The Outer Dark (Central Series Book 4)

by Zachary Rawlins

  The pellet spread was diffuse, a significant portion of the plastic-coated beads left lying on the ground around Alice in ragged rings created by the blast wave. Even with a barrel extension mounted, the pellets spread almost immediately, careening into each other and losing momentum thanks to tiny aerodynamic defects in the coating. A necessary evil, Alice had been warned – the load was extremely reactive, and could burst into flame on contact with the open air. Some of the pellets did exactly that, little streaks of light darting from the muzzle of her shotgun.

  Emily’s skin rippled as a minority of the pellets impacted her. The plastic coating, damaged by shockwave and friction, gave way, and the potassium within did its exothermic work.

  As Alice tossed the shotgun aside, Emily exploded into a cloud of boiling water droplets and invisible hydrogen gas.

  Xia! Min-jun! Alice felt pinpoints of searing pain on her arms and face from the scalding mist. Now!

  A loud thump was followed by a jet of sunflower-colored flame. The Auditors were knocked to the ground. At the edge of the swirling mist, the radiance of Min-jun’s barrier was only just apparent, protecting the pair of Auditors from the violence of the detonation.

  Alice stepped into her own shadow, and then stepped back out of Hayley’s, snaking an arm around the telepath’s throat and then pulling it tight by gripping her own wrist.

  Ms. Gallow! The girl struggled in Alice’s grip. I’m okay! I freed myself! You don’t need to…

  Hayley’s limbs slackened from lack of blood to the brain. Alice released her hold and then carefully set the unconscious telepath on the ground. Nearby, Karim also toppled.

  “Sorry, Hayley,” Alice muttered, searching the field for signs of the Anathema. “Can’t be sure.”

  “That’s right, Ms. Gallow!” Emily’s voice emitted from an unusually dense and persistent cloud of mist. “You can’t be sure of anything, can you?”

  There was a brief and sudden conflagration within Min-jun’s barrier. The barrier deflated and then slowly unraveled. Xia and Min-jun lay nearby, unmoving shapes on the ground.

  “Really, how can you not have an empath on your team?” The mist grew dense, took on human shape. “You left yourself vulnerable, Auditor.”

  Alice tossed aside the empty shotgun and grinned at Emily Muir.

  “This isn’t your power, is it? You’re barely an empath, as I recall.” Alice’s grin broadened. “You’ve been messing around with Alex Warner again, haven’t you?”

  Emily shrugged and offered a sodden smile of her own.

  “Perhaps. We all take advantages where we can find them.”

  “Speak for yourself, Anathema.”

  “Calling names?” Emily laughed. “Coming from you, Ms. Gallow, that’s awfully rich. Are you still so oblivious?”

  Alice snarled and stepped into her own shadow.

  Emily twirled about, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun.

  “Where have you gone, Ms. Gallow?” Emily called out happily. “You must know by now that you cannot hope to harm me, even with your Auditors’ little tricks…”

  Alice stepped out of Emily’s shadow and seized her by the hair.

  “Let’s not be hasty,” Alice said, with a ghastly expression, as grotesque black appendages extended from Emily’s shadow, reaching for her as a vine seeks the light. “I have another trick.”

  ***

  Eerie stepped through the flame, disregarding it. Her eyes were a pair of ebony spheres, ruddy metallic specks dancing within the featureless darkness. All about her, golden sparks orbited like tame comets.

  A character engraved beneath Samnang’s left eye lit up, and a bolt of slow lightening erupted from the ash and sand at Eerie’s feet. The Changeling’s hair stood on end, blue dye burning away to reveal strands the color of afternoon sunlight.

  A pair of characters below Samnang’s right eye shone, and a portion of the black sky shook loose and fell, like a million panes of smoked glass shattering. Eerie stepped through the calamity untouched, and then extended her arms.

  Samnang cried out, and the characters etched into her cheeks flared in captivating sequence. The unlight of the black star above them gained depth, and the air was pulverized by the combined shrieking of a whole host of Horrors. The ground fractured and bent, fragments fell from the sky and embedded themselves in the broken ground like great black arrowheads. Slow lightening crept from the ash like miasma, and the air itself burned.

