Darkwalker

by E. L. Tettensor

  “Of all the boys in the Five Villages,” she said, “my fool associates had to pick up your pet. But even so—what is he to you, really? Little more than a trained monkey. And yet here you are, about to die for him. It is not like you, Nicolas. You are usually far more pragmatic.”

  “Zach,” Lenoir called, “are you all right?”

  “He can’t hear you,” Zera returned coolly. “He is well past the reach of this world.”

  Zach’s screams seemed to echo anew in Lenoir’s brain. He shoved his way through the door. It was a reckless move, and he paid the price. Someone tackled him to the floor, driving the air from his lungs and pinning him beneath an enormous weight. Lenoir’s gun went off as it hit the floor. His attacker grabbed his wrist and twisted, wrenching the flintlock free and knocking it aside. Lenoir found himself staring up into the bloodshot gaze of the largest Adal he had ever seen. The man’s hands closed around his throat.

  “Hurry, Los,” Zera called. “It’s almost daybreak.”

  Lenoir was amazed at how cold the woman was. Earlier, in the salon, she had at least seemed regretful that they had been pitted against each other. Now, within sight of her goal, she cared no more for him than if he were a perfect stranger. How little we can truly know another person, he thought. Even someone like him, who made it his business to read people, had been completely taken in.

  Focus, you fool!

  His mind had already begun to wander as he was deprived of air; he struggled to stay alert. He pictured the boy: that was his anchor. He fumbled for the gun holstered at his waist. It was empty, but he doubted he would be able to get a shot off anyway. He had something else in mind.

  Los did not realize what Lenoir was doing until it was too late. The Adal released Lenoir’s throat to grab at his hand, allowing him to gulp down a precious lungful of air before slamming the butt of his pistol into the side of Los’s head. The Adal reeled, and Lenoir rolled out from under him, coughing and gasping. He gazed frantically about for the other pistol. Los was reaching for it too. Lenoir grabbed the other man by the cuff of his trousers, and they struggled. The Adal was stronger by far, but Lenoir still had his empty flintlock. He managed to get another good blow in to the side of Los’s face before twisting away, his fingers grazing the hilt of his other gun.

  He was just about to grab it when Zera kicked the pistol out of his reach. Lenoir snarled in frustration and grabbed her ankle instead, bringing her down. Los landed a solid punch against Lenoir’s temple, and his vision flared. Another like that and he would be out cold. In desperation, he brought his knee up under the Adal’s groin and found his mark.

  Throwing Los off him, Lenoir scrambled on all fours to reach his loaded pistol. He got there just in time, spinning and firing just as Los leapt at him. The ball caught the Adal in the neck; Los was dead before he fell, collapsing on top of Lenoir in an inert heap. Lenoir lay still for a moment, catching his breath. As the dead man’s blood spread across his chest, so too did the realization of what he had done. Los was the witchdoctor. Whatever he had done to Zach, he was in no position to undo it now. For all Lenoir knew, Los was the only man in the world who knew whether Zach’s condition could be reversed.

  But Lenoir could not dwell on that now, for there was a more pressing matter to attend to. He rolled the dead man off him and stood awkwardly, his injured foot making him unsteady. He did not see Zera right away; she must be somewhere on the opposite side of the bell cote.

  He rounded the wooden frame and stopped dead, the barrel of his pistol lowering a fraction. “You would not dare,” he whispered in horror.

  Zera’s eyes sparkled madly. “Wouldn’t I?”

  Zach lay unconscious on the parapet, his hair ruffling serenely in the wind. He was inches from the edge. Zera had the collar of his shirt twisted in her fist; the barest move of her arm would shove him over the side. The fall was two hundred feet at least.

  Lenoir leveled his pistol. “Let him go.”

  “I don’t think you really want me to do that,” she returned smoothly, her voice a dark mockery of the cajoling tone she used at the salon.

  “You know what I mean. Get away from him, or I will shoot.”

  Zera only smiled. “You seem to be forgetting, my dear Nicolas, that you are empty.”

  He had forgotten, or he might have been able to bluff his way through. But the dismay showed on his face, and her smile only widened.

