in deeper, making it impossible for Mal to reach without slicing Kismet nearly apart.

  “I’m sorry, Kiz.” Mal winced when he hit one of the boy’s ribs with the blade. Kismet gurgled and arched before going slack in Mal’s embrace. “Kismet!”