Three Parts Dead (29 page)

Someone had built this Craft at the heart of the Church, to drain Kos’s heat from His own generators. Many questions burned in Abelard’s mind, but three burned brightest: who, and why, and how could he stop them?

Abelard approached the altar. His skin tingled as he stepped over the first circle, careful not to touch the glowing lines. With another stride he crossed the second. A breath of hot air kissed his face and ruffled his robes. One left.

This, too, he crossed, but as his second foot touched down the world vanished. He was familiar with the sensation by now, and welcomed the nothingness and warmth, and the red edges to his vision as if a great light burned behind him. For the first time, he had the presence of mind to turn around and see what waited there.

Fire filled the void.

When he opened his eyes, he stood within the innermost circle. Before him lay the dilapidated altar, and the crystal dagger buried in its surface. Shadows writhed beneath the blade’s tip.

No, not shadows. These were too coherent for shadows. An animated tangle of liquid black, like a catch of seaweed flowing with the tide.

When he closed his eyes, he saw the room mirrored in his newfound second sight. Innumerable silver threads drew heat from the pipe to the circle, then wove back up the altar to knot through the crystal blade. Whatever had been done here, that dagger was the keystone. Remove it, and the system might fall apart.

Or perhaps accelerate. Tara would know, or Lady Kevarian, but Abelard didn’t want to risk leaving this chamber to find them. The conspirators wouldn’t have made this intricate siphon of power so that disturbing it would damage the generators they hoped to use. Removing the dagger might break the Craft at work here, but there should be enough evidence left to find the people who had desecrated the holy places of Lord Kos.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he pulled the dagger free. It came loose easily, as if drawn from a sheath, and left a low ringing sound in the air.

The black tangle fell limp, but nothing else changed. The circles glowed with cold light. With eyes closed, Abelard saw the silver threads still knotted through the dagger. He opened his eyes again, and examined the weapon. Trapped within its crystal blade was a red fleck, the color of fresh blood.

When he lowered the dagger, he saw that the wooden altar was bare. There was no sign of the writhing shadow.

He heard a harsh rasp, like a chisel scraping over stone.

Was it his imagination, or had the chamber grown darker? Perhaps the light was fading.

No. The light had not changed, but the surrounding gloom was closer and more viscous, especially eight feet up the wall where a black pustule swelled, extending small tendrils to drink in the lesser shadows around it.

He backed out of the circle, gaze locked on that wriggling, growing darkness. Its limbs stretched out, some thick and others narrow, some soft, some hard, glittering like nightmares. As those tendrils moved over the stone, he heard the faint rasp again, and saw bits of rock dust fall.

Another step back. His breath was loud in his ears. Or was that only
his
breath?

His eyes burned. Without thinking, he blinked.

When he opened his eyes a fraction of a second later, the shadow on the wall was gone.

Above, he heard a thousand tiny chisels rake over bare stone.

He reached blindly behind himself and found the rungs of the ladder. His fingers shook; it took him two tries to jam his cigarette between his teeth. He turned around and began to climb.

He felt, rather than heard, a heavy diffuse collapse behind him, like a hundred pounds of dead insects falling from the ceiling. He surged up the ladder, granted strength and speed by fear. Scrabbling on stone below: the shadow creature, climbing. A few more feet and he would reach the main coolant chamber and its pitch darkness. With luck the shadow could not be behind and ahead of him at the same time.

The shadow skittered up the wall after Abelard, a herd of centipedes crossing a floor of night-black stone. Pain sliced through him—his leg caught by what felt like a circle of thorned rope. Abelard kicked, pulled. His robe tore, and his skin, too, but he was free, up, out, panting spread-eagled on the rock beneath the curved cold immensity of the coolant system. Darkness surrounded him, crisscrossed by pipes and tubes and vents and chains.

Below, behind, the shadow wound its first tendrils over the ladder’s top rung.

Abelard forced his unwilling body to run.

*

Reattachment of a face was a simple process. Once Tara inscribed the geometric sigils and the ancient runes, only a few final cuts remained. Seven, for the seven apertures of the senses, on the reverse side of the face and on the blank flesh of Shale’s head. Two cuts for the two eyes, two for the ears, one for each nostril, one for the mouth.

