by Taven Moore
After leaving the Miraj, he’d followed Mosley to the scene only to find young Percy nursing a nasty lump on the back of his scalp. The boy would be fine, but Snow—Snow needed his help. Percy said the men who’d taken Snow had left an envelope and instructed him to give it to anyone from the crew of the Miraj. The contents of the envelope had been a threat, thinly-veiled as an invitation to dinner.
Thankfully, convincing the boy to run on home hadn’t been difficult. Percival Price was no Remora, seeking danger at any turn.
Remora.
Just the thought of Remora loosed a chaotic burst of emotions.
She was Seraph. Somehow, she was Seraph, though she looked nothing like one. The Seraph were akin to gods . . . only that couldn’t be right, if Snow’s secret was true and the Seraph had been keeping his people at war. Everything was just so confusing.
Jinn needed to protect Remora, needed to keep her safe—yet she continually thwarted his every attempt to do so, constantly darting into danger as if she’d no more wits than a wide-eyed kitten.
Protecting her was his job. She was his employer.
But she was more than that. She was Seraph.
But Seraph were not what they seemed.
Nothing made sense! Every time he tried to capture some small semblance of inner tranquility—some tiny fragment of normalcy, Lady Remora Windgates Price turned the whole world sideways and refused him peace.
Clip, clip went the guard’s shoe and Jinn shook himself out of his reverie. Now was not the time.
He didn’t know when the right time to deal with all of that . . . madness might be, but it was most certainly not now.
The invitation said dinner with the Seraph. It was the Seraph’s men who’d taken Snow. These were facts. True, simple, honest facts.
He need only find the dresl, free her, and they would escape on the Miraj, just as they’d done from the Hyperion.
A simple plan, but he was a simple man. Life muddled things enough without a person seeking complications. Be like water, his trainers had told him. Keep your mind focused, and no thing in this world will catch you off guard and keep you from your goal.
Grand advice, if somewhat difficult to follow when he felt anything but focused.
The guard’s clip, clipping boots turned the corner and he darted from his hiding place, the wind whipping his dark robes against his skin. The door was just around the corner, but he didn’t have the key for it.
He turned the corner and paused there, counting the sharp ticking of the guardsman’s shoes.
Clip, clip and pause, they told him, I’m looking at the south courtyard.
Jinn’s fingers brushed the doorway, finding the richly carved handle and nail tracing the waiting keyhole.
Clip, clip, I’m turning the corner, the shoes said. East Courtyard.
Jinn’s breath puffed out, a ghost of desperation stolen by the wind. What if he didn’t get it? What if he’d been seen?
A furry weight landed on Jinn’s shoulder, a soft tail wrapping around his neck.
Mosley.
Relief washed over him. He’d made it. Jinn held out his hand. The black shonfra dropped the guard’s recently-nicked keys into the Shinra’s hand.
Clip, clip and pause. Now I’m facing north. Hurry!
Jinn slipped the first key into the lock.
It didn’t fit.
The second. The third.
Mosley’s tail tightened around Jinn’s neck. Jinn’s hands shook, a sure sign that he was most certainly not feeling focused.
Clip! I’m almost to you!—said the shoes, and the next key fit!
Jinn turned it in the lock and slid into the doorway, closing the door as silently behind him as he could, just as the shoes announced their turn around the corner.
A deep breath.
No shouting, no alarm raised.
A difficult job well done, with my gratitude and admiration, Jinn signed silently to Mosley. With Mosley on his shoulder rather than standing in front of him, the message lacked the nuance of full speech, but he hoped the shonfra understood.
A soft hand touched his exposed cheek, once. Mosley had gotten the message.
Somehow, despite all logic that screamed of his current danger, Jinn felt a bit of peace. He had succeeded. He had infiltrated one of the most heavily guarded strongholds outside of Shinra territory without killing anyone and without being seen.
