Zusa flew through the streets, legs pumping and head bobbing with her gasping of air. Too much, she thought, she was pushing herself too much. She’d undergone hunger and torture, the dagger in her right hand mostly numb as it clutched her dagger, yet she dared not waste a precious second resting, or recapturing her breath. A hundred images flashed through her mind, and every one of them was too painful to dwell on for long. She saw Alyssa lying on her bed, or the floor, or out in the garden of the estate, her eyes open but empty, silver coins staring up at the stars.
Through it all, the words of Vrashka echoed in her head, seemingly innocuous at first, but now so far from it.
I spent time with Stephen’s gentle touchers not so long ago, did you know that?
Why would Stephen have any connection with the priests of Karak, let alone have his family’s personal torturers training someone of their faith? There was an easy answer, but she didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to acknowledge how it explained why the Widow might be able to get inside the mansion. So she ran, and prayed to any god other than Karak to let her beloved Alyssa be safe, and Nathaniel, as well. She’d promised him she’d always be there in the shadows to protect him. What if it wasn’t just Alyssa she found with eyes of silver, and a tongue of gold...
Zusa stumbled, her concentration broken by such nightmarish daydreaming. The empty streets spun before her, and she landed on her shoulder hard enough to elicit a cry of pain. Laying there, tears swelling, she saw a shape flying through the air behind her, solid dark but for the faint gray of the cloak trailing after.
No pause, no hesitation. Zusa rolled to her right, her cloak wrapping about her upper body. Ezra landed, her knee and dagger striking where she should have been. Zusa kicked at Ezra’s legs, but the woman leapt over it, diving toward her with both daggers leading. Arms trapped by her thick cloak, she pushed the fabric outward. Ezra’s daggers punched through it, but the handguards snagged when Zusa twisted and shoved to the side. Again she kicked, this time connecting with Ezra’s midsection. The Faceless Woman fell back so she might regain her balance. Zusa staggered to her feet, let her ragged cloak unfurl about her.
“Did Daverik decide it was time for me to die?” Zusa asked.
“He still loves you,” Ezra said, crouching down as she circled her, looking like a strange animal ready for the pounce. Even her eyes were wide and wild. “But even he knows that the loyalty of our faith must come before those we love.”
“Some faith,” Zusa said, grinning to hide her exhaustion and worry. “Is that what they told you when they stripped you naked and forced you into the Faceless? Loyalty before love?”
Ezra thrust, but pulled it back when Zusa moved to block it. Another thrust, this one equally prepared for. Ezra was testing for an opening, gauging her reaction speed. Zusa felt her nerves fraying. She didn’t have time for this.
“You don’t deserve his love,” Ezra said.
“You’re wrong,” Zusa said. “He doesn’t deserve mine.”
Zusa took the offensive, and was surprised when Ezra did not move to block. Instead she remained still, even when the daggers closed in on her neck. But Zusa did not cut flesh. Instead her daggers moved right through, as if hitting a mirage. From behind her she heard laughter, and spun to find Ezra there, twirling her daggers in mockery.
“I have Karak’s blessing,” she said. “Behold his gift.”
As Zusa watched, Ezra’s form grew still, then blinked away, just an afterimage. It was like when staring too long at the sun, the seeing of something burned into the eye that wasn’t actually there. Zusa tensed for an attack, but could only guess where it would come from.
“I prayed,” Ezra said, off to her left. Zusa spun, but again just an afterimage. When Ezra spoke again, she was on the right. “All night I prayed for the strength to defeat you. And now I have it.”
The image of her shifted, and suddenly she was mere inches away, leering toward her.
“I can move faster than the eye,” she told Zusa, laughing. “What hope have you now?”
Zusa swung at her, and their daggers connected. For a moment it was an old, familiar dance, a give and take of position that Zusa knew she could easily win. But when she tried to finish her opponent, to thrust through an opening to pierce Ezra’s heart, Ezra’s form turned blurry, and then she was ten feet away down the street.
“Damn it,” Zusa whispered. She didn’t have time for this, but she had to remain calm, had to think. Slowly Ezra approached, reeking of confidence.