She found a spare bedsheet in a dresser drawer, ripped it to long thin shreds, and used the shreds to knot Shale to the bed frame. Then she matched the fresh wounds on face and head to one another and said the words that untied her bonds of Craft.

She kneaded the cheeks, pressed in at the temples, smoothed the eyes back into their sockets. Flesh knit to flesh, and the body welcomed its spirit’s return. His features swelled and grew pink as blood rushed to them once more. Breath rattled in a throat that had not tasted air in more than a day. A pair of emerald eyes opened to regard the world. The lingering fog of Shale’s exhaustion parted in a rush when Tara leaned close and whispered into his ear, “Time to wake up.”

His sharp teeth snapped for her throat, but she had expected that and pulled back in advance.

“Not a good idea, Shale.”

Steel-cord muscles strained against her improvised cloth ropes, but the knots held, and the strips of blanket were tight enough to deny him the leverage to tear free. He convulsed on his bed like a netted fish.

“I’d like you to answer my questions,” she said.

“I’ll kill you!” This time, Shale’s voice was fierce, and passionate. Tara saw the gargoyle’s eyes widen at the force of his reclaimed rage.

Which was all well and good, but if he didn’t quiet down, he’d call the Blacksuits to them. “I gave you back your body as a show of good faith. I need your help.”

“You imprisoned me.”

“We’ve been over this,” she said. “I got you off that roof without the Blacksuits seeing. Would you rather be in prison? Or dead? Everyone in Alt Coulumb seems to think Seril’s Guardians are monsters. Would they give you a fair trial? You’re an animal to them.”

“Blasphemy.” He spat the word at her.

“You know that’s how they see you. You said as much yourself, yesterday. Let me help you prove them wrong.”

“I don’t know anything. I won’t tell you anything.”

“Those are two very different statements.”

“My people will come for me.”

“I’ve blocked their sense for you.” Not true—how else had the gargoyles found her last night on the Xiltanda’s roof?—and perhaps not even possible, but Shale was no Craftsman, and didn’t know what she could and could not do. “I want to help them as much as I want to help you. Your leader, Aev, sent you to Judge Cabot’s penthouse to receive a message. You pretended not to know more when last we spoke, but she wouldn’t have sent you in blind.”

“Aev said, talk to no one.”

“A dark night is falling over this city, Shale. You can be with your people by moonrise if you tell me what I need to know.”

Green eyes flicked from the window to the strips of cloth that held him. A bright instant of calculation flashed across his face. “I…” His voice dropped. He was weaker than he looked. “I was to receive something from Judge Cabot.”

“Yes.” She approached the bed, reeled in by his sinking voice. “What was it? And remember, I can tell if you lie.” Also untrue, but he didn’t know that.

“Don’t know.” He shook his head. “Just a courier.”

“Why did you come into the city? Forty years with no Guardians in Alt Coulumb, then this, putting your whole Flight at risk. What did Judge Cabot have for you?”

“He was going to help us. He’d been dream-talking with Aev for months. Everyone was excited.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying.”

“No.” He was desperate, shaking his head.

“Yes. But we’ll come back to that. Tell me what you saw when you reached Cabot’s penthouse.”

The setting sun’s first shadow fell across Shale’s face, and his body twitched. The knotted sheets held.

“Tell me.”

“Blood,” he said.

“And in the blood?”

His nostrils flared. “A face. Surrounded by bones.”

“Cabot’s face?”

“Cabot. His body broken. Flayed, but he could speak.”

“What did he tell you?”

Shale looked away. She grabbed his chin, and forced him to face her. “Tell me. What did he say to you?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his fingers flex. Silver-blue light crackled between them.

“What did he say, Shale?”

He opened his mouth. Something like a word came out. She leaned in to catch it.

But his mouth was not a human mouth anymore.

Cloth ripped and talons flashed. Beneath her was a creature ceasing to be human: skin now gray stone, muscles writhing and nerves rewiring themselves, whole being condensed in agony as wings unfurled from his back. His hooked beak spread to devour.

Tara fell back, screaming, and white light flashed between them.

