Crown of Shadows (33 page)

“You’re making a big mistake,” he warned her. Running a finger down the line of her throat. She trembled as he touched her, and wondered just what she was getting herself into.

“Maybe,” she whispered. She was dimly aware of a couple walking by them, muttering in low tones of their disapproval of such a public display. The fruit vendor was still watching. “I’ll try to learn from it, all right? So I can do better the next time.”

Then he kissed her again, and this time there were no passersby. No street vendors. No Hunter. No anything.

Only him.

Tarrant lay
on a velvet couch in the basement of Karril’s temple, not breathing. His torn silk clothing had been replaced by a heavy robe, rich and plush and festooned with embroidery. Somehow it made him seem that much paler, that much more fragile, to be in such an overdecorated garment. His eyes were shut and his brow slightly drawn, as if in tension, but that was the only sign of life about him. That, and the fact that his hands grasped the sides of the couch as if fearing separation from it.

The scar still cut across his face, an ugly wound made uglier still by the aesthetic perfection which surrounded it. No other wound had remained on his body but that one. He had healed even as Damien had healed, the marks of imprisonment and torture fading from their flesh as they wended their way back to the world of the living. All except that one.

“I had blood brought for him,” Karril told Damien. “and I think he drank enough to keep him going. If he needs more, I can get it. Don’t offer him yours.”

“Why? Is there some special danger in that?”

The demon looked sharply at him. “War’s been declared, you know. Maybe not in words as such, but it’s no less real for all that. Keep your strength up, and your guard. You’ll need them both.” He reached down to Tarrant’s face and laid a hand against his forehead. “He’ll wake up soon, I think. I’ll leave you two alone to talk about ... whatever.”

“There’s no need for that.”

“Maybe not for you, Reverend. But for me?” He sighed. “I’ve broken so many rules it’s a wonder I’m still here to talk about them. Let’s leave it at that, all right? From here on you’re on your own. I’ve taken on enough risks these last few days to last me a lifetime.”

With a nod of leavetaking he turned away, and started toward the stairs.

“Karril.” He drew in a deep breath. “Thank you.”

The demon stopped. He didn’t turn back. It seemed from his posture that the words had shaken him.

“He was a friend,” he said at last. “I wish I could do more.”

His velvet robe brushing the stairs as he ascended, he exited the cellar and shut the heavy door behind him. The silence he left behind was thick and heavy, and Damien breathed in deeply, trying to ignore its ominous weight. On all sides of him, racks of bottles rose from floor to ceiling, punctuated by ironbound casks and small wooden crates. He hadn’t asked what the latter were for. He didn’t want to know. It was bad enough taking shelter in the cellar of a pagan temple, without also implying approval of its contents.

There was nowhere else to go,
he explained silently. To Tarrant, to the Patriarch, to himself.
Nowhere else we could be safe, for the hours it would take him to recover.

Hell. There was a time when even that argument couldn’t have gotten him to stay down here, when he would have safeguarded the sanctity of his person as vehemently as he now protected the Hunter’s flesh. When had the last vestiges of that righteous dedication faded? When had he come to regard such things so lightly, that it no longer bothered him where he was or who his allies were, as long as they served his purpose ?

With a heavy sigh he reached for the pitcher Karril had left beside him, and poured himself yet another drink. Since the moment when he had first awakened in his hotel room his thirst had been insatiable, yet drink after drink failed to moisten the dryness in his throat. Was that thirst born of fear, perhaps, instead of bodily need? Had a clear view of Hell and the creatures who thrived there given him a new perspective on their conflict with Calesta, and made him realize just how unlikely it was that a war like this could be won?

Gerald Tarrant groaned, and shifted upon the plush couch as though in the grip of a nightmare. Seeing him, Damien couldn’t help but remember the thousands of women who inhabited his private Hell, and his stomach tightened in loathing at the thought. What kind of man was this, that he had made his ally? What kind of man was he, to have accepted him?

With a sharp moan the Hunter stiffened, and his eyes shot open. For a moment it seemed that he wasn’t focused on the room, but upon some internal vision; then, with a shudder, he looked at Damien, and the truth seemed to sink in.

“Where am I?” he whispered. His voice was barely audible.

“Karril’s temple. Storage cellar.”

“Karril?” His brow furrowed tightly as he struggled to make sense of that. “Karril’s Iezu. Why would he ...?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I don’t ... not him ... I remember you. You came for me.” His tone was one of amazement as he whispered, “Through ...”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. Not anxious to rehash it. “Through all that.”

The Hunter shut his eyes and leaned back weakly. One hand moved up to his face, to where the newly-made scar cut across his skin; his slender fingers explored the damage, and Damien thought he saw him shiver. “We’re back,” he whispered. A question.

“You were given a month’s reprieve. Don’t you remember?”

“Not clearly. I wasn’t ... wholly cognizant.” Again his hand raised up to his face, seemingly of its own accord, and traced the disfiguring scar. Then his eyes unlidded, and fixed on Damien. “Why, Vryce?” The words were a whisper, hardly loud enough for the priest to hear. “Not that I’m not grateful for the brief reprieve, mind you. But it is only that. Was that worth risking your status for?”

He stiffened at the reminder of his professional vulnerability; it wasn’t a welcome thought. “I need you,” he said curtly. “We’re fighting a Iezu, remember? I can’t do that alone.”

Wearily he shut his eyes once more; his tired flesh seemed to sink back into the cushions, as though soon it would fade away entirely. “And I’m to give you all the answers? In one month? You should have just left me there.”