“Will you always run?” Zusa asked her. “Stand and fight, and stop using Karak’s gift as an excuse to hide your cowardice.”
Ezra shook her head, still walking toward her. Every slow footstep ate away another second, each one perhaps the difference between life and death for Alyssa. And Ezra knew it, too. Zusa could see it in the mocking glint in the woman’s eyes.
Zusa flung herself forward, a rash attack that Ezra would expect from her. With her skill, it might have been enough to overwhelm Ezra, but Zusa had something else in mind. At the last moment, just before their daggers clashed, she dove to the side, making a run toward the mansion. Ezra spun, and Zusa trusted her to react on instinct, to believe her frantically running toward her loved ones.
A mere two steps toward the mansion, Zusa flipped her left dagger so the blade faced downward in her fist, then dug her heels in so she might fling herself backward. It was a blind stab, a gamble, as her dagger thrust through her own cloak. Ezra collided with her, caught unaware of the sudden change in her direction. The blade of the dagger punched through cloth, flesh, then belly. Ezra gasped, her upper body collapsing against Zusa, her head on her shoulder. Zusa twisted, keeping the position awkward and their bodies entangled so Ezra could not thrust.
“Zusa...” gasped Ezra as her body shivered.
“You should have listened,” Zusa said, pulling her dagger free. “You could have found freedom. You could have prevented this.”
When she pushed away, the other woman had nothing to lean against, and no strength of her own to stand. Zusa ran on, leaving Ezra to die alone, slumped over in the dirt and darkness.
31
Alyssa lay on the floor of Nathaniel’s room, slowly breathing in and out as blood trickled down the side of her chest to the carpet. The small bolt had caught her right breast, and with each breath it flared with pain. Despite every desire to move, to scream and fight, she could do nothing, immobilized by the poison coursing through her veins.
“Don’t cry, Nathan,” Stephen said, a second bolt readied in the crossbow and aimed straight at him. “I know you’re young, but Melody’s said much of you. You’re a bright child, a wise child. I think you’re ready for this, ready to see the ugly truth behind the lies of this world.”
A tear ran down Alyssa’s face. She could see her son crouched on his bed, struggling not to cry. His entire body quivered with fear. A fresh wave of seething hatred flushed through Alyssa, and she tried to stand, to move her disobedient limbs. Still nothing.
“Don’t hurt her,” she heard her son whimper.
“Shush now,” Stephen said, lowering the crossbow. Odd as it was, it seemed as if he meant the comforting words he spoke. “I didn’t say this would be easy. But this must be done. It must. Do you love your grandmother, Nathan?”
Nathaniel glanced at her, their eyes meeting. The terror there was so deep, but he was still fighting, still trying to think of what to do and what to say. She’d never felt more proud, and her heart ached that she’d never see what type of man he’d become.
“Yes,” he said.
“I love her, too,” Stephen said. He straddled Alyssa’s waist while on his knees. The crossbow he placed beside him, and from his pocket he pulled out a slender knife. He leaned close to Alyssa, peering down at her with heavily painted eyes. The wig hung loose from his head, and at such a close distance, she could see flakes of dead flesh.
“I love her more than your mother does,” he continued. “More than any
one ever has. Yet do you know what your grandfather did? Do you know what he put her through?”
Alyssa thought of the story she’d been told, of Maynard giving Melody over to Leon’s gentle touchers. She tried to make the connection, to understand.
“You don’t know,” Stephen whispered, leaning closer so that their noses touched. “You’re trying, but you don’t know. Leon loved her, just like I loved her, but he couldn’t do anything. How’d you put it? Your father would have killed my father if he’d found out? Such a sick man. Sick! And do you know what’s worse, Nathan?”
He glanced at her son.
“Your grandfather paid for your grandmother to be tortured. Paid like she was just another common whore needing to be put in her place. Do you know how much?”
Alyssa’s terror deepened. She knew the amount, knew it before the words even left Stephen’s lips.
“Two gold, and two silver.”
