The Thorn of Dentonhill (30 page)

C
OLIN WAS DEEP
in the thick of it now. He didn't fully know what to make of what was going on, but he realized that Veranix had gotten mixed up in something far stranger than he had figured. Just being a Rose Street Prince dragged into a warehouse on the far north side of Dentonhill normally would mean that he was a dead man. That was the least of his worries. He was still armed—he had two knives in his boots. These blokes hadn't even bothered to search him.

That either meant they were fools, or they didn't care if he had knives or not.

Looking at this lot, the second option seemed more likely.

There was the usual group of thugs that looked like Fenmere's men. That wasn't a surprise. It was everything else that made Colin's head spin.

The suit from the door was the most normal looking of the four who clearly weren't part of Fenmere's crew. There were two other young blokes, blond and dark-haired, in blue suits and fur-lined cloaks. They looked ridiculous. The two of them were busy drawing symbols with chalk on the floor of the warehouse, all centered around the two people trussed up and hanging from the ceiling. They were Veranix's Napa girl and an old man. Both of them were blindfolded and gagged, and the old man looked like he was knocked out.

Then there was the one standing in the middle. He was a redhead, wild haired, with a body that seemed all skin and bones, covered in several strange tattoos. He was wearing only a fur cloak and a dead rabbit on his head—not a rabbit-skin hat, a dead rabbit, with blood oozing down over his face.

He turned and looked at Colin.

“Is it him?” he hissed. He bounded over to Colin like a wolf coming for a deer.

“Whoa, chief,” Colin said. “You back the blazes off.” It was useless, the crazy man was right up on him. Colin pushed him away. As soon as he did, the two young suits came racing over.

“You dare?” one of them asked. Each grabbed one of his arms, gripping him tighter than he would have thought they could.

“Hey, hey!” Colin shouted. “You want your merch, you don't be pulling any plays like this!” Both men looked at him, and then looked at each other, puzzled. They both then looked at the suit from the door.

“I don't know half of what he's saying either,” said the suit, shrugging.

The blond one looked him up and down. “He doesn't have them,” he said.

“No, course not,” Colin said. “You all don't know how a trade drop goes. You think I'd bring the merch here in the middle of all you? What kind of fool you take me for?” He looked over at one of Fenmere's heavies, standing off to the side. “Tell 'em, would you?”

“He's right,” the heavy said. “You really think he'd just come and hand it to you?”

“Shut up,” the dark-haired one said. He crouched down, examining Colin's hands and body. “He has been near the things.”

The heavy moved closer, taking a good look at Colin. “You're not the Thorn.”

“Did I say I was?” Colin said. “I just said I'm here to do a trade of the merch. You want to do a deal, you've got to drop the bird and the old man.”

“Is he talking about the hostages?” the suit asked.

“He's not the Thorn?” the one who brought Colin over from Necker Square asked. “You sure?”

“Thorn's got a thinner chin, higher voice,” the heavy said. “And he doesn't have the accent of Aventil street trash.”

“Street trash?” Colin said. “You want to see some trash?”

“Enough,” hissed the crazy man. “Where?” His question was not directed at Colin, but at the two holding him. The dark-haired one looked around, darting his eyes like he was watching smoke.

“There,” he said. “Right outside.”

The two young suits let go of Colin and stalked over to the loading door. With a breath and a snap of their fingers, the door blew open all by itself.
Mages,
Colin thought.
That's what this mess all is.
The two of them stalked out into the street.

Colin prayed that Hetzer had the good sense to run. Out in the street, a terrified scream said the same thing.

“So why not take the shot?” Veranix asked Samael.

“Simple,” Samael said. “I can hold this crossbow up a whole lot longer than you can keep that bow drawn. It's just a matter of waiting you out.”

Veranix knew he was right. His shoulder was screaming. The stitches were tearing open. He was sure that Samael could see the beads of sweat building on his forehead.

“I start to lose it, Sam, I'll just shoot.”

“True,” said Sam, edging his way closer to the edge of the roof, never taking his eye or his aim off Veranix. “But that's gonna be a sour shot.”

“You think I'd miss a ten-foot shot even if it went sour?”

“We'll have to see,” Samael said. “I know I've got you dead to rights. So you could save your arm and ease off.”

“Ease off, sure,” Veranix said. “That'd be real healthy. Listen, I have a big night planned here, so if you're going to shoot me, can we get it over with?”

“Always the smart mouth,” Samael said.

Veranix's shoulder felt like it was going to snap. He didn't have much longer.

“You think it's easy thinking up clever things to say in the middle of a fight?” Veranix asked. “It takes a lot of work and most people don't—what is that thing?” He cried out the last part.

“Yeah, I'm not looking,” Sam said.

“Had to try,” Veranix said.

“Fair cop, totally,” Samael said. “Anyone who falls for that trick deserves getting plugged.”