Something had, for the first time since that terrible day he’d lost his brother, gone right. A heavy knot in his chest loosened, just a little. He was Outcast, yes, but perhaps . . . perhaps he was not cursed. Perhaps the gods had not turned their faces away from him. Perhaps they saw him even wrapped in black, and smiled on this mission of honor.
Jinn spared a second to send up a prayer to them, eyes closed and soul straining upwards. Please, he begged. Not for myself, but for Snow, who I have failed so many times to protect. Do not punish her for my transgressions.
One deep breath, then back to business. The door he had passed through opened to a narrow ledge with a guardrail tracing the inner square of the tower, just as the guard walked the outer square. The guard would notice his missing keys soon enough, but he was not due to be relieved from his post for some time. With luck, the man would be stuck out there until his replacement arrived, and by then, Jinn would be long gone.
He looked over the ledge, down, down, down. All the way to the ground floor. This tower was the central spire of the Seraph’s home, and clearly they intended it to be impressive. The inner walls were decorated with alternating statuary and stained glass. He could only imagine how incredible it must look when the sun shone through those windows, but part of him could not help but be saddened by the marble carvings. So fine, and yet so far up that none but the flying shonfra, Seraph, and Shinra’dor could ever hope to see their splendor.
It was no business of his. The statues made for marvelous handholds, that was all that mattered.
At the very bottom, Jinn could see people walking, setting up a fine table for dinner. Jinn fingered the engraved invitation in his pocket. The Seraph couldn’t possibly expect that anyone would actually obey such a summons, could they?
Jinn shrugged his shoulder, suggesting that Mosley take flight. The shonfra did so, and Jinn scaled the guardrail, leaping to a grimacing gargoyle face just beyond, catching easy handholds inside its gaping mouth, and footholds along its paws.
Grimly, he began his descent, ignoring the ache in his arms, complaining of the climbing already done outside.
This would be easy. No one ever looked up.
In point of fact, he’d made it all the way to the line of Seraph statues just above the second floor balconies before anyone other than bored, patrolling guards or silent dresl and human servants even entered the room.
Hearing voices, he lowered himself alongside the statue, as far into the shadows behind the marble wings as he could press himself. Black wrappings were no benefit against white stone.
“Why’s this one get invited to a fancy dinner party, anyway? Thought I’d heard he’d done summat to yank their royal chains, hard enough to earn a beating and a one-way ticket to Ursa Luna. Now he’s to be scrubbed up and fed a prince’s dinner?”
Jinn froze, so still even his heart forgot to beat. Ursa Luna? But that was where—
“Shut yer gob and do as yer told. If the masters tell you to sing a lullaby to the prisoner, you damn well sing him a lullaby, least so long as you prefer the feeling of yer head stuck on yer shoulders. Ain’t our business. Period.”
A prisoner in chains entered the room, escorted by two guards.
The prisoner held his head high, white horns arced gracefully up and back over his head. Wings, pale as snow except where they’d been purpled by bruises and reddened by whip slashes, folded regally over his shoulders and draped in leathery folds to the floor. Pale bandages swathed the Shinra’dor’s throat and he wore only a simple white robe, yet his reptilian feet strode forward with all the command of a Seraph
.
His hair was shorter than before, and one of his horns had the end nipped off, but there was no mistaking him.
Shima Maza.
Jinn’s twin brother.
The world tilted sideways, and suddenly Jinn’s breath felt too hot, scraping against his throat.
His brother.
Only two guards.
He could save him, now. Right now. Two guards was laughable. They’d be dead before they hit the floor, no warning given.
Maza.
His heart swelled, then clenched sharply.
Or Snow.
He could not rescue them both.
Escaping even with one would be difficult enough, and he still did not know where Snow was.
This opportunity, this ripe fruit dangled in front of him . . . it felt like a gift from the gods.
His brother.
Alive.
Safe.
Here.
Now.
But his honor. His promise. Snow.