  “Don’t worry, Nicolas. I have a solution.” She paused to let that sink in. Behind her, dawn slashed the belly of the sky, a bloody red pooling on the floor of the horizon. It was a dawn Lenoir had not really expected to see, yet he felt no joy in looking upon it. Indeed, he resented its intrusion, for it stripped him of his only ally. Vincent could not come to him now. He was on his own.

  “What is your solution?” he growled.

  “You want the boy returned to you unharmed, yes? I am willing to do that, provided that you allow me safe passage out of Kennian. You will turn around and go back down those stairs. You will leave the cathedral and take the west road back to the center of town. I will watch your progress from here. When I judge you are far enough away, I will leave the boy here in the tower and disappear. You will never see me again. Is that simple enough?”

  Lenoir considered. His gut burned in protest at the idea of letting Zera go. She should be made to pay for what she had done. Yet his mind told him it was the only way. He had no doubt Zera would make good on her threat. He could see it in her eyes, that look of an animal cornered, of a creature that will do anything to survive.

  “If I let you go, how do I know you will not simply kill the boy anyway?”

  “Why would I do that? I’m not a monster, Nicolas, in spite of what you may think. I am prepared to make sacrifices for what I want, but I take no pleasure it. I have nothing against the boy.”

  “And what of his condition? How can I be sure he will recover?”

  She shrugged. “I have no idea. I’m no witchdoctor. You’ll have to figure that out on your own, whether you let me go or not.”

  Lenoir hesitated a few moments longer, but deep down, he knew he had already made his choice. She was right and they both knew it. Besides, Vincent would track her down eventually. Like him, Zera was marked for death.

  “Very well,” he said, “I agree to your terms. I will leave you here with the boy and head in the direction of the station. You can watch me for as many blocks as it pleases you. I will return in three-quarters of an hour, by which time I expect you to be gone, and the boy to be alone in the tower, unharmed.”

  “That is acceptable,” Zera said.

  “No,” said another voice, “it is not.”

  Zera hissed in anger and surprise as Vincent stepped around the bell cote. Startled, Lenoir looked immediately to the horizon. Dawn had already cast a thin blanket of light over the city. The only shadow remaining at the top of the tower was formed by the lee of the bell cote. Vincent’s left side was exposed. Looking back at him, Lenoir saw that his flesh had begun to turn an angry red; tiny tendrils of smoke rose from the surface of his skin. If the spirit felt any pain, however, he gave no sign. He stared at Zera, his absinthe eyes seeming to pin her in place like a stunned rabbit. “She cannot go free,” he said.

  Fear clutched Lenoir’s heart in a cold fist as he realized what Vincent intended. “We must do as she asks,” he said, unconsciously raising his hand in a warding gesture. “The boy is in danger.”

  “The boy is not my concern. This woman has sinned against the dead. She must be punished.”

  “Her punishment can wait!” Lenoir’s voice was shrill with desperation.

  “I have only moments left.” Emphasizing his words, the skin on his left hand opened and began to burn away. “By the time night returns, she will be gone.”

  “She cannot escape you!”

  Vincent turned his gleaming gaze on Lenoir. �
�You did.”

  Lenoir could hear Zera’s terrified breathing from where he stood, a near-hysterical sound that rose in pitch with every successive breath. Any second now, she would bolt. Vincent would stop her. But by then it would be too late. She would push Zach before she ran, hoping the move would buy her a few seconds’ distraction. Lenoir saw it all as clearly as if he were watching a play he had seen before.

  “Please,” he said, his voice scarcely audible even to his own ears. “Just let me save the boy.”

  For the barest of seconds, the stained glass of Vincent’s eyes cracked. Lenoir saw the humanity behind, a frail and tortured thing that peered out like a prisoner longing to be free. “My will is not my own,” the spirit whispered, and the voice seemed to come from somewhere behind those eyes, instead of the cold, hollow depths of his chest.

  Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the crack in Vincent’s gaze was gone, the smooth, imperturbable surface restored. He turned away, stepping fully into the sunlight.

