She glanced up and saw that the man—the creature—was gaining on them, would be on them in another moment, but she refused to let go of the old man despite his hissed entreaties for her to leave him and run. I won’t stand by and let it happen again, she thought, gritting her teeth and giving the old man another jerk, I will not. “Get back, you bastard!” She screamed, but the creature ignored her, stalking closer.
Memory felt hot tears of frustration and fear streaming down her face as her muscles burned and threatened to give out. She hissed with effort as she forced herself to take another step, then another, the magister growing heavier with each passing moment. Suddenly, Pellin screamed, a grating, heart-wrenching sound of agony, and on the next step she came up short as she met some resistance, and the Magister’s screaming turned into a shrill keening that was one of the worst sounds she’d ever heard.
She turned and saw the Bloodless standing over Pellin, its sword buried in the old man’s stomach, pinning him to the road. The creature’s face remained devoid of any emotion as it twisted the blade, cutting up into the Magister until his screaming abruptly turned into gagging, bloody coughs and then went silent altogether.
Memory couldn’t repress the cry of grief and rage that tore from her throat. She stared in shock at the Magister’s corpse, at the blood, so dark as to be almost black, pooling on the street.
The creature jerked at her cry, like a marionette whose strings had been given a savage tug, and it turned its gaze to her, its head still dangling at an impossible angle. Up close, its eyes were even more terrifying, and before she knew it, Memory found that she was turning to run. She’d made it only a step before the Bloodless shot forward, impossibly fast, and a hand as cold as ice and as unyielding as a blacksmith’s tongs latched onto her arm.
She screamed in pain and surprise as the fingers dug into her arm and turned to see the creature’s sword arm jerk into the air in one unnatural motion. This is it, she thought, Divines, if you are real, please let it be quick.
Then, just as she was sure the blade was about to come down, a bloody form tackled the Bloodless, and they both crashed to the ground a few feet away.
Memory stared, wide-eyed, as Pellin looked at her from his place on top of the creature, his blood-covered face twisted in agony, “Run,” he croaked, “you … have to—” his words turned into a scream as a blade exploded out of his back in a shower of blood and gore. The Bloodless lifted him on the sword’s point as if he weighed nothing, using only one arm in the effort and showing no sign of strain. Then it swung the blade to its side and the old man tumbled to the ground and lay unmoving.
Memory stared at the corpse of her friend in shock, her heart hammering in her chest. How had the Church found them? No, it didn’t matter how, only that they had. She stared past the Bloodless to the warehouse where the entrance to the caverns lay. Run, Pellin had said, but how could she? How could she when, even now, the people who’d trusted her to protect them could be dying? For all she knew, they were already dead.
Grief and shame struck her with a force so powerful that she found she couldn’t find her breath. Then the Bloodless rose, staring at her with cold gray eyes that held no pity or remorse, no emotion at all. Hot tears of rage wound their way down her face, and Memory reached for one of the knives she always kept secreted about her person. She had failed them, all of them. They had trusted in her, and she had not been strong enough, smart enough to protect them. She drew the knife and braced herself, staring at the creature that, until the last couple of days, she’d thought only existed in the nightmares of children. She had not protected her people, had not kept them safe. The least she could do was die with them.
She started toward the creature but memory of Pellin’s words cut through the anger racing through her, and she froze, gasping. They know, he’d said. But what did they know? They knew of her, of the caverns. Did that mean they knew of Anna, too? Terror as cold as ice washed over her. Please, no, she thought, Divines, look after her. She slid the knife back into its sheathe and turned, sprinting down the street, promising herself that she would come back, would die if necessary to try to protect her people. But first, she had to make sure Anna was safe. Please, don’t let me be too late.
She turned down an alley and gasped, jerking to a halt. A shadowy form stood at the end of the alleyway. In the darkness, she wasn’t able to make out the figure’s features, but she could see the outline of a sword held in its hand. By some trick of the gathering night, the sword didn’t look like a regular blade—it looked black, as if it had been forged from the darkness itself.
Memory shot a nervous glance behind her. There was no sign of the creature, but she knew it wouldn’t be far behind. She thought about backtracking, finding another way, but she didn’t have the time. Anna needed her, so instead she turned back to the shadowy figure, drawing two thin knives from their hidden sheathes. The familiar feel of the blades was a reassuring weight in her hands. She’d trained with knives ever since her parents and sister had been killed, had paid the best knife fighters in the city to teach her until, eventually, she’d beaten them all. She’d had no plans for the rebellion then, only revenge, and her masters had all been stronger than her, bigger than her. But she had been, she was fast. Torsick, the last and best of her trainers, had once told her that she moved like greased up wind.
Without giving herself anytime for doubt, she rushed forward. The figure must have been taken by surprise because instead of swinging the blade at her, it took a step back. Her knives flashed forward, seeking the contact points she’d been taught: a swipe at the inside of the wrist, a cut at her attacker’s ankle, a stab at the neck, a slice at the bicep. Then, with shock, she realized the figure had dodged them all, weaving in and out of her blows like a phantom, its movements nothing like the jerking, halting motions of the other Bloodless, but graceful, almost like a dance. Desperate, she lunged low, aiming for the figure’s groin, but it moved with impossible speed and the blade missed it by inches. Before she could recover, the figure pivoted and one of its legs snapped out, kicking the knife from her hand. “Memory, wait, damnit. It’s me.”
