Authors: Steven Montano

Soulrazor (12 page)

BOOK: Soulrazor

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As he approached the cluster of buildings – The Teeth, as they were sometimes known – Cross felt like he’d walked up to the gates of some fairy-tale castle.

Castles filled with prostitutes, drug dealers and hoodlums. Oh, my!

His spirit reconnoitered the area ahead. She was reluctant to do so, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Ever since the incident at the hospital she’d acted either timid or downright angry, and try as he did Cross couldn’t bring her down to a stable emotional state. She just stayed angry and on edge, and that was a uniquely dangerous position for both of them to be in. Cross wasn’t sure if he even wanted to trust her with the task of checking for enemy sentries.

Luckily for him, she was able to perform her duties just fine, and while Cross stood freezing in the dark alcove of a half-ruined structure his spirit moved away in a swirl of dissonant steam and wound her way up the sides of the towers like a spectral snake.

Her vaporous essence moved around every living thing that she detected, and she made contact just long enough to verify any given creature’s existence and type. Any being that she touched would, at best, feel a slight chill at her passing.

She returned to him just a few seconds later, charged with adrenaline and excitement, and she imparted to him the fact that a trio of armed men stood high in the tower and watched for unwanted guests. He was able to keep them in sight when he stepped out into the street and approached the tower that housed the Grey Angel.

A dank moat filled with metal refuse and filthy rainwater surrounded that tower, and the only way to access the building was to use a rickety bridge made from tin plates strung together with chains. Cross watched the windowless face of the tower as he slowly made his way across. The bridge was incredibly unstable, and he held his breath the entire time. The darkness beneath him wasn’t as deep as it looked, but that wouldn’t matter with all of the shrapnel and razor-edged debris that waited at the bottom.

Cross flashed some currency so the grey-clad bouncer on the other side of the steel-plated door would let him through. The door was three-inches thick, and the metal hall beyond was covered in scratches and acid burns.

These guys seriously need to consider redecorating.

It had been some time since Cross had visited the Grey Angel. He’d been a frequent customer a few years back, when he and Graves came to visit lovely ladies like Isis, Miranda, Cassiope and Julei. But as time wore on and he started to see the weariness of the profession suck those girl’s souls away, Cross grew less and less inclined to promote a business that slowly killed its workers. Getting laid, he’d decided, wasn’t worth the damage done to his conscience.

One could never guess the posh nature of the Grey Angel from its gritty industrial shell. As soon as Cross exited the outer hall and entered the main chamber he was assaulted with the smell of rosemary and cinnamon, vanilla and hyacinth, and a variety of exotic eastern perfumes. The air was filled with powder and sweat. The acrid taste of tobacco and hashish was strong enough that Cross got a buzz just walking into the place.

The main chamber of the Grey Angel was an enormous circular dance room filled with a dozen small tables and one massive central staging area that, so far as Cross knew, had never actually been used. Scantily clad women of all shapes, sizes, hair color and age wandered through the room, and they rubbed up close against the equally varied patrons of the Grey Angel, an establishment that catered to soldiers, ruffians, mercenaries and street merchants, men of means but not necessarily with a great deal of panache or class.

Armed sentries and a pair of gargoyle bouncers ensured that the Grey Angel’s patrons behaved, and it was common knowledge that anyone who acted violently towards one of the girls would suffer serious consequences. The fact that the Grey Angel was reputedly controlled by a former soldier with ties to the powerful smuggling ring called The Shard lent some credence to those rumors, as did the level of security on display.

Hard music pounded through the air, heavy tribal drums and liquid beats, guttural chants and garbled and distorted vocals. Cross smelled wine and musk. The air was so thick it slid down his throat like tainted honey. His eyes stung and his head throbbed.

A barred chamber at the back of the main room held a cashier aided by a pair of large men with shotguns. Customers paid for “tokens”, which were then redeemed for company with a young lady in any of the smaller rooms located in the labyrinth beneath the tower. The upper floors were reserved for security posts and administrative offices, and access could only be gained via an archaic freight elevator with a sliding iron grille and massive handles that looked like tank controls.

Cross recognized Payne, a dark-skinned man with bladed flame tattoos on his neck and arms who dressed in a flak vest and camouflage pants but wore no shirt. Cross could never figure out why he wore sunglasses in the darkness of the club. Payne also wore a Glock 17 in a shoulder holster rig and a pair of large silver daggers in wrist scabbards.

“
Howdy, Payne,” Cross said.

“
What the hell do you want?”

“
Good, good,” Cross said with a smile. “Glad to hear it. Up, please.”

Cross tried to step into the elevator, but Payne put a hand on his chest.

“
Nah,” Payne grinned.

“
Uh…yeah. Warfield is expecting me.”

“
Warfield is busy.”

“
Payne,” Cross said. His spirit coalesced around his fingers, invisible but warm, like a fiery gel. Cross took in a ragged breath. She was growing stronger. “You need to take me up there,” he said with a slow and controlled tone. “Please.”

“
Turn around,” Payne said with his gleaming white smile. “And piss off.”

Cross didn’t need his spirit to take Payne by the wrist, spin him around and force him to his knees. Payne reached for his gun, but Cross had his own out first, and he pushed the HK against Payne’s temple and pulled him into the elevator.

“
I did say ‘Please’, right?” he said. “Take me to her. Now.”

Payne quietly did as he was told. The elevator lurched to life and groaned upwards past two more floors filled with dancing and lewd behavior. Images flashed through the grilled elevator door: naked flesh and open wine barrels, clouds of hashish and discarded clothes and armor.

