He met Cobra’s eyes with a deadened stare.
Cobra didn’t seem put off, but crossed his arms mockingly. “Aren’t you worried?” he asked the man inside the beast. He pointed to Sora’s prone body on the ground, then tapped his own head emphatically. “Are you even in there, Viper? Will you let the beast kill her as well? One more life for your demon’s altar?”
Viper growled low in his throat, a noise similar to a roaring flame. Rip out his teeth, the demon thought. Strip his spine.
From deep behind the demon’s eyes, Crash watched.
Shall we kill him, the demon murmured, or shall we play first? A surge of excitement accompanied the thought. Shall we? Shall we?
Crash was considering. For once, he and his demon wanted the same thing. He liked this new sense of common will.
Let’s play, he thought.
He ran at Cobra, who activated the fifth gate and vanished beneath his claws, but Viper expected this. By now he knew the man's methods. Cobra reappeared behind him, and Viper spun around. His fist connected powerfully with his enemy's jaw. Wham!
Cobra’s body flew clear across the alley and smashed through a brick wall.
Viper scented the air, then prowled after his prey. He spotted Cobra lying sprawled on the other side of the wall. Shards of broken stone and mortar surrounded his body. His cowl lay ripped around his neck, revealing an unexpectedly gruesome sight: half the man’s lower jaw was missing. His skin hung loosely like stretched cloth. His neck was mangled and distorted by scar tissue and burn marks.
Crash tried to remember that night at Mistmire Hive, but couldn’t. He only saw the vague impression of flames and the shadows of a burning village, feeling the demon’s bloodlust heavy in his mind, like a wet, humid cloud. Had he truly created this man?
A ripple of darkness along the ground caught his eye: Cobra’s shadow. The wave coiled around his feet, and suddenly Viper found himself immobile. With a roar of frustration, he lunged forward, trying to break the shadow's grip, but the dark magic held him bound.
Cobra sat up as smoke rose from his body. The snow around the brick wall began to melt. Viper could see the man’s demon form boiling beneath his skin, a visible force yearning for release.
Cobra’s maimed face pulled into a scowl. Hatred burned in his gaze. “I would have been a Grandmaster if it weren’t for you,” he seethed as he climbed to his feet. He stood there, hunched and faltering, as his body contorted. Speaking through a cracking jaw, “Forget the Shade and its schemes. You’re dead, Viper.”
“So very devout of you,” Crash replied.
Cobra’s body suddenly pitched forward. A second set of arms exploded from his torso. His limbs became long and sinewy, and his skin turned mottled brown, not unlike a praying mantis. Wicked green claws, dripping venom, sprouted from his fingers and toes. Wide yellow eyes bulged from his skull, and a gaping mouth full of pointed fangs finished the transformation. His teeth were so long, his mouth couldn’t shut properly, and his jaw fell open awkwardly to one side. Yellow saliva fell to the snow and sizzled when it struck the ground.
Viper searched the enemy demon for weaknesses. Cobra’s new form slumped on wide, bending limbs, not unlike a giant insect. The second set of arms on Cobra’s torso were long enough to be used as legs, and he switched between them fluidly, at times standing on all fours like a wild beast, then upright like a man. He moved with the skeletal, twitching grace of a locust.
The two demon forms were like night and day. Viper, of the Sandsorrow Hive, his body encased in hardened black skin and long protruding spikes, like bristling armor from the underworld. And Cobra, damp and oozing with toxins, like the Mistmire swamp from which he hailed.
Viper took Cobra by his first set of arms. He used his grip to lever himself over the demon's body in a fantastic leap. As he fell, he dragged the blades on his arms down the slimy mottled skin on Cobra’s back, landing the first blow.
Yellow pus spilled from Cobra's wound and sizzled when it hit the ground. It smelled rancid. Viper recoiled slightly.
“Careful, demon,” Cobra hissed as the two faced each other. “My blood is toxic to humans. Hit me too hard, and the girl might catch some on her skin.”
Viper snarled. He placed himself between Cobra and Sora’s small body; she lay in a tight ball beneath her cloak at the side of the alley. He could hear her ragged breath—but he didn’t know if she was still conscious. He needed to finish this fight and move her to safety. Once Cobra realized he was losing, he would try to take her and run, or perhaps he expected more assassins to join his side.
Viper clawed at Cobra’s thick, clammy skin. His enemy danced backward, avoiding the attack, but Viper followed and grasped the second set of Cobra’s arms. With a mighty heave, he threw Cobra over his shoulder, breaking his long, spindly arms in the process.
