Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series

by Richard Denoncourt

  Eli kept pushing the helmet back so it wouldn’t slip over his eyes. It reeked of the other man’s sweat.

  “Which way?” he whispered.

  “We’ll go out the back,” Rocio said.

  Peter let out a low moan, his head dangling.

  Nice touch, Eli sent.

  Once they were in the corridor, which was only half full of leaning, smoking, chattering clients and their whores, Eli put on his best Legionnaire growl and started yelling for people to get out of the way.

  “Come on, git, move it. We got a rowdy one comin’ through, about to get his pellets squashed by my boot.”

  “Don’t overdo it,” Rocio whispered.

  The crowd laughed at Eli’s announcement. Two Legionnaires emerged from around the corner, saw Eli, and approached. Eli put his head down.

  “What’s going on here?” one asked.

  “Got us a rowdy one,” Eli said, motioning at Peter with his chin. “Tried to wrestle me to the ground.”

  The guards surveyed Peter, saw his split lip and swollen cheek, and nodded.

  “Don’t go easy on him. They should know how we do things here.” He studied Eli a moment longer. “Hey, wait a minute. You’re not—”

  The man didn’t finish. Eli kneed him in the balls, sending him to the floor with a yelp. The other guard yanked his sword out of its sheath, rearing back. Rocio swiped at it, knocking it out of its deadly path at the last second. It glanced off Eli’s shoulder armor.

  Peter had joined the fight at this point. He was dancing around the guard, punching his throat and kidneys. Eli took his time pulling his meaty fist back before launching it at the guard’s jaw. With a dry heave, the man tumbled to the ground, eyes rolled up in his head.

  Abort. Abort. Get the hell out!

  Dominic.

  “Wrath,” Eli said. “Did you get that, too?”

  But Peter was staring up at the central staircase leading to the second floor.

  “Smoke,” he said, his face splitting into a grin.

  Eli followed his gaze, seeing dark smoke pouring against the ceiling from the second floor. A smell like burned wood and plaster assaulted their nostrils. The smoke tumbled down the stairs, moving less like smoke and more like some kind of galloping demon. Real smoke didn’t move like that.

  Perfect timing, Mike, Eli sent.

  Peter added, Where’d you learn that?

  “What’s happening?” Rocio said.

  Cupping his hands around his mouth, Peter shouted.

  “Fire! Everyone, get the hell out!”

  Ian stepped into the room, his footfalls silent against the lush red carpet. His mouth hung open in shock at the scene laid out in front of him.

  Two men, both wearing leather facemasks, were in the process of tying the woman to the top of the bedposts. In this position, she looked as though she were kneeling over the foot of the bed in a posture of crucifixion. She was naked except for a leather bra and panties with a ball-gag in her mouth, the freckles on her belly just as Ian remembered them.

  The men stared at Ian, eyes wide and teeth bared inside their masks. They wore no shirts—one was fat with curly hair all over him, the other skinny as a rail with a nose that made an unsightly bulge inside his mask.

  The woman’s eyes rolled madly as she moaned around the gag.

  Ian fell into his next movements. He sped up his awareness, the room and its inhabitants coming into stark detail—the sweat clear on their flesh, the leather reflecting the overhead light. He darted around the bed, hunting knife flashing in his right hand. His first stab took the skinny man in the right kidney. Before the man could fall to his knees, Ian managed to slash the rope holding up the woman’s left arm. He tried not to think about her as someone he knew, but the name kept surging in his mind.

  Sally Woodhouse. Look what they did to her. Look what they did to Sally.

  He kicked the skinny man’s legs out from under him, letting him bleed out on the carpet. Then he slashed the rope holding up Sally’s right arm before leveling the knife between himself and the larger man, whose mind reeked of a signature Ian had sensed before.

  The man backpedaled until he hit the wall, stammering as he tried to calm his attacker.

  “Please, wait. Stop.”

  He held up a gloved hand to halt Ian’s approach. The gloves, Ian saw with a flash of rage, had spiked metal knuckles.

  The sick bastard. The freak.