Memory backed up a step, flexing her aching hand, and transferred the remaining knife to her right hand, the more skilled of the two. Then the figure stepped forward, into the moonlight, and she let out a gasp of surprise as she saw the Harvester standing there. “But I thought you were dead,” she breathed, “You couldn’t have survived. Unless—” Realization struck her like a blow, and her grip on the knife’s handle tightened until it was painful. “It was you. You told them. I trusted you, and you brought them here. They killed Pellin, you son of a bitch!” She charged forward again, leading with the knife. The Harvester managed to sidestep the attack, but he wasn’t prepared for the fist that caught him in the jaw.
He grunted, and she stabbed forward again, but if he’d been stunned or surprised by the hit, he didn’t show it. Instead, he caught her wrist and twisted it in a way that sent a sharp pain lancing all the way up her arm to her shoulder. She cried out, the knife clattering to the ground, but before it hit she was already lashing out with her other hand. He caught it, too, impossibly quick, and pushed her against the side of the alley, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He growled.
“You did this,” she hissed, “they’re all dead because of you, you … you bastard. Go ahead and kill me get it over with.”
He studied her for several seconds and she realized that his eyes, normally gold, were glowing a dim green. “Kill you?” He asked, his voice incredulous, “Kill you? Damnit woman, I came to save you. We came to save you.”
Memory’s thoughts whirled in confusion. We? “No,” she said, shaking her head and struggling, unsuccessfully, to break out of his grip—the bastard had no right to be that strong. “I’m not an idiot. You told them.” She laughed bitterly, “Do you know Blinks and Nicks actually said they liked you. They were worried and wanted to come find you. What did you do to them, you son of a b—”
“Oh?” She hissed, “Then where are they?”
He sighed heavily, “They went to get the others out. As many as they could.”
“Bullshit,” she said. “And if that’s true then what have you been doing? Why aren’t you with them?”
He hesitated and although it was dark she thought she saw a strange look in his green eyes. “I was looking for you. Now, come on. I’ve been doing what I can, but there are too many of them. Nicks and Blinks will be waiting; we’ll go and get the girl and meet up with them.”
She studied his eyes for several seconds, looking for any sign of dishonesty, but if it was there, she did not see it. “But if you didn’t tell them ….”
“Think,” he said, “who else knew everything about your operations? Who else knows about the girl?”
She shook her head, “No one. Only you. You and—” She hesitated then shook her head, not wanting to believe it. “No, it can’t be.”
“What?” Cameron asked, “What are you thinking?”
“Harmen,” Memory said, feeling faint as her mind raced over the events of the past several months, as she thought of how it had seemed as if the Church was always one step ahead of them.
“Harmen?” The Harvester asked, incredulous, “Why in the name of the Divines would you trust that sneaky bastard?”
Thinking back on the last few months, she realized that Harmen had been acting strange. She’d told herself he was only frustrated, that he chafed at the injustices of the Church as she did and was only upset because of their lack of progress. Then she cursed, remembering what he’d said before she left. Make sure you’re back tonight. Promise me. “He made me promise that I’d be back tonight.”
Cameron grunted, “We’ve wasted too much time. Can I let you go, or are you going to attack me again?”
“No,” she said, “I’m … I’m good now.” But, then, that wasn’t the truth was it? She was just about as far from good as she could get. Harmen, the man she’d trusted, the man she’d saved had betrayed her and not just her. Because of him, Pellin was dead. Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face because Cameron released her hands and grabbed her by the shoulders.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said. “She’ll be okay; we’re going to make it in time.”
“But what if—”
He put a finger to her lips, gentle but firm, “No what ifs. Now, grab your stickers; I’ve got the feeling you’ll need them.” With that, he kneeled down and, almost reluctantly, picked up the sword from where it lay. As he did, Memory realized with surprise that the sword hadn’t looked black, it was black. A black that seemed somehow darker, somehow deeper than the night that surrounded it. She had heard of Astrian blades before, but she had never seen one, and there was something mesmerizing about its black, shining surface. For his part, the Harvester studied the sword as if he half-expected it to turn in his hand and attack him. Then, finally, he nodded at her and started into the night. Memory followed after, anger boiling within her; she would make sure Anna was safe and then she would find Harmen make him pay for all the suffering he’d caused.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Memory followed behind the Harvester as he charged through the back alleys of Carel, barely able to keep up with his shadowy form. They passed two dead Bloodless on their rush through the city, their heads separated from their bodies, and the lack of attention Cameron paid them made it obvious that he had been the one who’d cut them down. More proof, had Memory needed it, of the Harvester’s skill with the blade he carried.
Her own thoughts centered on Anna, a helpless little girl that she’d sworn to protect. She didn’t know why Harmen had betrayed them, and she hated him for it, but for now she cared nothing of revenge, cared only for holding her niece in her arms, for knowing that she was alive and safe.