The agony of indecision ripped at him, and he knew, finally, that his earlier success had not been a gift from the gods.
It had only been further punishment.
27. Hank’s Reward
In no mood for subtlety, Hank made his way directly to Bespin’s Seraph Ring. Still in full Paladin gear, people gave way without comment, though the gate guard that Hank handed the “invitation” to seemed unhappy about allowing him access.
By the time he reached the front door, he’d gained four burly, dangerous-looking shadows: two bull-dresl, a tiger-dresl, and a human displaying rather a lot of weaponry. He assumed he had snipers on him, as well. Paladins were not the most beloved of the Seraph, what with their sworn oath to kill the winged bastards on sight and all.
Paladin garb wouldn’t have been his first choice, if he’d known he was going to be knocking on a Seraph’s front door, but he didn’t have time for niceties.
All that mattered was that Bones was somewhere in there, and he needed to get him back out.
The bull-dresl at the front door expected him, accepting his invitation with unsurprised grace and holding the door open for Hank and his shadows.
They didn’t bother to take his hammer. Clearly, they either expected he did not know how to use it, or wasn’t stupid enough to actually wield it with so many guards about.
The way he felt right now? He was plenty stupid enough.
In the back of his mind, part of him screamed. He didn’t have a plan at all. Walking up to the front door and demanding to get his first mate back wasn’t a plan, that was suicide. Did he think the Seraph were just going to say, “Oh, right, sorry about that. Here you go,” and let him be on his merry way?
The larger part of him felt like stone, unforgiving and terrible as the head of his Paladin’s hammer.
Bones was in trouble. He would go to Bones.
The tiny voice in the back of his mind was more than a little bit afraid of that stony, unmoving, uncaring voice. The voice that called himself Gerard.
They approached an ornate archway, Hank and his shadows. Through the arch, a grand table could be seen, set for at least a dozen guests. Only one guest was seated at the table, however—the palest Shinra’dor Hank had ever seen, with a thick cuff of bandage around his neck and a long segment of horn missing on one side. The Shinra’s red eyes widened as he saw Hank, and his bruised lips widened to a curling smile.
Immediately, Hank dismissed him. Not a threat.
Also dismissed were the two human guards leaned against the wall behind the Shinra’s chair. They were less of a threat than the dresl tailing Hank, though both of them stood straight and watched him with wide eyes.
None of them were interesting, because none of them could help him rescue Bones.
In fact, there were only two other people in the room, and both of them were very, very interesting.
The more interesting of the two was a Seraph.
Really though, it would be difficult to have a Seraph in the room and not consider them the most interesting person, regardless of the situation.
Hank had never seen a Seraph before, and now that he had, he hoped that he never needed to again.
She dominated the room. Not because she was large or loud, but just because she was, as if her very presence reduced the amount of air in the room. She seemed almost to glow, and the rest of the room seemed dingy in her light. Her skin was human-dark, a beautiful chocolate color dusted with something shiny, like an oil-rubbed bronze. Her hair was cut short and close to her head, emphasizing the elegant length of her neck. The gold robes she wore emphasized that odd bit of glitter against her skin, and brought out the hint of a metallic glint in her almost-black eyes.
And then, of course, there were the wings. Detached, they floated free behind her, massive even when folded into what almost seemed carved golden pillars. Flickers of dark lighting chased through the feathers, periodically sparking off into the air beside her, like tiny fireworks.
Watching her made Hank feel light-headed. Soft. She wasn’t even paying attention to him, and a small part of his mind wanted to do whatever she asked of him.
That was very dangerous thinking. As soon as he thought it, he tore his gaze away from her, to the other interesting person in the room.
Beside her stood a very familiar man holding something beneath his arm, covered in a silk cloth. The human was getting old, black hair now more salt than pepper, cut in a flat, military line across the top of his head. Even without a noxious cigar clamped between the man’s teeth, there was no mistaking him.