  And that signature—Ian had sensed it before. Back in Gulch.

  But that was impossible.

  Unless…

  Ian lunged, grabbed the hand, and pulled. The man’s leather boot caught against the carpet. He fell smack onto his knees, then began to howl in pain.

  Ian tore off the mask, freezing when he saw who it was.

  “Joe Bigg,” he said.

  One of his father’s ministers, the man who oversaw the water purification and distribution process, who was always cleaning his nails at meetings and fixing his stinking gelled hair. Joe Bigg, the asshole who constantly glared down his nose at everyone else in town—as if, by some miracle, the water they needed to survive just sprang from his hands like magic.

  Bigg had come into Ian’s house many times before, for meetings with his father. The man had always liked Sally Woodhouse, always told John Meacham he had to find himself a maid like that one, because she was such a fine piece of ass. Ian had overheard many such conversations, had, in fact, grown up hearing them.

  “You spiteful traitor,” he told the minister.

  “Oh God, Ian,” Bigg said, breathless and panting. “Thank God it’s you. I’ve—I’ve been gathering information to—to put together a team to come get her…”

  Ian punched him in the mouth, glorying in the satisfying pop. Bigg fell on all fours, coughing out blood and teeth. Across the room, the skinny man clawed his way toward the open window.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Ian said, lifting his right foot and slamming the heel into the man’s kidney wound with a wet smack. The man let out a sputtering cry of agony before collapsing.

  Ian ripped off his mask, already suspecting who he would find.

  “Gerald Kepplinger,” he said. “I’m not surprised.”

  He turned the man onto his back. That familiar, sleepy old face. Even now, scared out of his wits, the man’s eyelids were at half-mast. His lower lip glistened with spit, trembled as he tried to speak. From the bed, Sally grunted as she tried to untie her feet from the bedposts.

  “Ia-Ia-Ian Meacham,” Kepplinger said. “You stabbed me.”

  “That’s nothing compared to what you have coming.”

  The man’s enormous eyelids squeezed shut, a pair of trembling walnut shells. He made a squealing sound like a live pig being sliced open, kicking his legs against the carpet.

  “Please. Please.”

  Ian flew forward, the knife slipping out of his hand as Bigg tackled him from behind. The bigger man pinned him to the carpet, grinding his face against the itchy fibers and began grinding.

  “You little prick. I don’t care who your father is. You’re gonna—oomph!”

  The pressure lifted, allowing Ian to breathe again. He twisted, kicked Joe Bigg away, and saw Sally, in all her red-cheeked beauty, standing over them with Ian’s knife in hand. Cords of muscle were visible in her thighs and arms. Her breasts, lifted into pink circles by the brassiere, rose and fell as she drew a series of deep breaths. A web of blood stained the blade.

  “Here.” She handed Ian the knife.

  Joe Bigg let out a gasp as he dropped. Blood spread from a wound in his back. One of his hands flopped like a dying fish as he tried to reach behind himself to stop the bleeding. Ian did what he felt was a favor—he jabbed the knife into the man’s neck, severing his jugular, before yanking it back out. For a moment, lying next to him on the floor, he watched as the blood sluiced out of him.

  “Jesus,” Sally said, though she sounded more amazed than afraid. Her time in this place had evidently hardened her.


  “He had it coming,” Ian said.

  “What about him?” She thrust her chin at Kepplinger.

  Ian pushed off the floor, then made his way toward the skinny man. Kepplinger struggled to get up, but Ian kicked out the back of his knee, sending him sprawling. Without hesitation, Ian swung the blade, planting it into the nape of the man’s neck, severing his spinal cord and killing him instantly.

  “Smoke,” Sally said, facing the door. “Can you smell it?”

  Ian checked to make sure both men were dead. Satisfied, he slapped his hands together as if to clear away dirt.

  Sally, with practiced movements, removed the leather bra and panties. Ian watched, feeling nothing but a mild sense of urgency. He couldn’t see or smell any smoke—all he saw were the freckles on Sally’s chest, the dark orange nipples swaying as she struggled into a Roman maid costume. She hadn’t bothered to turn around.