Finally, they came to the mouth of the alley where she’d spent so many nights. A body lay in the street, its head hanging loosely from a neck that had been almost completely severed, and Memory gasped with horror as she realized it was the body of Aldrick Callen, the man who’d taken Anna in, who’d been like a father to her. “No,” she breathed, “please no. We’re too late.” She didn’t realize the strength was going out of her legs until she found herself on her knees, her face buried in her hands.
“No,” the Harvester said.
She looked up, tears streaming down her face, “He’s dead. They’ve already been here, Cameron don’t you get it? They’ve already been here.” The tears came harder then and, for the first time since she’d watched her family murdered, she did not try to hold them back. She shook with the force of the emotion pouring through her. She fell to her knees and wept. She cried for a city damned and cursed by the very people that were supposed to protect it, cried for those who had trusted her and paid the ultimate price for that trust. She cried for herself, too, but most of all she cried for a little girl who’d done nothing to deserve the evil that had visited her.
Cameron laid a hand on her shoulder, and she slapped it away, “Don’t touch me,” she hissed. “I’ve failed, don’t you understand? I’ve failed them a—”
She cut off in surprise as the Harvester grabbed her arms and jerked her to her feet. “Be quiet,” he said, “You can feel sorry for yourself later. For now—”
“How dare you—” she began, but he shook her, startling her into silence.
“Look at him,” he said, turning her head to the dead man, “Look.”
She tried to turn away from the gruesome sight, but the Harvester held her steady, and she was forced to gaze upon the corpse of a man who’d taken in a strange child and treated her like his own. Aldrick’s eyes, always so kind when they looked upon her niece, were now still and cold in death, his face twisted from the agony of his last moments. Memory decided that she didn’t want to see this, that she couldn’t see this. She was just about to look away, to demand that Cameron release her when she noticed a fresh pulse of blood from the terrible wound in Aldrick’s neck. “Why—” she started, then stopped, her eyes going wide. A fresh pulse of blood. “He’s still bleeding.”
“That’s right,” Cameron said, and she turned to see his alien green eyes flashing like emeralds in the darkness, “perhaps we’re not too late, not yet. Now listen, they’ve probably got men posted outside in case—” His next words were drowned out by screams coming from inside the house. Those of a grown woman, grief and terror combined in a cry that was more animal than human and another, smaller cry that made fear and relief well up in Memory in equal measure.
Cameron jerked away from her, drawing his sword, and, without a word, charged through the open door. Memory drew her knives and followed him inside, into chaos.
The chairs in the main room had been turned over, several broken into scraps on the tiled floor. A heavy oak table lay on its side, backed up against the wall. Blood soaked the floor and four men stood in the room, spread out, their swords drawn. Memory didn’t need to see their faces to know them as Bloodless by the puppet-like way they stood. Even as she watched, one of them ripped his sword free of the woman’s now lifeless body.
Memory heard a frightened whimper and looked to see Anna peering out from the edge of the table, a doll clutched tightly in her fist. Her first instinct was to run to the girl, but she knew that the creatures would cut her down before she got close. She was searching for some way around when she realized that one of the men did not have the gray skin or strange posture of the others and—despite the fact that his back was to her—she knew him. Rage flooded through her then, pure, and white, and she gripped the handles of her knives so tightly her hands ached. “Harmen.”
The big man jerked around, surprise and something like shame showing on his face, “Memory?” He asked in the confused voice of a man waking from
a deep dream.
Memory’s heart cried out for vengeance, demanded that she charge the man and see how much she could make him suffer before the others brought him down, but some small part of her hesitated. “Why?” She asked, meeting his eyes, and she was unable to keep the hurt and pain from her voice.
The big man’s surprised expression changed, his face twisting with anger. “Don’t you look at me like that. Just who the fuck do you think you are? What, you think I wanted this? I tried to tell you, I tried, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“What are you talking about?” Memory said, hating herself for the tears that gathered in her eyes. “I saved your life, Harmen. I trusted you, and you swore to the cause.” You swore to me.
“Yeah, you saved my life,” he said, turning and spitting on the floor, “and what good is that, huh? What good since you’re doing your best to get us all killed anyway? It’s not enough you expect us to fight a rebellion, fight a war without killing anyone, no you go and invite the fucking Reaper, one of the very people we’re hiding from into our damned hideout. And then, when he refuses to help you, you let him walk out.” He shook his head in disgust, “You’re too damned soft; you always were. You would have led us all to our deaths. This way’s better. Cleaner.”
“So you think I’m a poor leader,” she said, her voice lifeless, cold, “and maybe I am. So, what, you decide to kill a child?”
“Don’t be a fool,” he said, “the girl’s not to be harmed. She’s just insurance, to make you come. You’re the one they want. Once you’re dead, Marek will let her and me and all the others go.”
Memory stared at the man who’d been her closest friend for over a year and it felt as if she was seeing him for the first time, “Harmen, you poor, stupid fool. Did you really think they’d let you live? After all the trouble we’ve caused them? They’re going to kill you just like the rest of us, just like they’re killing the others in the caverns even now.”
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