  Eerie put her arms around the Yaojing’s neck and pulled Samnang into a one-sided embrace.

  ***

  Emily screamed as she was disassembled. Alice laughed and pulled her further into the consuming shadow.

  ***

  “This is how I feel, sister,” Eerie whispered, holding Samnang so close that their cheeks touched. “Can you understand why I do not wish to return? Why I do not wish to become myself? This is why, and this is what it is worth to me.”

  Samnang struggled in the Changeling’s embrace.

  “Why should we fight?” Eerie asked gently. “Why should we return to the Church? We are free to decide.”

  “No, we are not,” Samnang said, pushing Eerie to the ground. “Stop this foolishness, Ériu. Did you really think I would be persuaded by sharing a bit of your happiness?”

  “Not really, but I hoped,” Eerie admitted, rubbing her back resentfully as she sat up. “I needed time, though, so it was worth it.”

  Samnang shook her head.

  “Time for what, Ériu?”

  The witch cleared her throat, and then nodded civilly at Samnang when she turned to face her.

  Yaga wore white with lots of gold jewelry, which suited her. The black mist of the Outer Dark clung to her like a robe, and that suited her as well.

  “I think that the Changeling is probably talking about me,” the witch explained reasonably. “I hate to be a bother, but I really need to borrow these three – the girl, the Fey, and the dog – the whole set! Pressing business for the Thule Cartel, you understand.”

  ***

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Rebecca stamped her foot irritably and offered a general glare. “Would both of you cut this shit out?”

  Alice shot Rebecca a pleading look, doing her best to ignore the fact the Director was wearing pajama bottoms and a ratty halter top. Emily struggled weakly, pulled halfway into Alice’s shadow, partially disintegrated and fading by the moment.

  “Quit fucking around.” Rebecca coughed as she took a cigarette from her pack. “Produce the Anathema. She’s no good to me all deconstructed.”

  Alice sighed, and then Emily was spat out of her shadow, intact and gasping.

  “That was awful!” Emily shook her head, and then regarded her missing arm sadly. “I approached the Auditors of my own volition, you realize. This is hardly the way to cultivate an informant!”

  “Informant? You wish. You are in so much trouble, missy.” Rebecca glared at the mutilated, partially aqueous Anathema. “You have no fucking idea.”

  “Is that so? I doubt it very much. You’ll have to talk to me eventually, Director, if you want to know what I know.” Emily smiled, and her form was restored, standing dripping and naked in front of the Director. “My cooperation is predicated on my release, of course, but wait till you hear what I’ve come to tell you, Ms. Levy! I swear, I’ll make it worth your while,” Emily said, batting her eyes at Rebecca. “What do you know about recent events in Las Vegas, Director?”

  Nineteen

  The dancers formed a cotillion, their movements as cautious as novice boxers, blushing and averting their eyes as fingertips and slick palms touched. The orchestra set a conservative pace, and the dancers acquitted themselves well. All around the dance floor, there was candlelight and vodka, rice wine and laughter, bursts of conversation and looks in the eyes of their elders of fondness, nostalgia, and envy. This all went unnoticed by the dancers, in a compressed and engrossing world of their own.

  Special attention was paid to Anastasia, but she was
used to that, and handled it with the grace imparted by long imposition.

  “She’s a good dancer.”

  “Always has been, since we were kids. You must have seen her dance at these family things before, right, Renton?”

  “Well, yes. With her father or her brother, but this…”

  “Oh, shit! You’re jealous, aren’t you?” Timor’s eyes sparkled with gossipy enthusiasm. “You know that’s insane, right?”

  “Oh, yeah, I know,” Renton said, too tired to deny it. “I’m not a moron.”

  “I’d argue that.”

  “Shut up, Timor, okay? You’re just lucky you don’t have to deal with girls.”

  “I don’t know if I’d call it luck.”