  His flesh withered and peeled back in coils of smoke. Raw muscle appeared, only to blacken and char, revealing the white bone beneath. Lenoir’s stomach heaved, but he could not bring himself to look away. Like Zera, he was pinned to the spot.

  Zera swooned as though she might faint, but she retained enough presence of mind to jerk her arm, threatening Zach. Lenoir thought he saw Vincent’s step lurch, his stride momentarily broken, but he continued forward. Lenoir was helpless to stop him, and too far away to prevent Zera from doing what he knew she would. Still, he moved, his limbs feeling heavy and foreign as the world itself seemed to slow.

  With a hateful shriek, Zera pushed Zach from the parapet. It happened so fast that all Lenoir saw was a flutter of clothing disappearing over the edge. He threw himself at Zera, roaring in fury as he drove her to the floor. He did not care if he was in Vincent’s way. He did not care if the spirit killed them both. He drove his fist into Zera’s face, again and again.

  A scream snapped him out of his blind rage. It was Zach’s voice, and it was coming from just over the parapet. Lenoir scrambled to his feet, staggering at the sight that greeted him.

  A charred and bloodied Vincent was hauling back on his whip like a fisherman with a huge catch, dragging something unseen over the parapet. His blackened flesh was kindled into flame, burning away what remained of his muscle. In moments, he would lose the ability even to move. Lenoir lunged at the parapet. Zach was dangling by his arm, the scourge wrapped tightly around his wrist. The boy was screaming as his flesh died in the grasp of the accursed weapon. Reaching down as far as he could, Lenoir grabbed Zach’s forearm and heaved.

  They tumbled over the top together. Lenoir heard the air hum as the whip came free and found a new target, and then his ears were filled with Zera’s screams. He twisted his head to see what remained of Vincent drop to his knees, his bare bones cracking against the stone. Only scraps of flesh hung from him now, but he no longer needed any. The scourge did its work without his help, squeezing the life from Zera’s throat in seconds. Then, as Lenoir watched, Vincent disintegrated into a pile of ash. The scourge flashed once with a faint green light and vanished, leaving Zera’s blackened throat behind. Moments later, even the ash was gone, borne on the wind to God-knew-where.

  Lenoir rolled Zach gently onto his back. The boy’s skin was deathly pale, but his eyelids fluttered. Suddenly, his body lurched, and he began to choke. Lenoir just managed to get him onto his side before he vomited. Instinctively, the boy’s arm curled up to his stomach, as though he could protect it from the pain he remembered, or the morbid sensation that had replaced it. He opened his eyes and gasped.

  “It’s all right, Zach,” Lenoir said gently. “You are safe now.”

  The boy’s eyes fixed on him. There was no recognition there, only lingering terror. Lenoir’s heart sank. He had seen that look before, in the eyes of the boy Mika, whose experience left his mind violently shattered.

  “You are safe, Zach,” he repeated, more firmly this time.

  Slowly, Zach’s gaze came into focus. Fear gave way to confusion, then relief. He tried to speak, but succeeded only in choking again. Lenoir helped the boy to sit until the coughing fit subsided.

  “Where is he?” Zach gasped.

  Lenoir hesitated. “Who?” He hoped Zach had no memory of Vincent. The boy had gone through enough without having a sight such as that to haunt him for the rest of his days.

  “The other boy.”

  Lenoir shivered. “You saw him?”

  Zach paused, confusion returning to his eyes. “Sure I did. He was here. I mean . . .” He trailed off uncertainly.

  “It does not matter. What matters is that you are safe, and we can go home.”

  “Home,” the orphan repeated absently, as though testing a foreign word. Lenoir kicked himself inwardly for his thoughtlessness. But Zach had other things on his mind; he looked down at his arm, hefting it awkwardly as though it did not quite belong to him. “My wrist feels funny.” He took in the sight of his blackened flesh with surprising equanimity. Perhaps all his fear was spent.

  Lenoir sighed. “Yes. That will never go away, I’m afraid, but you will get used to it. And yours is a small wound, hardly noticeable. It will not greatly affect your life.”