The knife slipped closer, pressing against the underside of her left eye. Panic flushed her mind, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t move...
She looked to her son, knew it was the last time she’d ever see him.
The knife pushed in, twisted, cut. The pain was white hot, and she felt tears and blood pour down her face. With a plop the eye came free, and Stephen held it in his soft, delicate hand. Nathaniel let out a cry, and Stephen whirled on him with a fury.
“You watch!” he cried. “Damn you, you little child, you watch! They left me in darkness when I was your age, just like they left her. I had to listen to her screams as they tortured her, and stuck in their pins like it was all just a game.”
“Mom,” Nathaniel said, face red, nose and eyes running. She wanted to go to him, wanted to hold him. But Stephen was not yet done.
“Darkness,” he said, turning back. He was speaking to her now, not her son. He twisted the bolt back and forth in her chest, just to make sure it still hurt. “Years and years in darkness, always alone but for your mother’s beautiful songs. But she won’t be your mother anymore. She’ll be mine, just mine.”
In went the knife. Her vision swirled with a brief rainbow of colors that slowly drained away, becoming nothing but black streaked with orange and red that throbbed with the beating of her heart and the horrible spikes of pain. Drool spread down her lips as she struggled to speak, to say anything, as she heard Nathaniel’s sobs.
Hot breath blew against her ear.
“I should leave you like this,” Stephen whispered. “Put you in my dungeon to rot. I still have my gentle touchers. They could spend years on you, years, without running out of new ways to...”
Alyssa heard a gasp, followed by a heavy thud.
“You bastard!”
It was too horrible, not knowing what was happening. Had Nathaniel attacked Stephen? She heard a sharp intake of air, and then something hit a wall.
“How dare you strike me?” Stephen asked. Her son had defended her, it had to be.
“Don’t,” she pleaded. The words came out a slurred moan, but it seemed to steal Stephen’s attention back to her.
“Don’t?” he asked. “Don’t what? Your son struck me, woman. Blessed as he is, I think he needs to learn his place.”
“I’ll scream,” she heard Nathaniel say.
“Scream, and I cut your throat to silence it. Your choice.”
If Lord Gandrem heard, or Melody, what would happen? Would he kill them, or would they talk him down? Alyssa didn’t know, didn’t want to know, but it seemed her son was braver than that. He let out a single bloodcurdling scream, at such a high pitch and volume that it pierced the night like a siren.
“Damn it, stop!” Stephen said. She waited for the killing blow, but before it came, something heavy blasted open the door, and then Stephen let out a cry. An object, perhaps a body, slammed against a wall. She heard the sound of metal, then a cracking of a bone.
“How dare you?” she heard Zusa ask. “Where is Laerek? Where is your master hiding?”
Stephen let out a moan, and it ended abruptly with a wet smack.
“Where!”
“He...he’s waiting for me by Eddleton’s.”
“What street?”
“Songbird!” Stephen cried.
Alyssa heard crying, and then she felt a soft hand take hers. It trembled. Despite the poison, she gently curled her fingers about it, the weakest support she could offer. Nathaniel’s face pressed against her chest, then lifted back, no doubt realizing how close he was to the arrow still embedded there.
With an abruptness that startled her, Stephen’s cries came to a halt.
“Alyssa,” she heard Zusa say, and then wrapped hands touched her face. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I never should have left you.”
“Zusa,” Alyssa managed to say, but that was it.
Lips kissed hers, and then out came the arrow. Her scream was a pathetic whisper of air exiting her lungs.
More movement at the door, plus a surprised gasp.
“What insanity is this?” asked John’s booming voice. “Oh gods...Alyssa! Stephen!”
“You’re safe now,” Zusa whispered hurriedly into her ear. “He’s dead, but one monster still runs loose. I have to find him. Please, understand, I have to.”
Zusa left her. More voices, more people, cries for a priest or a healer. Nathaniel stayed pressed against her through it all. At some point Melody arrived, her sharp feminine cry easily discernible.
“Stephen!” she heard Melody say. “Alyssa! Oh you dear, you poor dear...”
