The Staff and the Blade: Irin Chronicles Book Four (24 page)

She was so tired. She was weak from loaning Damien her magic. She could not do this much longer. The smell of blood and piss was working its way past the mental walls she’d erected. Something in her belly felt torn and twisted. Her hip was bruised and her shoulder bloodied.

Knocked off balance by nausea, Sari saw a young scribe, no older than fifteen, huddling under one of the tables. Tears were streaming down his face and he was trembling.

Have to protect…

She barely felt the blow to her knee. As she toppled over, she saw the Grigori with the dagger in his throat holding a board ripped from one of the benches. He stood over her, his friend gasping and puking in the corner. They’d knocked the wind out of her, and Sari couldn’t find her voice. As she opened her mouth to hurl another spell, the Grigori kicked her head, cutting her off.

Black stars flashed in front of her eyes. Everything began to spin. She barely felt it when they began to kick her body. She curled up, protecting herself and her babe as much as she could. With the last of her strength, she shoved her blade across the floor toward the boy under the table who was biting his lip so hard blood was pouring down his chin.

Please
, she mouthed at him before her world turned black.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

“S
OMETHING
is wrong,” Tala said, pausing at the entrance to the house.

“You mean other than Randel turning ill?”

“There was something wrong with that too,” she said. “I can’t see…”

Damien paused. He knew by now that pushing Tala when she was muttering over something in her head accomplished nothing. He was grateful for his own mate. He loved his sister but didn’t know how Gabriel had the patience for Tala’s rambling sometimes. It had taken far longer to find the house than Tala had imagined. And once they’d found it, they had to wait and make sure no Grigori were around. They only had five men, and Damien was cautious.

Cautious and edgy. He was full of magic and ready to hunt. His senses were almost
too
alert as he tried to hold still in the shadows.

“This is the house,” she said. “I’m sure of it. But it feels… wrong.”

Damien watched the large, empty house at the end of the lane. It was brand-new. Tala had been right. It looked barely finished. No lights illuminated the interior, and no servants moved in the windows. The moon was full, and an eerie silence filled the night. Damien could hear a dog barking in one of the neighboring houses, but no signs of life came from the house where Tala had led them.

Five scribes lingered at his back.

“Tala?”

“We should go in,” she said.

One of his men asked, “Should we scout around the back?”

Damien nodded and two of the men took off, three staying with the watcher and the seer. They walked slowly up to the front door, but no light greeted them. No servant peeked out. No sound of any kind met their ears. A house this grand would always have a resident, even if it was only a caretaker.

“No one is here,” Damien said. “We should go back to the scribe house.”

“But they have been here,” Tala said. “Can’t you smell the sandalwood in the air? There will be something inside. Some intelligence that could help. Try the door.”

It opened when he pushed, which only made the grim feeling in the pit of his stomach heavier.

Damien spoke to his men. “Stay close.”

“Yes, Watcher.”

Tala waited for Damien and the young scribes to clear the entryway. They lit the sconces hanging on the walls and the space shone with mirrors and tinted glass. Tala was right. The smell of sandalwood surrounded him, but he could sense no movement from the adjoining rooms or the floors above.

“It’s exactly as I saw it,” Tala said.

“But no voices,” Damien said pointedly. “No screaming.”

“No.” Tala wandered around the room, climbing halfway up the stairs as Damien examined the dimensions of the entryway and the hallways. There was something off about the structure, and not just because it was empty. It felt smaller on the inside than the outside, but it could have been a trick of the light.

Tala halted on the stairs. “The hallway.”

Damien nodded toward a young brother who took one of the lit tapers to make his way down the hall. Slowly, a long wood-paneled passage was revealed. Leaving two of his men to guard the entry, he took Tala’s arm.

“Are you getting anything?”

“Yes. And no. There is a feeling at the back of my mind, but nothing has become clear yet. There are so many echoes… I’m blocking everything but my vision pathways, but your voices are
shouting
at me.” She gave him a wry smile. “Someone is losing patience.”

“I am at your service, Seer. Take your time.”

“Liar. You’re dying to fight.”

Damien knew he was not an ideal companion for mystical pursuits. He liked hard targets and clear plans. If Tala weren’t his sister, he probably would have refused to work with her despite her rank in the Irina hierarchy. It made strategic sense to take her into this situation—confronting the subject of her vision could trigger some insight into it—but at the moment, he just wanted her curiosity satisfied so he could leave and hunt Grigori.

“There!”

Tala lurched forward, but Damien held her back. “What is it?”

“There. On the ground.”

Damien nodded at the young scribe, but Tala said, “Don’t touch it!”

There was a room at the end of the hall, glowing as if lit from within. As Damien entered, he saw that glass had been built into the ceiling, allowing the full moon to shine through.

When he first glanced down, he thought it was a body. It wasn’t. Someone had laid out an intricate feminine dress—stockings, jacket, and all. Even the shoes and bonnet were placed in neat order.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Women’s clothes?”

Tala reached out and touched a ribbon on the bonnet. Her face was blank. “My clothes.”

Damien and his man exchanged a look. The young scribe drew his dagger and walked down the hall.

“Tala, explain.”

She knelt down. “These are mine. It was a present from Gabriel. He had the dress made for me when I became pregnant. I teased him because it was so beautiful, but I wouldn’t be able to wear it when I grew heavy with child.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“No, of course not,” she murmured, rubbing the ribbon between her fingers. “It’s a town dress, but I didn’t want to leave it here. I keep it at the retreat.”

Icy fear clawed his heart. “You keep it at the village?”