He took his gun off of Payne. His spirit was coiled and ready to strike, and her effect on the air was so poisonous he was certain even a non-mage could detect the volatility of her power and presence.

The elevator ground to a halt at the top floor, a network of dark hallways and closed wooden doors. Everything was painted black and white, and another armed bouncer waited at the entry hall, a massive black man with a bowler hat and a mismatched steel and olive suit covered in oil and blast stains. The man was armed with an AK-47 and had a punch-knife the size of a boomerang, which he displayed in a holster in his open suit jacket.

“
Evening, Mr. Cross,” the man said. “Miss Warfield is expecting you.”

Cross shot Payne a smirk, and then started down the hall.

“
Where?” he asked.

“
Straight ahead. Room 402.”

The halls of the upper floor were silent, save for the sound of wood as it creaked beneath his feet. The doors had been cut at odd angles, and each of them seemed to lean in and loom at him like back-alley drunks.

Cross felt dizzy. Sharp whispers cut through his mind. He’d managed to stave them off for nearly a day, but they were back.

They were the voices from the liquid – the whispers of a dead goddess.

With every step he took he felt control over his spirit slip. It was a wonder she hadn’t done some incredible violence to Payne.

She tore at his skin with ethereal nails. The world dissolved. Everything pulled away from him like smoke. He stumbled through a plane of shadow, floated as if a void hung beneath his feet.

His mind squeezed through dark edges and compressed into corners obscured by liquid midnight. His breaths escaped as wisps of frosted steam.

Cross
.

Hands took hold of him, pushed him and grabbed him. They were ungentle, but familiar.

Cross
.

He fell back into the liquid. His eyes bled midnight.

He sees the keep. The sea is ice-cold oil that burns the anemic shore. Low tangles of iron lightning shoot out over the reflective ebon waters. Eyeless women roam the shore, and they move slow and rhythmically, as if controlled by strings. Their bare feet bleed into the water.

The dark keep is in ruins. Its limestone bricks crumble and slide to the black sea like slow-melting ice. His ship sails slowly, inevitable and unstoppable, drawn to the shadow-hewn woman who waits for him. Her face and features are obscured by the dark mist, and her eyes are molten silver, like dying moons.

Behind him in the distance is a dark forest, a mass of trees huddled together as if afraid of the bone-white lands surrounding them. There is a gate at the center of a dark copse. He has seen it before, and he is afraid of what waits on the other side.

Cross woke in someone else’s bed. Red and black silk pushed against his naked body, but he was chilled to the bone. He wore no gauntlet, and had no weapon. His throat was raw, and he felt, for a moment, like he drifted at the center of a cold and desolate sea.

The keep. The woman.

He slowly sat up, and his surroundings came into focus.

Under normal circumstances, Cross would have been thrilled to wake up in Ilfesa Warfield’s bedroom. He’d lusted after her for years, after all, and as she came into sight, something inside of him melted. She was all curves and long legs, luxuriously long red hair and pale, smooth skin.

As usual, she wasn’t wearing much – a loose black cloak fit over a low-cut dress that left most of her thighs exposed, tall black boots that laced up the sides, fingerless gloves connected to the robe so that she looked like some sort of Gothic fairy.

Warfield’s eyes shone subtly in the half-light of the chamber, which was sparsely populated with short stone plinths, a massive bureau, and a circular surrounded by a thin black veil. Cross half expected it to start turning around in a circle, and he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d feel if that happened.

His spirit flailed away from him. The sensation burned his mind and scalded his skin, and for a moment Cross struggled to breathe while he reined her in. Tension shot up and down his arms, and his bare stomach clenched as he fought to hold on. Preposterously, he feared she might actually slip away.

“
Let her go, Eric,” Warfield said. He sensed her male spirit, primal power and seething ego-driven energy. It was breathless, eager and predatory, and its presence blossomed and filled the entire chamber like a held breath. “Let her go.”

“
Are you nuts?” he barked.

“
Do it, or you’ll die.”

He couldn’t decide if she was threatening him or not. He had little reason to trust Warfield, and never had, which was one of the reasons he’d never seriously pursued her romantically even though everyone he’d ever met knew how badly he wanted her. She was pure mercenary, a criminal witch who peddled black market information, weapons, drugs and prostitutes…rumor held that she was even a prostitute herself, albeit one so expensive that very few people ever sampled those particular wares.

She’d given him good information in the past, and since Phil Rikeman hadn’t been able to produce anything conclusive from his tests, Cross felt she was his best bet at finding out what the hell was happening to him. That was why he’d asked her for the meeting.

But that doesn’t mean I can trust her
, he told himself.
I could just be another gambit for her, an easy way to get her claws into someone with access to Southern Claw information.

“
Cross…” Warfield warned.

He let his spirit go. It was like losing his heartbeat. He felt his body sag, and his strength left him. Everything slowed: his pulse, his breathing, his reflexes. His eyes grew heavy. He remembered that he was naked, realized he should have been embarrassed to be standing in front of Warfield like that, but everything faded. Again.

Cross’ mind swam through uncertain waters. He drifted away.

“
No,” Warfield said. She stepped up, placed her hand on his chest, and whispered into his ear. Her breath was hot on his neck, and her bare fingers burned his skin. He melted into her. “Calm down, lover,” she laughed. Her voice was dark and husky. He’d never realized she had so many tattoos: serpents and angels and bats and spiders and wings and eyes, a pattern like a hieroglyph agenda played out on her stomach and arms and neck. “Calm down,” she said again. “Breathe.”

He did, and she breathed into him. He saw the vapors. She used magic to exhale something into his lungs, and he was helpless to stop her.

He didn’t
want
to stop her.

BOOK: Soulrazor

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