Bricktop, leader of the Loggerhead Isle black market racing.
The last time they’d met, Hank and Bones had made off with more than a small amount of the man’s racing equipment. Part of a racing bet, creatively interpreted in Hank’s favor.
Hank had planned on avoiding Loggerhead for ten or twenty years, hoping Bricktop’s anger might fade with time.
Clearly, he had underestimated the man, or at least misjudged him. The turtle islands weren’t just on the run from human authorities—they were avoiding Seraph interference as well. What could have brought Bricktop here, to an audience with the Seraph, and at a dinner to which the Miraj crew was invited?
“You promised, Vakaena! Don’t think I won’t—”
“Dame Vakaena,” she corrected, her voice a well-oiled purr. “Do not forget your place, human.”
“Dame or no, we had a deal!”
“I have altered the deal. Pray I do not alter it further,” the Seraph replied. “Once we realized what it was, of course we had to dismantle it. You still get the head as a trophy.” Eyes mild and brow untroubled, she asked, “Would you prefer I took your head instead?”
Bricktop scowled, then noticed Hank for the first time. “Shoulda known your lot would have dealings with Paladins. Suppose you’re not really enemies, then?”
Dame Vakaena turned to look at Hank. Despite feeling an intense desire to look away, he forced himself to meet her eyes. She held his gaze for a moment, as though she were mildly curious about him, then looked away.
Hank felt immediate relief, as if he’d just had a gun pointed away from him. Her eyes had been . . . wrong. The color had gone all the way through the pupil, and the little flecks of metallic glinting actually moved in that circle of color.
In comparison, she made the Shinra’s red eyes seem normal and harmless.
“Him? He is not really a Paladin. Take your reward and scuttle back to your little turtle, human. Should I find you useful, I shall call on you again.”
Bricktop looked as if he might argue, then met the Seraph’s eyes. Immediately, he shut his mouth in a tight, petulant line, and bowed to her.
As if in slow motion, Hank watched the scrap of silk cloth slither away from the thing it covered as Bricktop bowed, revealing the thing beneath his arm.
Hank’s heart stopped beating.
A rusty ticker head, wide band of flat metal forming the curve for the bottom of the face, two eye-bulb
s dim and unlit.
A scratch marred the jaw-plate, running from ear to chin, where Bones had taken a blow from a dresl’s sword once, when they were acquiring a load of Shinra statuary for an interested buyer.
Bones.
Before he even realized what he was doing, Gerard was in motion, lifting the hammer and running at the man, screaming and roaring all at once as his shock and grief sought an outlet.
Part of him registered that Dame Vakaena simply stepped aside, lifting a hand to stop her guards as she watched with curiosity. Most of him didn’t care about anything except that round piece of metal in Bricktop’s hands.
Bricktop, who had seen Bones and been too interested in him. Bricktop, who had an Ardelan butterfly under glass. Bricktop, who probably knew that Hank been going to Bespin, and who had more than enough reason to want to steal from Hank exactly the sort of thing that Hank had stolen from him.
Betrayer.
Bricktop, who would not live long enough to eat through a straw.
Gerard slowed, lifting the heavy hammer to thigh height and twisting at the waist, bringing the hammer to Bricktop’s knees from the side.
Brief surprise shifted immediately to pain as the man collapsed, screaming to Vakaena to help, at Hank to stop, at anyone who would listen.
The ticker head rolled across the tiled floor. Another wave of fury built up and crashed against him.
He lifted the hammer again, forcing the knot of terrible emotions through his hands, along the silver shaft, and into the hammer’s stone head. The hammer shone, glowing white a light so bright and so terrible that he could not look directly at it. Hands aflame, he slammed the hammer’s head in a shining arc, down upon the betrayer.
The screaming changed pitch, and no longer contained words.
Again, and the screaming changed to whimpering.
Bones was gone. Dismantled. Torn apart.