  “Maybe not. Look at her, man. I remember her tenth birthday, how she wanted a puppy. She cried all night when her dad refused. Remember that?”

  “Yeah, I do.” Timor eyed the dancers as the first dance moved toward a close. “I also remember her marching off to godforsaken Norway, in the snow and everything, all by herself, after somebody told her about the old tradition. The first born taming a Weir.”

  “Yeah,” Renton said, with a weak smile. “It had to be Norway, because she wanted a black one, to match her dresses, and one of the archivists told her they’d seen some up there, years before.”

  “She wanted a puppy, she got herself a pair of Weir instead.” Timor shrugged. “I don’t see how this ends any different.”

  ***

  The second dance was also the first waltz. In a manner of speaking it belonged to Daniel Gao.

  Anastasia appreciated the deference he showed, making a formal request of her company despite the prearrangement, as well as the confidence he showed leading her to the floor, not a trace of hesitation or self-consciousness despite having the eyes of an entire cartel fixed upon him.

  The music began, and Anastasia was so distracted that she could not remember the composer. Daniel took her hand and waist firmly, gave her a small nod and a rather charming smile, and then they were off into the confusion of dancing couples and the brilliance of the candelabra overhead.

  Daniel Gao’s dancing was acceptable, and she settled into his lead. Anastasia found herself shifting in his arms, trying to imagine belonging there. It was an impossibility, but the idea was not entirely without appeal.

  “Lady Martynova?”

  They whirled and spun in the rough center of the Great Hall, the other dancers careful to give them space. Tchaikovsky, Anastasia thought, the memory finally breaking through with a feeling of deep relief – the Waltz of the Flowers.

  “Yes, Daniel?”

  Anastasia marveled at the ingenuity of the shoes she wore – acquired by her mother years ago in Italy, and then cunningly modified by a French speaking tailor in Tokyo – which added enough height to bring her head to the level of Daniel’s chest, while managing to be quite comfortable. They were red as the roses prominently featured in the floral arrangements of the Great Hall, to match her dress, but in the back of her mind, Anastasia was speculating on the possibilities of having them blackened for regular use.

  “Thank you for this opportunity.”

  Anastasia clucked at him as the dance separated them, only their fingers intertwined.

  “Too deferential, Daniel. I am hardly looking for another servant at present.”

  His movements stiffened as they neared the final third of the dance, and Anastasia had to step carefully for a moment, to avoid having her toes stepped upon.

  “My mistake.” Daniel recovered his poise just in time for them to complete a natural spin. “Allow me to make it up to you.”

  His composure was total. Anastasia had to dig deep into her repertoire to keep up with him, grateful for her dance instructors.

  They finished gracefully, and she felt reluctance in his final release.

  “Perhaps?” Anastasia smiled as she allowed him to lead her from the floor. “The next to last dance is unpromised, Mr. Gao, and it will remain so. Make of that what you will.”

  ***

  Svetlana’s cheeks were flushed as she hurried over to one of the refreshment tables, deliberating with characteristic seriousness before eventually taking a flute of champaign. She drank rapidly to slake the thirst that dancing with Timor had provoked, and then had to stifle a sneeze from the carbonation. She went to hurry back, and almost ran directly into Josef Martynova.

  “Oh! Lord Martynova, I am sorry! I didn’t…”

  “Not to worry. It’s nothing!” Josef waved her off with a wry smile and ruddy cheeks. Beside him, Lady Gao stifled a laugh. “I am glad to see you enjoying yourself, Sveta. It is my understanding that you refused your own right of debut, last year?”

  Svetlana nodded, hands clasped in front of her and eyes on the tips of her borrowed shoes, burning with shame.

  “I am not criticizing, you, girl,” Josef said. “I simply wondered if you regret that decision, now.”

  “Josef, leave her be,” Lady Gao scolded. “You’re upsetting the poor girl.”

  “Am I?” Josef looked untroubled by the possibility. “I don’t mean to. I am grateful for the loyalty you have shown to my family, Svetlana. I only regret that I failed to think to fund a debut for you, in thanks for the service that you have provided to my daughter.” Josef rubbed his chin, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Perhaps there is another way to show my gratitude. Tell me, Sveta…do you already have a partner for the next dance?”

