“Of course, but it will only work for about forty-eight hours, and it’ll get harder as the blood degrades,” he said, taking the spear, his eyes suddenly wide. “I’ll get right on it.”
Artemis had taken the blanket from her shoulders and wrapped Deeta’s upper body with it, covering his head. “I’ll take care of him and see that he gets the burial he deserves,” she said, her eyes still dark and her expression unreadable. “I do not think I shall find another to take his place.”
“Don’t give up on us humans,” I replied. “He was good, but I’ll guarantee there are others out there with his skills and determination. None will ever replace Ditaolane, but there are those that can continue his work.”
She smiled at me, but there was no warmth in the expression. “Perhaps you are right, but I have become weary of this world and its growing cynicism. I am not sure I have it left in me to choose another.”
She picked up Deeta’s shield, laid it on his chest, then retrieved the spear from Duma, who was already hard at work, scrying for the gunman’s current location. Artemis returned to Deeta’s side and knelt beside him, tucking the spear under his arm. She placed her hands on Deeta, and they both simply disappeared. No flash. No sound. They simply vanished, leaving no sign they’d ever been there. Not even Deeta’s blood. Deeta was the first Guardian I had ever seen die. Just because I didn’t age and had survived far longer than any of my predecessors, that didn’t mean I couldn’t die as easily.
After a moment, I walked over to Duma, who was kneeling over the map we’d brought from his warehouse in Atlanta. He had his finger on Seville, in the southwestern part of Spain.
Duma and I headed back to Martyr’s Square as fast as we could go, avoiding as much of the fighting as possible. We made it through the Ways to Seville without much more than a word spoken between us. Duma continued to act sheepish, and I was still pissed about Deeta’s death and the Hanner Brid. I was furious with Duma—about the whole damn situation. I knew better than to think that some action on Duma’s part might have changed what happened back on that rooftop, but that didn’t lessen my anger toward him. In the hundreds of years I’d known and worked with him, he’d never frozen up. I didn’t get it—and that bothered me more than the rest of it. Deeta was a good man who had served humanity well, but he was dead. Duma, on the other hand, was still alive, and another bout of cement foot might get him killed, or worse, get me killed. Once we get this son of a bitch, Duma and I are going to have it out.
We emerged from the Ways into a large, open parklike area surrounded by palm trees and covered by more dirt than grass. Rooftops and multistory apartment buildings rose above the scrubby trees and palms in almost every direction, but based on the ambient engine sounds, car horns, and road noise, I could tell that a major highway ran somewhere close by.
“We need to find a local map if we intend to keep up with this guy, D. Fast,” Duma said, still unwilling to make eye contact with me.
I hadn’t been in Seville in centuries. I still remembered when it was a Roman outpost called Hispalis founded by a predecessor, Heracles. It had changed more than a little bit since then.
“I know where we are. There’s a gas station on the other side of those buildings. They should have a street map for us to track him locally.” Duma pointed at a high-rise to the north.
“Let’s go.”
Thankfully, there weren’t many people walking around the late-afternoon sunshine yet, though street traffic was heavier than I preferred—especially since I was armed to the teeth. My militant appearance combined with the events of the last few hours kept me on edge as we ran down alleyways and behind buildings, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. The few people we did encounter simply ducked their heads, sped up, and gave us a wide berth.
We were making good time along one alley when Duma stopped, placed a hand on my shoulder to stop me as I passed, and met my gaze. “D, I’m sorry I froze up back there.” It was a few long seconds before he continued. “I… I’m not sure what happened.”
“We don’t have time for this—”
“D, wait. You don’t understand. I. Don’t. Know. What. Happened. The guy said stop, so I needed to stop. I can’t explain it. I’m not making excuses. I’m trying to apologize. I let you down, and your friend got killed. I’m sorry.”