*

Cat swam through a sea of need. She sat on the bed next to the vampire, who lay corpse-still beneath the sheets. Blood pounded through her veins, so much of it. She didn’t need it all.

Captain Pelham—no, call him the vampire, that made it easier—lay lost in the predatory dreams of his kind, dreams of chase and capture, not the tremulous scavenger hallucinations of mortal man. Like all beings, his kind had sleeping reflexes. Bring blood to their lips, and they would suck.

There are more important matters at stake than your satisfaction, a tiny part of her protested, small and alone in a cave at the back of her mind. The vampire is in fine condition. No harm befell him during the day. Your mission is fulfilled. Go back to Tara. Do your duty.

Duty was a dry well, and the world a cold promontory. Light, life, and glory waited within his teeth.

She lowered her bare wrist, and slid it between his lips. The inside of his mouth was cold as peppermint, and his fangs pressed against her skin.

Small, and sharp.

She placed her free hand behind his head for support. His hair scratched her palm like a nest of wires.

Don’t do it, that tiny part of her screamed. You’re better than this.

She jammed her wrist onto the tips of his fangs.

Tara’s scream did not stop Shale, but the shield of Craft she threw between them managed well enough. His talons raked across its translucent surface, once, twice, three times, scattering sparks that burned on tiles and furniture. She stumbled under the weight of his attack and fell, curling into a ball on the floor, but kept her hands and the shield between them.

Again he assailed her, and again her shield held. Tara gathered her legs deliberately beneath her and rose into a crouch. As she stood, she fixed Shale with the glare of a woman who could strangle gods on their thrones.

He froze for a fleeting moment, and through his eyes she traced the patterns of his thought. He had hoped to kill her quickly and flee to his people before the Blacksuits chased him down. Every wasted second reduced his chances of escape. Did his large ears detect the footfalls of Justice approaching their door?

Shale knew the steel inside her, and knew as well that he could not prevail against a Craftswoman and the Blacksuits together. He glanced over his shoulder toward the barred window. In that momentary pause, she drew her knife from the glyph above her heart.

There was no need to use it. He made the right choice, and leapt backward in a silver streak, somersaulting through the air to land facing the window. Tile cracked and splintered beneath his feet. One large hand ripped the metal bars free of their mooring, and another shattered the safety glass. Fluid as quicksilver, he leapt from the windowsill into space, teeth and claws naked and sharp, wings flared.

He landed with a thud on the fire escape of the building opposite, a God Wars–era pile of iron and red brick. Rusted metal creaked and bent under his weight but did not give. As Tara ran to the window he clamored up the metal frame, not bothering with the stairs. She marveled at him, swift, sure, strong.

But he wouldn’t believe in such an easy escape.

The sunset paled and the hospital lights guttered as she drank in tiny flames of ghostlight and candle. She cloaked herself with darkness and power. Shadows trickled through her muscles and covered her body.

Ten feet from here to the next building over, she judged. Four stories of fall. The hole in the wall was not large enough for a running leap. She climbed onto the windowsill as Shale reached the seventh story of the building opposite. One more level and he would flee faster than she could follow.

Tara leapt.

Empty air yawned beneath her. Arms straight out in front, fingers outstretched. She must have let out a battle cry of some kind, for Shale turned and saw her, almost soaring though she lacked wings. Seven feet. Eight. Reach. You can make it.

The tips of her fingers curled about the iron railing, then let go.

She fell.

She slammed into the fire escape one floor down. Had she not shifted power from her muscles to the shadows that protected her, the impact would have broken her elbow. Wind whistled about her; an iron rail bounced off her ribs. Flailing, she grabbed hold of a banister for a second. The sudden jolt nearly dislocated her arms. Her grip broke, but at least she was falling slower.

The paving stones hit her like a god’s hammer. Light exploded in her chest and behind her eyes. Through the haze that obscured the world, she saw Shale silhouetted against the clouds before he disappeared.

A flight of stone steps a few feet away led to the brick building’s basement door. She crawled to those steps and worked her way down them until she found a shady corner. Crouching there, she drew darkness close as a blanket. Anyone examining the alley from above would see only shadows.