“They’ve been in the village.” Tala looked up. “They’ve been in my house.” Her gaze drifted past him, down the hall where Damien’s soldier had taken position. Her eyes lost focus. “How clever. Of course I would come.”

“Tala?”

“Someone would have fetched me, but I came myself.”

A low warning churned in his gut. “Tala, we need to leave. Now!”

“We can’t.” Tala’s eyes widened. “They’re here.”

Damien turned, realization mixing with horror as he heard scuffling in the walls. Something far bigger than rats.

Every night. I hear his voice crying out every night.

Panels slid away or were kicked through as Grigori burst from hidden passages. They flooded the room, surrounding Tala before she could lift her voice. Before Damien could reach her.

He reached for his blade a second before a Grigori bent over and sliced Tala’s throat. Blood splashed over the flower-strewn silk lying on the floor. Her mouth fell open, but no sound would ever come again.

“NO!”

※

Sari woke in a pool of vomit and blood. Her eyes were crusted shut. Her body was in agony. But she was alive. She felt every bruise. Every cut. Felt the wetness of blood leaking between her thighs.

Do not think of it.

She tried to open her eyes, but a trembling hand reached out and held a wet cloth to her face.

She rolled over, swinging out her arms to defend herself.

“Sister, wait.” It was a young voice. Whispering. Male. “P-please.”

“Who…?”

“I killed them when they were beating you.” A hiccuping sob. “I aimed for their necks and they dissolved. One was almost dead from your magic.”

“Are they gone? Who are you?”

Another cry. “I’m so sorry I hid. I didn’t know what to do.”

She reached out and felt for his hand. Felt for anything. Her body screamed, but the urge to comfort the child was innate. “You killed them and saved my life. What is your name?”

“Bassel.” One of the Syrian boys.

“You did well, Bassel.” Her bruised hand closed around the wet cloth, and she brought it to her eyes to soak the crust of blood that covered them. “They are gone?”

“I think so.”

Silence lay over Sari like a leaden blanket. There were no cries of pain or wails from scared children. When she finally cleared her eyes, she could see that Bassel had dragged her over to a corner of the meeting hall and turned tables and benches to surround them in a feeble barrier. Damien’s blood-crusted blade lay at the boy’s side. Her dress was soaked in scarlet, and Sari knew the tiny life inside her had been extinguished. A keening sorrow threatened to overwhelm her, but she forced it back and focused on the child who lived.

“Have you heard anything?” she asked him. “Anyone else?”

Bassel shook his head.

“I want you to find a lamp and light it.” Sari struggled to her feet and reached for the heavy sword. “We must check the houses.”

He nodded, his own face covered with blood and his lower lip red and weeping where he had bitten it.

They cautiously made their way out the side door and crept around the back of the meeting house. The first cottage they checked held nothing.

“Maybe they all ran into the woods,” Bassel said hopefully.

“Maybe.” She didn’t tell him of the dust she’d seen rising in the setting sun. Didn’t tell him of the bodies that had dissolved before she could rescue them. Sari limped to the next house where an empty set of clothing lay bloody on the ground. She flashed back to another set of clothing.

Terese’s clothing.

Abra—

Do not think of it.

The pain was a blade in her chest, but she kept moving forward.

The minute she let herself bleed, the wound would be unceasing.

More houses. More empty clothes. Small pants and dresses pointing toward the woods where the children had tried to run.

There was nothing but empty dresses at Bassel’s house where his sisters and mother had fled. She left the boy sobbing in the ruins of his home and started for the bathhouse at the center of the village. Bloody linen robes lay kicked in the dust in front of it. The door was cracked open and steam escaped into the moonlit night.

Someone had stoked the fire.

Sari held the lantern up and walked forward. The screaming had already started in her mind, but she wouldn’t let it escape. If she let it out, she would scream forever.

She limped up the stairs and pushed the door all the way open. It swung smoothly, lovingly maintained by the old scribes who tended the library and fed the ritual fire. More steam escaped, clearing the room, and Sari raised the lantern in the red-gold mist.

Tiny piles of clothes lined the walls where the children had sought refuge behind the benches. Dripping blood sprayed the room. Scarlet-stained dresses and caps lay in front of the benches. Other robes, crumpled and piled near the door.

At the end of the room, slumped next to the ritual fire, was the old scribe who had stood in the meeting hall. His guts spilled out of his robes and his hands were drenched in blood as he tried to hold his innards in his own body.

His eyes were glazed over, but he turned toward the sound of her gasp. “Sister?”

The feral moan rose from her throat when Sari knelt in front of him, placing the lantern on an empty bench. She felt her body rocking back and forth.

Do not think of it. Do not think of it. Do not—

“The fire still burns,” the old scribe muttered. “It still burns…”

Hoarse sobs worked their way up Sari’s throat and took hold of her body. Wretched cries crawled up her throat and escaped before she could shove them back.

“Sister…?” For a moment the scribe blinked and his eyes cleared. He met Sari’s agonized gaze before his eyes fell on a small red-stained cap lying near his hand. His wrinkled fingers reached out and rested on the bloody fabric.

“Release me,” he whispered. “Let me join them.” He let go with the hand at his belly, and his intestines spilled onto his linen robes. He took the ritual knife at his waist and handed it to Sari, his eyes pleading. “Release me.”

He let his neck fall forward. Sari took the blade and placed the point at the base of his spine. She hesitated.

“Thank you, sister,” he whispered.

She pushed the dagger in, and his dust rose like the steam filling the room.