  He reached out his hand to her, with the confidence of a man who cannot be refused.

  Svetlana took his hand, her face as red as Anastasia’s dress.

  ***

  He hesitated, but she could sense his eagerness.

  “You sure you want to go through with this? There might be consequences. The Koss Family has friends in high places, you know.”

  For her part, there was no hesitation.

  “I know. That changes nothing. I will not abide the Koss family’s continued affronts, and I will not tolerate the sight of Edvard Koss manhandling the Mistress of the Black Sun on the night of her debut.”

  Renton nodded and adjusted his tie. Mai smiled approvingly, while he flagged down a servant and requested wine for himself and tea for her. The wait was brief, and the orchestra had just begun the third dance as their beverages arrived. Renton glanced at Simeon Yurchenko and Anastasia, performing the traditional bow-and-curtsey at the center of the floor, her practiced grace contrasting with his blunt deliberateness.

  Renton grimaced and Mai concealed a giggle.

  “What the hell?” Renton’s eyes widened. “Is that Sveta and…?”

  “Lord Martynova? It does appear that way.” Mai looked out at the dance floor in satisfaction, sipping sparingly at her jasmine tea. “We lose what we are unwilling to defend, Mr. Hall.”

  Renton set his untouched glass down on a passing servants tray and adjusted his jacket.

  “When did you turn into fucking Yoda, Mai?” Renton started to slip off into the crowd. “You better be right about this.”

  “Right about what the Mistress wants?” Mai called after him. “Always.”

  ***

  Simeon’s restraint was evident in his every movement, a natural spin transforming into an impetus via brute force and sheer determination. Anastasia was mildly worried that he would trample her feet, or spin her too violently and lose his hold, but once Simeon took hold of her hand and her back, she felt reasonably secure.

  The waltz was contemporary and fast-paced, and Anastasia knew immediately that Mai had selected it to play to Simeon’s strengths. He would have chafed at a slower Viennese Waltz, Anastasia guessed, and would have perhaps made a poor impression on her. As they completed the first turn, Anastasia snuck a look at his face, scowling and intent on his task, and smiled to herself. The other couples had noticed the violence of Simeon’s movements, and gave them extra berth, even more than was due to the future Mistress of the Black Sun.

  Along the inner ring of dancers, Anastasia caug
ht sight of Svetlana, mortified on her father’s arm, and laughed despite herself. Simeon grunted and spared her a momentary glance, clearly worried.

  “It’s not you, Simeon,” she assured him, subtly guiding his lead through a tricky sequence around the second turn, culminating in a turning lock and a switch in direction. “My father never changes.”

  Simeon gave her a knowing look as they spun.

  “Why should he? It seems to be working well for him, Mistress.”

  Anastasia smiled and allowed herself to be whirled about.

  “You worried me,” he continued. “I thought perhaps my dancing…”

  “Not at all,” Anastasia assured him, catching Svetlana’s eye across the floor and offering her a supportive smile. “You dance capably, Simeon.”

  “Is that all?”

  The final turn completed, she expected some of the tension to leave his body, but Simeon appeared determined to grind it out to the very end, following the traditional steps with dour determination.

  “That is not meant as criticism,” she assured him, as they completed their final revolutions. “There is much to be said, I think, for a capable man.”

  ***

  The waiter fell, or was perhaps incidentally tripped. Control of the tray he carried was lost, and it went crashing into the side of nearby table, startling the nearby guests and drawing attention from the security personnel scattered liberally about. The tray was mostly empty, but a few glasses of red wine remained at one end, and all were spilled. One particularly unfortunate glass landed in the lap of Marta Koss.

  “What is this? You clumsy idiot!” Marta cried out in indignation, stained crimson as a betrayed Caesar. “How could you?”

  The waiter apologized profusely, eyes wide and horrified, while Lady Koss berated him and the guests looked on with distaste or amusement.