I held his gaze as he talked. He was as contrite as I’ve ever seen him, which was saying a lot. Emotions were a stretch for fae, but for a Peri, it must have been serious gymnastics. They usually don’t even understand them enough to fake them. Apparently, though, they are either learnable or contagious over time, because Duma’s apology was sincere.
“He was a Guardian and a friend, but I didn’t know him as well as I should have. I hadn’t even seen him in years.” I placed my hand on his shoulder. “My greatest concern back there was that your inaction would get either you or me killed. This guy we’re after—that guy back there in Libya—is dangerous, and we’re going to have to be all-go, no-quit to catch his ass before he kills someone else. I need to know you’ve got my back, Duma.”
“I’m telling you, D, my actions were entirely involuntary,” he replied, his eyebrows raised and his head cocked. “I had to stop. I don’t get it. I’ve never felt anything like that before.”
“You’re saying this guy pulled some sort of Jedi mind trick on you?” Then I remembered the odd aura flash and the buzzing sensation in my head when the Hanner Brid had said to stop. “Didn’t you say that Blud had the ability to confuse and mislead people?”
“Yeah, that’s their thing, but normally, it wouldn’t affect another fae so strongly,” he replied.
“But if the stories are true, he’s also half Succubus, right? They are also master manipulators, and who knows what kinds of abilities that might give him, even as a half-breed?”
“Maybe. It would explain a lot. But why didn’t it affect you?” Duma asked.
“I’m guessing it’s because of my ability to see through glamours and mental tricks. I sensed something on that roof, but I was able to fight through it. Come on—we gotta get that map.” The fact that it may not have been voluntary inaction on Duma’s part went a long way toward forgiving him. “You think you can ignore him if he tries it again? The last thing I need is for you to turn on me when we catch up to him.”
“Maybe,” he replied. “I don’t know. His request sounded damn reasonable at the time. I guess it depends on what he asks me to do.”
I didn’t like his answer, but I needed his help. There was no way I could track the Hanner Brid and avoid both fae courts at the same time. I was going to have to risk it.
A few blocks later, in the alley behind the gas station, I pulled off my vest and cuirass and went into the store to find a map. Using Duma’s credit card, I also grabbed bottled water and three local maps, just in case. Frankly, since the art of scrying was tantamount to complex thaumaturgy in my book, I didn’t know what exactly Duma might need. I contemplated buying food, too, but greasy gas station food, even in Spain, wasn’t going to cut it.
“Why can’t we use a GPS?” I asked Duma as I handed him the maps and a bottle of water.
“Not really sure, actually.” He opened his bottle and took a big drink. “Never tried it, but somehow, I doubt electronics and harnessing and refocusing specific energy will go together. I’m all up for trying it, just not right now.”
I pulled my gear back on then sat on the hood of a rusty car in the alley behind the gas station while Duma spread the map out on the ground and conducted his ritual for scrying. It took an agonizing ten or twelve minutes.
“Got ’im,” Duma said through a big, toothy smile. “I should have known. He’s a few blocks away, and I know the place. You’re not gonna like it, though.”
“What do you mean I’m not gonna like it?” I asked, sliding off the car. “And what I like or d
islike is irrelevant right now.”
Duma snorted as he gathered his things, and we left as quickly as was prudent. “This place we’re headed is kinda like a flophouse,” Duma said as we walked down an alleyway that led us into a warren of industrial buildings and warehouses. “It’s mostly frequented by runaways and derelicts of all races,” he replied, waving his hands around. “Not to mention the occasional fugitive.”
I knew him well enough to know he wasn’t telling me the whole story. “So?”
“So… you”—he hooked his thumb at me—“probably won’t be welcome there.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that statement. It actually ticked me off a little. As a human, I tended to think of this world as mine, especially within a human community as old as Seville. And I was a Guardian, a protector of humanity, which meant I went anywhere I needed to go. Besides, I had no problem ignoring beings, even fugitive ones, as long as they weren’t causing trouble for humans.