  “What’s the matter? Didn’t see enough when you were a kid?”

  “What?” Scoffing, he went for the knife. The act of removing it from Kepplinger’s neck made a loud sucking sound. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The hole in the closet wall?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Found it one day. I’m assuming that was you.”

  “Nope.” Ian wiped the knife on the bedsheets before tucking it into its sheath. “We’ll talk later. Let’s go.”

  “I’m not going back to Gulch.”

  A sudden piercing sensation at the border of Ian’s consciousness. A telepathic attack, maybe.

  No. It was just Michael.

  Let me in, prick.

  Ian opened himself to Michael’s influence. Suddenly, he saw thick gray smoke flicker into view the way a TV screen flickers when the antenna was adjusted.

  The son of a bitch had actually pulled it off and sustained an illusion, complete with a realistic smell. Ian had taught him to create decoys, but those were mere flashes—a play on a person’s perception of light. This was something else. How in the hell…

  “I’m not going back,” Sally said, having confused Ian’s awestruck expression to mean he didn’t believe her. “I’m not going anywhere near your father.”

  Ian met her eyes steadily. “My father won’t be around for much longer. Trust me.”

  “Jesus,” she said, her brow furrowing. “Things are that bad?”

  “Talk later.” Ian opened the door, took her by the hand, and led her—both of them coughing now—into the smoke.

  Dominic entered the street again.

  He’d left Reggie on the roof. Men, whores, and Legionnaires rushed out of the Palace and turned to gawk at the building, expecting a pillar of smoke. The illusion wouldn’t stretch that far and it was flimsy at best. Soon, the guards would realize their mistake; the building wasn’t burning at all.

  Dominic ran around to the rear of the Palace. The alley was filled with men kissing the necks or lips of gaudily dressed women. Light from the building’s elegant windows fell against the brick, illuminating the couples pressed to the walls. There was blood on Dominic’s face and hands. These people might see that as a threat. He went on regardless, peering through the windows as he passed, sending to the boys that they should meet him here if they had to come out the back.

  Men glanced at him, their faces elongating in fear and surprise. They pulled their women out of the alley. A few of the men, the ones searching for trouble, stood in his way.

  “Alleyway’s closed,” one said, all beard and yellow eyes, wearing a stained shirt, torn jeans, and boots. He was inspecting the blood on Dominic’s hands and the knife he held.

  “Put it away,” the man said, now flanked by his two buddies, both of whom were not-so-subtly reaching around their hips as if to yank pistols out of their belts.

  “I need to get through,” Dominic said.

  “You put that knife away and give up some coin, then maybe we’ll talk.”

  Dominic was silent. He could sense Michael’s illusion waning. The boy wasn’t strong enough yet—Dominic was still stunned he’d been able to pull off a mass illusion at all this early in his training. Maybe it was a fluke?

  A jab to the man’s throat sent him to his knees like a curtain loosed from its rod. Dominic was behind the other men before they could make sense of what had happened. He was a shadow moving in ways a shadow wasn’t supposed to.

  A woman screamed as one man was lifted and thrown. Another man smiled, but not with his lips—the smile had been cut into his neck. He fell, clutching his wound, then gurgled his last words, his eyes roving wildly in search of his attacker.

  They fell one by one. The women, seeing no attacker, probably assumed a malevolent force of some kind had been unleashed into the alley, a demon merged with shadow that had no solid form. People had described Dominic’s work that way before.

  Blood pooled. The women left footprints of it on their way out of the alley.

  The last man to die fell on a pile of bodies, wild eyes staring at the sky, hands clutching the wound in his belly. He focused once more to take in the sight of his killer’s smiling face looming over him.

  “They should pay me to take the trash out in this city.”

  The man blinked a few times, then died.

  Dominic, sensing the movement, took a step back and watched a chair fly with a fsh noise through the glass, sending bits of it raining down on the bodies. The chair clacked against the brick wall before toppling. People partying and laughing in the street froze, peering into the alleyway to see Dominic staring at them. He pointed with the knife, and they practically tripped over each other to get away.