  Zach nodded, accepting this appraisal without comment. He looked around, seeming to take in his surroundings for the first time. His gaze came to rest on Zera. “Who’s that?”

  Lenoir looked over. She lay on her stomach, her face turned toward them, eyes fixed on some distant plane. Lenoir wondered whether she could see Vincent. He wondered whether Vincent was looking out at them through her eyes. He shivered again. “That is Lady Zera,” he said, surprised at the tinge of regret in his voice.

  “She’s dead.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “I guess I don’t need to work for her anymore, huh?” Zach looked up at him, and for the first time, Lenoir saw something like the familiar boyish curiosity blooming in his eyes. He could not help smiling.

  “No, I don’t suppose you do.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  Lenoir got to his feet, extending his hand to help the boy. “Well, then, we should get you something to eat. But first, I think we had better find a place to wash up.”

  They headed for the stairs, Lenoir limping on his injured foot, Zach wobbling on shaky legs. “Is it too early for steak?” Zach asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Lenoir held the door open. Zach paused on his way under Lenoir’s arm, looking up at him severely. “You took a really long time, you know.”

  “I know,” Lenoir said softly. “I am sorry, Zach.”

  The boy shrugged. “You can make it up to me later.”

  Lenoir forced a smile. He could never make it up to Zach, not if he had a hundred years, let alone the single day that remained to him. But for the next few hours at least, he was damn well going to try. He could not think of a better way to spend his last day alive.

  CHAPTER 26

  “This place is small,” Zach said, scanning Lenoir’s apartment with an air of faint surprise.

  “It is,” Lenoir agreed, “though it is surely more comfortable than your quarters at the orphanage.”

  “Not much,” Zach said with the brutal honesty of the young. “You really live here?”

  “You thought it would be grander, perhaps?”

  The boy shrugged. “I guess so, yeah. I mean, you’re an inspector.” He pronounced the word almost reverently.

  “Indeed. A poor public servant, alas.” Lenoir gave a mock bow. “I do not wish to blunt your ambition, Zach, but it is not so very glamorous being a hound. The truth is, we hounds occupy a modest rung on the social ladder. I suspect there are talented whores who earn more than I do.”

  “A good whore does pretty well, from what I’ve seen.”

  Lenoir regar
ded him with rueful affection. A child in one breath, a seasoned adult in the next. Perhaps that was what drew him to the boy—that compelling mix of innocence and experience. Living proof that it was possible to live among the poison without becoming fatally ill, that one could see the world for what it truly was, yet still work toward something better. “Would you prefer to sleep at the orphanage?” he asked.

  Zach shook his head. “I won’t get any sleep there. The sisters will ask me a million questions, and the other kids too.”

  “So I thought. Rest here, then. Later on, you can go down to the station and give your statement.”

  Zach looked up at him. “What do you mean, I can go down? You’ll come with me, right?”

  Lenoir pasted on a smile. “Yes, of course. Now rest.”

  The boy was fast asleep within minutes. He was exhausted, but otherwise appeared none the worse for his ordeal—except, of course, for the scar on his wrist. Lenoir found he did not have it in him to explain the nature of the injury, or how Zach came to have it. Lenoir had not spoken of it again since they quit the tower, and Zach had not asked. The boy seemed to accept the scar as a relatively benign consequence of his captivity, and considering what had almost happened to him, Lenoir could not disagree.

  He left Zach in peace and headed for the station. He would send one of the watchmen to the orphanage to tell the nuns that Zach was safe. He had debated going himself, but he needed to use these last few hours to file his report, for there would never be another opportunity, and he did not want the details of the case to die with him. Not that there would be much for the Metropolitan Police to follow up—there were no arrests to be made, at least not with the evidence on hand, and anyone whose involvement could be proven had already received judgment. But Kody’s family, and Hardin’s, deserved to know what had happened to their sons.

  The station was nearly deserted. The hounds were still swarming the streets in search of Hardin’s killer. Lenoir found the chief in his office, poring over a stack of recently penned reports, his leathery face pulled into a forbidding scowl.