“I agree, actually,” Veranix said. “You know, I don't have the things those guys want anymore.”

“Sure you don't,” Samael said.

“Totally true.” Veranix pushed down the strain creeping into his voice. “I would have clobbered you with the rope if I still had it.”

“You lose a card game or something?”

“Girl broke my heart and took the stuff,” Veranix said, doing his best to shrug without losing his aim. “What are you going to do?”

“It's a heartbreaking story. I'll cry in the beer I'll buy with your bounty.”

“You know what your problem is, Sam, you have no sense of romance.”

At that moment, there was a horrible wooden crunch below them. Then Delmin screamed on the street below, “Run! RUN!!”

Samael's eyes moved half an inch to glance in the direction of the noise.

Veranix let the arrow fly. In the same instant, he jumped back, going over the edge of the roof. Samael released his shot, but Veranix was already dropping. The bolt barely skimmed over his head. He had no idea if he hit Samael or not, but with only a few seconds until he hit the ground, he had bigger problems.

Especially since the two trackers from the Blue Hand were storming out of the warehouse, chasing after Delmin.

His right hand was free. Despite his shoulder being almost useless, he reached out and grabbed a gutter drainpipe on the side of the building and yanked himself over. He clamped his feet around the pipe, slowing his descent, but his weight was more than the pipe could take. It tore from its housing, bending out from the building.

He rolled with it, and with a graceless flip, landed on the ground, his feet and knees no worse off than his shoulder. They hurt like blazes, but he could keep going.

The two bloodhounds, Kent and Forden, were already charging down the street. Almost instinctively, Veranix reached for the marked arrow. He had to stop himself; that one was for Sirath, and no one else.

He couldn't see far down the street, not in the moonlight. He could chase these two, keep them off Delmin, but then he'd lose any advantage he had over the rest, lose the chance to save Kai and Professor Alimen.

He promised Delmin he'd be safe.

He drew an arrow and shot it at Kent. His shoulder cried out as he pulled back the bow, but the shot fired true. The arrow hit Kent in the back, and the mage dropped down. Veranix readied a second arrow for Forden.

He heard a sharp click above him.

Veranix spun on one heel and aimed up, to the top of the building he was just on. He let the arrow fly before even seeing what was happening, and drew another and notched it on his bow.

Samael had his crossbow cocked and ready, standing up on the edge of the building. The only thing keeping him from shooting was the arrow in his neck. After a moment of standing in shock, Samael fell forward, smashing headfirst onto the cobblestone. Veranix cringed away. Even when it involved a killer like Samael, he hated seeing someone die in front of him. Especially by his own hand.

Someone inside the warehouse snapped, “What's taking them so long?” Veranix glanced down the street. Delmin and his pursuer were out of sight. Kent was still on the ground, struggling to get up. The light from inside the warehouse spilled out into the street, and he could see shadows moving, people going to the door.

He fought down the urge to charge through the loading door, shooting at anything that moved.

Veranix was in the shadow, unseen by the people in the warehouse. He still had a chance to take them by surprise, but to do that he'd have to get the high ground. He'd have to know who was in there, where they were. He had to get in without them seeing him. He had to stop them while keeping Kai and the professor safe.

Every part of his body ached as he bounded up to the top of the doorframe, jumped to grab the lip of the roof, and swung himself to the second-floor window. It was large enough for him to get through, were it not for the iron lattice over it. He cursed silently. If he still had the rope, he could rip the thing out of the wall. Normally he could magic it off, but not here or now, not without spoiling everything.

“Muscle and bone,” he whispered.

Shouts came from inside the warehouse. “You tossers don't know nothing! This ain't how a trade gets dropped! This is how deals go south!” He knew the voice. That was Colin.

What the blazes was Colin doing here?

Of course,
Veranix thought,
Kaiana said we had friends in the street
. He pulled his staff out and wedged it under the latticework, as everything clicked together in his head like a puzzlebox being solved. Kai knew about Colin, so that's how she hid the rope and cloak. Colin would know how to read the paper job as well as anyone on the streets, and he'd know what it really meant.

He came to save Kaiana for Veranix as well.

That meant the cloak and the rope were here. That meant Sirath could get them. Veranix couldn't let that happen. It didn't matter if Delmin's ideas about
numina
beasts were true or not. If Sirath got his hands on either one of those items, he'd be unstoppable.

Bracing himself as best he could, he prayed to every saint he could think of that he had enough leverage, that the iron was rusted, that the plaster housing it in the wall was weak, anything, anything that would let this work.

He pulled the staff down with every bit of strength he had.

H
ETZER RAN,
ran like Colin had told him. He didn't know which way he was going or where he was running to, other than away from those two cape-wearing suits coming after them.

He hated running from a brawl.

He glanced back when he heard something behind him. One of the suits had stumbled and fallen. The other one was still coming, pouring on the speed, catching up to them.