And then I realized the structures around us had changed. None of the buildings had windows, and the area was barren of life—even rats. Oddest of all, it was clean. There wasn’t so much as a random scrap of paper or plastic on the ground, and the walls were all devoid of graffiti of any kind. The deeper we traveled into the maze of alleys, the more evident it became that the path had been specifically designed that way. Becoming more vigilant as we walked, I noticed subtle glamours over side passages, likely meant to obscure emergency exits or back entrances. The occasional shadowy figure quickly melded into darker recesses and corners. Not once since we’d entered, however, had I heard even the slightest sound—not even traffic on the nearby major highway.
“How much farther?” I asked in a hoarse whisper.
“Shush, and stay behind me,” he replied out of the corner of his mouth. “And whatever you do, don’t pull a weapon. And if we get in, don’t go all Guardian-y on me. You got me?”
I didn’t know what bothered me more: the fact that Duma expected I would go all Guardian-y—whatever that meant—or the fact that we were about to walk into an unfamiliar place populated by potentially dangerous miscreants. Either way, I didn’t like it. I especially didn’t like that Duma wanted to go into this den of outcasts and fugitives without so much as a nail file drawn. I left my swords sheathed and my guns holstered, but my fists were cocked.
I followed Duma up to a massive metal door that could have been taken from a nuclear silo, except it had one of those stupid slots that slides open so the guy inside can scowl out menacingly and ask for the secret password. The entire building was shrouded in a cloak of magic—more accurately magics. Plural. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, my skin became clammy, and I couldn’t stop rubbing the fingers of my right hand together.
Duma knocked a few times, but nothing happened.
“Try—”
Duma flashed me a withering glare over his shoulder with his stark-white eyes wide and his lips drawn into a tight, thin line.
I stood there, hands on hips, staring at the ground.
After another few minutes of standing around in utter silence, I was about to say something about knocking again, when Duma quickly waved his hand at me, trying to get me to step out of view. I did. Reluctantly.
Eventually, after yet another few minutes, the little slot in the door slid open with a sharp snick. Duma lifted his head ever so slightly to peer into the slot.
“Who’s the human?” asked a thick, gravelly voice.
“He’s with me,” Duma replied. “I’ll vouch for him.”
The slot closed, and we remained standing there for another few minutes. I folded my arms across my chest and hung my head with an audible sigh. With nothing better to do, I kicked at loose stones on the ground.
Finally, a loud metallic clunk came from within the substantial door, followed by a rattling sound. Then the door slid open enough to prove it was no longer sealed. Duma glanced at me with his eyebrows raised then grabbed the handle. Pulling with all his might, he swung the heavy door open with the high-pitched screech of metal grinding on metal. After about two feet, it stopped solidly. The gap was only big enough to allow a single person to pass through at a time, and I followed Duma into an area shrouded in a heavy, damp black mist that blocked all light from entering.
Whatever was shrouding the space wasn’t a glamour or magic, because I would have been able to see through those. Even the sunlight failed to penetrate more than a few inches into the murk, but I could make out some sort of indistinct magical aura to our right as we entered. Once we were both inside, the heavy outer door squealed shut again, followed by the same combination of rattling and clanging that had accompanied its opening—only louder. Once sealed in, we were in pitch darkness, save for the coursing magical aura I perceived through the gloom—which I assumed was some sort of protection enchantment. Suddenly, I found myself back in the blackness of the cell on Poveglia, and I had to fight to shut down the panic rising in me. Thankfully, the dank miasma began to fade after the last clunk from the outer door.
As the mist cleared, I realized we were standing in a small entryway facing a single door. To our right, in the fading murk, stood a powerful but squat figure about my height. He didn’t possess the magical power I perceived, but was composed of it. Before I could think twice about the odd figure or determine its disposition toward us, the interior door opened, and Duma stepped through it without hesitation. I followed, curious about what I would find now that I was down the rabbit hole.