Nathaniel clutched her tighter. Despite the soothing words, and her mother’s hand brushing against her forehead while she whispered comfort, all Alyssa could think of was Zusa’s absence, and how it had been Stephen’s name Melody cried first upon seeing the bloody carnage, not hers.
Haern dragged the unconscious Bloodcraft through the alleys, knowing it would only be a matter of time before the city guard arrived to investigate the noise and chaos that had been their battle. And despite his trust for Antonil, Haern didn’t want the city guard to be the ones to discover the name he sought. No, he wanted that for himself. Whoever it was had made it personal in attacking the Eschaton, and he’d deal with it personally in return.
At last he reached a nice, secluded spot tucked against the outer wall of the city. There’d be no patrols, and anyone who heard screams would be wise enough to keep the matter to themselves. Haern propped the man against the wall, then opened up his red coat to see the rows of leather loops for holding knives, half of them empty. Removing the rest, Haern cut strips of the coat into lengths, then bound the man’s hands and feet. The throwing daggers he left in a pile nearby, having every intention of using them if the need presented itself. Ready, he started slapping the man’s face and pinching his nose to disrupt his breathing. It took a bit, but at last he awoke, gasping for air.
“Where the fuck am I?” the man asked.
Haern drew a saber and smacked him across the face with the flat side.
“I’m asking the questions,” he said. “Let’s start with your name.”
“Percy,” the man said. “And that’s the only question you get an answer to.”
Haern grabbed him by the throat and slammed his head against the wall.
“For your sake, I’d hope not,” he said.
Percy grinned at him despite the blood that dripped down his neck.
“You think you can frighten me?” he asked. “You got Veldaren fooled, but you won’t be fooling us. You’re nothing.”
“Us?” Haern asked. “There’s no ‘us,’ not anymore. The rest of your group is dead. You’re the last.”
This seemed to shake him a little, but not much. Percy bit his tongue, then turned and spat.
“Fine,” he said. “Not much point protecting anyone if what you say is true. What is it you want?”
“Who hired you to kill us? I want a name, and where to find him?”
Percy shook his head.
“Can’t do it. If I’m to have any chance
as a mercenary after this, it can’t be with the reputation of a snitch. Bad enough a bunch of pussies like you beat us.”
“A mercenary?” Haern asked, leaning in closer. “You think I’ll let you live?”
“If you don’t, what reason I have to talk?”
In answer, Haern grabbed one of the throwing knives and jammed it into Percy’s leg. Percy winced, but held down his scream.
“You think you can break me?” he asked after gathering his strength. “I don’t think it’s in you. Too soft.”
A second knife, an inch higher up the leg. This time Percy did scream, but not for long.
“You,” he said, laughing despite being out of breath. “You think this will work? I’ll bleed out too quick. Don’t have much...” he winced as Haern jammed in a third, “...practice at this, do you?”
“Tell me his name,” Haern said, grabbing Percy by the shirt and pulling him close. He’d frightened others before, often with just the intensity in his eyes, but this man seemed to be close bedfellows with pain and fear.
“You try to act the monster,” Percy said, spitting in Haern’s face. “But I grew up with monsters. I know who they are, how to smell ‘em. You’re not a monster. Thren is. Carson was. But you?” Another laugh. “You’ve killed so many, Watcher, yet you’ve somehow prevented it from changing you. Why? You think it makes you a better pers...”
Haern jammed his saber into Percy’s stomach, then twisted it. The moment he removed the blade, blood would gush out, along with intestines.
“Now...” Percy said, slumping against the wall. “Now that’s the monster. Were you hiding it, Watcher? How...quaint...”
“Tell me where,” Haern said.
“His name’s Laerek,” Percy said. “A priest. He’ll be...”
He launched into a coughing fit, each cough weaker than the last. His skin was turning pale. Haern felt sick in his stomach realizing how far he’d gone. The man might die before giving him more than a name, all because he’d lost control. All because he’d wanted, for whatever reason, to prove that he could be the monster Percy doubted he could be.
Blood of the Underworld Page 33