“Blazes,” he muttered. This was going to be a fight either way, it looked like. Suddenly a bright blue light came racing over their heads.

“Keep running,” the Uni brat gasped, half out of breath. “Don't stop!” Then the kid stopped. Hetzer faltered, turning back.

The one in the cape raised his hand, and another blue light came out, right at Hetzer. The Uni brat held up his hands, and everything shimmered in front of him. The blue light fizzled to nothing.

“Go!” the Uni screamed. Hetzer was shocked. This brat was protecting him?

The chaser stopped, shaking his head. “You're not even worth it,” he said. He waved his hand dismissively. The Uni kid was knocked in the air, as if the chaser had swatted him like a fly. He crashed into the side of a building, and crumpled to the ground.

“You wanna brawl, freak?” Hetzer said. “I've got one for you, if you want one.”

“No, you don't,” he said. With another wave of his hand, Hetzer was knocked over. Hetzer remembered one time, when he was a kid, he had been grazed by a runaway cart. That had knocked the wind out of him and sent him to the ground. That was the only thing he had to compare what just happened to him, and this was ten times worse. He could barely breathe, barely move. He was still held down on the ground, pressed by something he couldn't see or grab. The chaser walked over to him and picked up the satchel, and then walked back down the street without giving either him or the Uni brat another look.

He was out of sight when Hetzer was able to move again, the pressure off his body as suddenly as it had arrived. The chaser didn't care about him, it was the satchel he wanted. That's what the Uni kid cared about as well, that's what he was protecting.

The kid was breathing still, but he was out cold. Hetzer had seen plenty of blokes and Princes knocked out that way in brawls, and they were always fine after a bit. He wasn't worried about the Uni kid.

He was surprised he cared that the Uni kid was all right. He smirked to himself. The kid might be a scrawny Uni brat, but he had the heart of a scrapper. He stood up and fought when it mattered.

That's what made a Rose Street Prince worthy of his name, and Hetzer respected that.

He rolled up his sleeves, showing his tattoo to the neighborhood and the world. Then he pulled out two knives from his belt. His street cap was in trouble, and it was time to show he was worthy of being called a Prince as well.

Colin hadn't seen a deal turn left like this since the Creek Trade last summer. That mess ended in three people dead and a bunch of merch lost in the creek. This time, Colin at least could rest easy that if anybody ended up dead, it would just be him. At least, that would be the case if these heavies didn't roll up his sleeves and decide to make a move on the Princes.

“Is it here?” screeched the scary one with the red hair. “Do we have it?”

“I think he's coming back,” one of Fenmere's boys said, looking out the doorway. “Someone's coming, anyway.” The rest of the heavies, except the one who'd led Colin to the place, all stayed back and away.

“All right, all right,” Colin said. “You're getting your merch already.”

“I just got it,” the blue suit said. “Merchandise, that's what you're saying.”

“Good, smart guy,” Colin said. “How about you let the old man and the bird scatter now?”

“He means letting the girl and the old man go, Kalas,” said the heavy at the door.

“Yes, thank you, Mister Bell, I figured that one out,” the suit said. “But I'm afraid not. We need the old man for the next part of what we will do. As for the girl, she's not my usual choice of diversion, but I have varied tastes.”

“That ain't how it goes, suit,” Colin said, moving closer. Two of Fenmere's heavies approached him, but they didn't seem to want to be any closer to Kalas.

“Oh, please, you think you'll tell me what to do?”

“This deal already turned left, suit,” Colin said. “I don't think you want to know how left it can turn.”

“Is . . .” Kalas started, looking confused. He glanced at Bell. “Is that some sort of a threat?”

“Yeah,” Bell said.

The two young suits came in, one of them supporting the other. The blond one had an arrow sticking out his back. The thing that really caught Colin's eye was the other one: he had the satchel.

“Got it,” he said.

“You were shot?” Kalas asked as he came over to them. “Who shot you?”

“Don't know,” the blond one said. “Came out of nowhere.”

“It's the Thorn!” Bell said. “It must have been him.”

“You come here with the Thorn, rat?” Kalas asked Colin.

“He's not part of my street,” Colin said. “I never throw with him.”

“He's here!” Bell said. He now pulled out a sword and was looking around.

“It doesn't matter,” Kalas said. “We have what we need” He took the satchel and opened it, pulling out the cloak.

“That belongs to the Thorn, suit,” Colin said. He couldn't help but smile. “If he's got the stones to take on Fenmere, he won't worry about going for you.”

“Let him come,” Kalas said, holding up the cloak. “I'd like to see him try to take us on.”

A sharp whistle sang through the air, and in the next moment an arrow was through his hand. He screamed and dropped the cloak.

Colin looked up. In the rafters, there he was. Veranix, standing tall, bow out, ready to take another shot, wild grin across his face.