  Peter was the first through the window, followed by Rocio Martinez, dressed in her costume and covered with sweat. Dominic grabbed Rocio by the waist to help her. When she saw his face, she drew in a delighted gasp and hugged him, apparently not caring about the blood.

  Peter helped Eli get his massive bulk through the window by pulling the armor on his Legionnaire disguise. He finally came through, helmet popping off, and landed on the leg of a body.

  “Damn,” he said, eyeing Dominic. “You really cleaned up in here.”

  “Where’s Michael?”

  Peter pointed to the window. “Upstairs. He made the smoke. Not sure about Ian.”

  “We have to cross Nero Street. Let’s split up. I’ll take the woman.”

  “Rocio,” she said, stressing the first syllable sourly.

  “Both of you take High Street.” He gestured at Peter and Eli. “Cut through the old industrial yard to the rendezvous point. Reggie will cover you along the way.”

  “What about Michael?”

  Dominic closed his eyes.

  Michael, he sent, his head starting to hurt. You have one minute.

  Michael responded a few heartbeats later.

  He’s here.

  Chapter 10

  Michael took the woman’s hand to lead her out of the room.

  It was filled with smoke that burned his mouth and nose every time he inhaled. It wouldn’t hurt him because it wasn’t real, yet his mind had to make it seem real, even to his own senses, in order to maintain the illusion. It was the pain, the acrid smell, and the burning sensation in his eyes that made it real for everyone else.

  They ran down the hallway.

  Michael—you have one minute.

  Dominic sounded anxious.

  A man stood at the other end of the hallway, unaffected by the smoke. He pushed the illusion out of Michael’s mind like wind snuffing a flame. The smoke disappeared, here and everywhere else.

  He’s here, Michael sent, then focused his attention on the telepath.

  He must have been in his early forties. Nothing much about him stood out except the way he was dressed. The clothing, not quite a costume like those of the Legionnaires, but colorful enough to be a uniform, indicated he was one of Roman’s.

  “Who are you?” Michael said.

  The man was blocking the stairs. Behind Michael was a window, but he was
on the second floor and couldn’t risk a broken leg. And, of course, there was the woman.

  The telepath gave Michael a lopsided grin, one eye half-closed in a way that suggested amusement. There was a Desert Eagle in his right hand.

  He lifted the gun. Pulled the trigger. The blast was deafening, and Michael heard a thin squeal in his ears for a time afterward. Fran Baker jerked back. Michael, twisting to push the woman out of the way, his awareness heightening, saw the slug enter her left shoulder and go straight through it to shatter the window beyond.

  Michael ducked, taking Fran with him, then covered her with his body, the command springing from both his mouth and mind with the urgency of a fired bullet.

  “Don’t shoot.”

  Silence. There was no response from the Desert Eagle. Michael opened his eyes. He saw the man staring at him, eyes open all the way in shock. The gun trembled in his hand. His index finger was bent away from the trigger at an odd angle, and it squirmed as if caught in a battle between wanting to touch the trigger and stay as far from it as possible.

  “Put it down,” Michael said—sending the order with his mind and speaking with his mouth—and he no longer had to visualize the string in the man’s head to tell him what to do. The string had become a part of him, had merged with his own. Yet a painful migraine loomed on a stormy horizon. He would pay for this later.

  The man’s right arm jerked. The gun flew from his hand.

  “An ascendant,” he said. “You’re—you’re Michael Cairne.”

  Michael ran to scoop the gun up from the floor. He aimed it at the man’s sternum.

  Footsteps pounded from above. Michael sensed Ian coming down from the third floor, accompanied by someone with lighter, more feminine steps.

  Ian appeared in time to see Michael retreating from the telepath, gun held steady and straight.

  “What are you waiting for?” Ian said. “Shoot him.”

  Michael gazed into the man’s eyes, could sense his telepathic reach trying to disarm Michael’s hold over him. It would work eventually—Michael was losing his grip, somehow losing his hold on his own ability to control this man’s will.