“Maybe I should have,” he snapped, suddenly angry. “Maybe the man I went through Hell to rescue didn’t make it back. Oh, his flesh is alive enough—as much as it ever was—but where’s the spark that drove it? I must have lost track of it, somewhere on the way back.”

“He’s a
Iezu
,” Tarrant whispered hoarsely. “We don’t even know what they are, much less how to fight them. If we had unlimited time to come up with new theories and test them, time to do research, then maybe,
maybe,
we’d have a chance. But one month? You’re going to figure out how to destroy the indestructible in one month? Not to mention,” he added hoarsely, “that if I don’t find another means of sustaining my life by the end of that time ...” He winced, and the shadow of remembered pain passed across his face. “Can’t be done,” he whispered. “Not like that.”

With a snort Damien rose from his side and walked away, moving toward the door that Karril had used for his exit. Heavy planks banded with cast iron, now securely shut. He listened to see if any sound could make it through that barrier, and at last decided they were safe enough. Karril could hear them if he wanted to, he suspected, but he didn’t think that demon was the eavesdropping kind.

“What would you think,” he said quietly, “if I told you that I knew how to kill a Iezu?”

He heard the couch creak behind him, and guessed that Tarrant was struggling to a sitting position. Given the man’s condition, it was little wonder that long seconds passed before he finally managed, “What?”

“You heard me.”

“How could you have gained knowledge like that? After all my research failed, and yours as well?”

He glanced once more at the solid door, satisfying himself that it was fully shut, and then turned back to Tarrant. The Hunter looked ghastly even by comparison with his normal state.

He said it simply, knowing the power that was in such a statement. “Karril told me.”

“When?” he demanded.

“Before we came after you. I went to his temple to ask for his help, and we argued. He told me then.”

“Why?” he asked in amazement. “Oh, he might have rendered Calesta vulnerable, but also himself as well. He’s too practiced a survivor for that.”

“Oh, I don’t think he was aware of doing it. Not in so many words.”

The Hunter’s eyes were fixed on him now, and there was a brightness in their depths that Damien had feared he’d lost forever. A hunger, but not for triumph. Not even for survival. For
knowledge.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

And he did. He told him what the Iezu had said to him, back when he’d first come to the temple. How he had expressed his own fear of what the journey might mean to him.

“Well?” he said at last. “Does that mean what I think it does, or not?”

The Hunter’s eyes were focused elsewhere, beyond Damien, as he digested the thought. “Yes,” he said at last. “You’re right. I’ve heard Iezu express similar fears before, but voiced as a question of discomfort, rather than survival. This would seem to imply there’s more to it.”

“So there’s hope, then.”

“A long shot at best. What runs counter to Calesta’s aspect? Perfectly counter, so that he can’t adapt? Karril can deal with pain if he must, so the matter’s not a simple one.”

It came to him, then, from the fields of memory, so quickly and so clearly that he wondered if the fae weren’t responsible. “Apathy.”

“What?”

“Karril’s negative factor is apathy. The absence of all pleasure. The absence of ability to
experience
pleasure.”

“Where the hell did you come up with that?”

“He told us. Back at Senzei’s place, when Ciani was first attacked.” Good God! The memory seemed so distant now, half a lifetime away. He struggled to remember what the demon had said, at last had to resort to a Remembering. The fae took shape in response to his will, forming a misty simulacrum of Karril before them.
There are few kinds of pain I can tolerate,
it said,
fewer still that I can feed on. But apathy is my true nemesis. It is anathema to my being: my negation, my opposite, my destruction.
Then, its duty accomplished, the image faded. The room’s cool air was heavy with silence.

“Apathy,” the Hunter mused.

“There’s got to be something like that for Calesta, right? Something similar, that we can use as a weapon.”

The Hunter shook his head. “Karril was talking about trying to endure something, not having it forced upon him. How would you inundate a spirit with apathy? If it were deadly to him, he would surely flee from it, like any living creature. And apathy isn’t something you can nock to a bow, or insert into the wood of a quarrel. It can’t be made into a blade, to cut and pierce on its own.”

“Not yet,” Damien agreed. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t some way to use it. You and I just have to figure out how.”

Exhaustion seemed to cloud the Hunter’s expression; he turned away and whispered, in a voice without emotion, “In a month?”

“If that’s all we have.”

Though the Remembering had faded from sight, some vestige of its power must still have remained in the room; Damien could see bits and pieces of the Hunter’s recollections taking form about his head. Images of pain and horror and terror beyond bearing, still as alive in his memory as they were in that dark place inside his soul. Hell was waiting for him. So was the Unnamed. Thirty-one days.

“Not enough,” he whispered. “Not enough.”

Anger welled up inside Damien with unexpected force. He walked to where the Hunter sat and dropped down beside him, grabbing his shoulders, pulling him around to face him. “I went to Hell and beyond to bring you back, and so help me God you’ll earn it. You understand? I don’t care how little time it seems to you, or how vulking depressed you get, or even whether or not you’re going to make it past that last day. What we’re talking about is the future of all of humankind, and that’s a hell of a lot more important than my fate, or even yours.
Even yours.”
He paused. “You understand me?”

The Hunter glared at him. “Easy enough words, from your perspective.”

“Damn you, Gerald! Why are you doing this?” He rose up from the couch and stepped away, afraid he would hit the man if he remained too close. “Do I have to tell you what the answer is? You’re a free agent for the first time in nine hundred years. Take advantage of that!”