“Happy to oblige, Kalas,” he said. “Want to see my next trick?”

“Get him!” Kalas shouted to no one in particular as he dropped to the ground. All of Fenmere's men in the place looked stunned, unsure of what to do. The two Blue Hand bloodhounds stayed at the door, disdainfully looking at Fenmere's heavies, as if they considered getting Veranix a chore that was beneath them.

Sirath, on the other hand, was moving toward the cloak.

“Insect,” he growled at Veranix.

Veranix grabbed the marked arrow and notched it. “Don't even think about it, Sirath.”

“Bah,” Sirath said, shaking his head. He stepped closer.

Veranix drew back. “Not another step, Sirath, or this goes in your chest!”

Sirath chuckled. “Threats from you? Pathetic mage. Petty thief.” He took one more step.

Veranix didn't need another excuse. He let the arrow fly.

There was a rush of magic from Sirath, as he dismissively waved his hand at the arrow. The force shook the whole building, almost knocking Veranix off his perch.

It made no difference. The arrow was unaffected, just as Veranix hoped it would be. It flew true into Sirath's chest. Sirath screamed and fell to the floor, gasping and writhing. He flopped about violently, like a fish pulled from the river. Everyone else in the room was paralyzed by the spectacle.

“I am an excellent mage and a fantastic thief, Sirath.” Veranix laughed as he snapped his bow back into its holder. “I just stole your magic!”

The arrowhead was dalmatium, filed down to a razor-sharp point. The arrow had then been rolled in the filed powder. Dalmatium dust was running in Sirath's blood now, tearing him up more than any poison would.

Veranix jumped down to the floor, controlling his descent with magic. He was no longer burdened by carrying the arrow, but he could still feel the dust on his gloves. Doing magic was like walking through mud. He stripped them off and threw them at the two bloodhounds as he landed. There was nowhere near enough of the powder to disable them, but it could confuse and disorient them for a bit. He drew out his staff.

Sirath was trying to get to his knees, arms flailing blindly, the look on his face pure agony. Veranix sprang past him, striking him in the face and knocking him back down. Fenmere's men drew weapons, but each of them seemed to be waiting for someone to take the lead. Two of them were between him and the cloak.

“Get the tosser!” shouted someone. Veranix realized it was Nevin. He had barely gotten the words out when Colin moved, drawing two knives from his boots and tackling the dealer boss. That was all the excuse that the others needed, and they came charging over. No chance to grab the cloak.

Veranix leaped up to the rope Kaiana and the professor hung from. Holding on by one hand, he undid Kai's blindfold and gag.

“Miss me?” he asked.

“What—” was all she said as she looked around at the room. Fenmere's men were gathering below them. Kalas clawed for the cloak, Sirath writhed on the floor, and the two bloodhounds were furiously swatting at their own faces.

“Get ready to run,” Veranix said, swinging around to the professor's side. He removed the blindfold and gag. The professor was out cold, a huge purple welt across the top of his head. This made things harder.

“Run?” Kaiana asked. Veranix swung back around to face her.

“You've got to get the professor out, Kai,” he said. “I'll make a hole to the door.”

“A hole, but—”

“Just get safe, Kai,” he said. “I'm sorry for all this.” He let go of the rope, touching it with a hint of magic as he did. It dissolved into ash and dust. He dropped to the ground, giving a hard blast of magic in all directions. It bowled over the group of thugs, and slowed the fall of Kai and the professor. She landed on her feet, grabbing his limp body.

Veranix felt a heady rush from that magic. He got more blast out of it than he had put into it. It was almost like when he used the cloak, but wilder, more out of his control.
Numina
was surging like a boiling pot.

The Winged Convergence. It must be doing something to magic right now. He could feel it, like ants crawling up his spine.

No time to think about it. He had to get Kai and the professor out.

Veranix went at two thugs who blocked the way to the door, and who were still reeling from his blast. He spun his staff about, clocking them both and keeping them from recovering. Kaiana lifted the professor over her shoulder like a sack of grain and made for the door.

Forden was there with the rope in his hand. The rope spun too fast to see; it was just a blur blocking their exit. “That is it!” he shouted. “I'll kill you all!” He stepped closer.

Veranix tried to reach out, take control over the rope, feel his original connection to it. This mage was too powerful, though; he held complete sway over it. They only had a moment before he tore them to pieces with it.

“Rose Street!” came a yell from the door, and someone—a Rose Street Prince, by his arm—came charging in, knives out. He tackled Forden, stabbing as he hit. The mage screamed out, and the rope responded reflexively, coiling back and wrapping around the attacker. The Prince cried out as well as the rope constricted around his chest, but he had wrapped his legs around Forden, and would not let go. He stabbed again and again, refusing to yield. “This! Is what happens! When you cross the Princes!” he gasped out.