Chapter 20
The odd magical figure stayed inside the entryway as Duma and I passed through the door into a large, open warehouse. The bulk of the humid, dimly lit space was one giant open room with tables, benches, chairs, and beat-up old couches that formed a common area right out of a medieval fraternity house. Old, dark wood walls, hidden behind piles of garbage in some spots, lined the edge of the common area. Darkened hallways and closed doors alternated along the wall in areas not taken up by the garbage piles. All in all, the place was dingy and smelled like the large-mammal house at a zoo. Musty wood, candle wax, and the acrid odor of a well-used gym all combined with the cloying aroma of rotting garbage. The only light came from hundreds of candles. They were stuck in candelabras, chandeliers, and wall sconces, while some randomly sat on tables. It was a disgusting firetrap. I feel cozy all over.
At first, the room appeared empty, then I sensed movement from all around us. I followed Duma toward the center of the room, a location that made me very uncomfortable. As a rule, a soldier recons an unknown area from the periphery first, not only to avoid getting caught in an indefensible position, but also to find alternate means of egress. We were putting ourselves center stage. My hand instinctively wandered toward the holster on my vest, but Duma slapped it away, surprising me.
In the second it took me to recompose myself, two humanoid figures stepped out of the darkness from opposite sides of the room. One was gigantic and would have given Duma’s enormous brother, Abraxos, an inferiority complex. The other was slender but moved with fluid ease and a greater presence than the tall but slim build suggested. The slender figure kept to the shadows along the wall to our right, while the two-legged mountain lumbered out into an area to our left lit by a chandelier covered in drippy candles.
The gigantic creature’s face was grotesque. The skin on the planet-sized bald head was a grayish green and was covered in boils or warts, or both. Its mouth was misshapen and lopsided, with one large lower canine protruding from thick lips. The small, dark eyes, however, were alert and showed signs of curiosity and intelligence as it eyed me in particular. The thick, ropy muscles in its arms, chest, and neck twitched constantly as they tensed and relaxed, but luckily, the creature had no weapons that I could see. Not that it would need any with the logs it had for arms.
While I sized up Snaggletooth, several more figures appeared at the edges of my periphera
l vision—which made me do a double take.
“What brings you here, Duma?” the figure asked in a smooth voice deep enough to suggest it was male.
I focused on the newcomers. Three figures, including the one who had addressed Duma by name, stood in front of us at the far reaches of the room. The speaker was close to my height and dressed in ratty clothes that were probably salvaged from a garbage can. A hoodie pulled over his head hid his face. The two flanking him looked every bit as grungy, but the one to his right was taller and lankier, while the other had a similar build to the first. No one appeared to be armed, nor did I perceive any signs of magic or glamours from them. Still, it was clear that none of them was human.
“And who did you bring with you?” the hooded figure asked, taking a few steps toward us.
“Don’t worry; he’s with me.” Duma crossed his arms over his chest as he faced the speaker. “We’re looking for someone.”
“Are you now?” Grungy replied, matching Duma’s stance. “Who, may I ask, are you seeking?”
Duma strode purposefully toward Grungy, stopped less than a foot away from him, then leaned in to close the distance even farther. “I think you know, Gracen,” Duma said in a whisper that managed to carry through the open space. “Tell us where the Hanner Brid is, and we’ll collect him and leave.”
Of course Duma would know this guy.
“The Hanner Brid?” Gracen laughed, leaning away from him. “Seriously? I thought you stopped believing in the boogeyman when we were children, Duma.” He took a step back and placed his hands behind him. The two figures flanking Gracen let out phlegmy cackles.
Reading fae was difficult, so I didn’t know what to make of their reactions. If they had been fae of either court, they could twist the truth, but they couldn’t lie. Duma had said these guys were outcasts, though, and that could mean they were Anseelie—neither Dark nor Light Fae. That would mean they had no issues with lying.
Chaos Unbound (The Metis Files Book 2) Page 16