Cobra released an inhuman screech. As he fell through the air, he activated the fifth gate and vanished. But Viper felt the row of spines on the back of his neck prickle. He turned, prepared to strike.
Cobra materialized behind him from thin air.
Viper plunged his claws into Cobra’s soft underbelly.
The two momentarily stood still. A look of shock passed over Cobra’s face. He opened his venomous mouth and spat yellow pus. It struck Viper’s hardened skin, burning through the top layer, but he didn’t let go, not even when blisters began to form. His fingers remained firmly lodged in Cobra’s vitals until he saw his enemy’s skin ripple, his face shrink and deflate, and his arms recede into his torso.
Viper waited until Cobra took on his human form before he ripped his claws free. A strand of entrails accompanied his hand. Bits of flesh clung to his wrist.
Cobra lay kneeling in the snow, a pool of red blood growing around him at an alarming rate. His eyes stared at the unraveled rope of his long intestine.
“Kill him,” he suddenly rasped. He met Viper’s gaze. “Kill him.”
“Who?” Crash asked softly.
“Kill Cerastes,” Cobra said hoarsely. “Stop him, and you stop the Shade. Our kind are not meant to rule. Better to worship no man, no god, than become a slave….” Cobra looked like he intended to keep speaking, but his eyes became cloudy and unfocused, and he slumped over as the life drained from his body.
Crash considered him through his demon’s eyes. He thought of Burn, of the Dark God’s weapons, and the hopeless task he faced. Cobra was right. In order to end the plague and the rest of this madness, he would have to kill Cerastes. His people were not meant to have organized armies or rulers. The Shade's new order went against their nature. Better to live alone—separate from the Hive and the Shade—than become a mindless slave to a demon’s will.
Then his thoughts filled with images of Sora.
A surge of protectiveness rushed through his demon's body. His first instinct was to charge across the alley to her side. But the demon was not gentle, and its strength worried him. Crash considered asserting himself over the demon’s mind and reclaiming control, returning to his human form, but the stab wound in his side still hadn’t closed, and he was further injured from his fight with Cobra. If he transformed now, he would bleed out swiftly into the snow, and wouldn’t have the strength to carry Sora to safety.
Still in his demon form, Viper turned to her unconscious body. He approached her slowly at a loping gait, his wings held awkwardly high upon his back. He crouched over her and leaned his face close. He could smell the taint of poison in her blood: a concoction of nightshade, red sage and foxglove—not lethal in small doses. Cobra had pricked her behind the ear. Crash assessed her condition with a few deep breaths. She would be sick for a time. Nightshade and foxglove, especially, could cause mental confusion, even hallucinations. Her muscles might stiffen. She would be hard-pressed to keep down food. He couldn’t leave her alone.
Viper sat back on his long heels and considered his options. He could return her to the Ebonaire estate and seek out Lori, but that would be risky. Silas’ crew would have discove
red the Dark God’s weapons missing by now, and most likely suspect him of joining the Shade. Caprion had recognized him in The Regency with Cobra. Ferran and Lori wouldn't trust him, for good reason. If he showed up with Sora in his arms, he would be blamed for her condition, and maybe even attacked. His demon form was more than threatening, and he didn't know if he would be able to control it.
When he leaned over Sora again, Crash felt the hot rush of the demon’s will: a fierce animal need to protect and find shelter. His baser instincts demanded a cave, a den somewhere safe and dry, easily defended. He tried to think rationally. He lived in the City of Crowns when he was first hired to kill Lord Fallcrest. He knew of a place. He could get her there in time.
He picked Sora gently up off the ground and spread his wings for flight.
CHAPTER 28
Burn opened his eyes slowly. The pain in his head was more manageable than the day before. The absolute darkness of his underground prison had left him temporarily blind, so he closed his eyes again and used his ears, which were long and pointed, the keenest of the races.
He listened down long tunnels under the earth, to every creak of stone or drip of water, and far into the distance, where giant gears ground endlessly through the rock.
Two people stirred outside his small cell. He could hear their shallow breaths. He waited, but it seemed that only two assassins were guarding him, and he felt grimly satisfied by that. The Shade must not realize how fast he healed, or the true extent of his strength.
He climbed heavily to his feet and positioned himself behind the door of the cell. Then he clanked his chains to attract the guards’ attention. The first one, a man, entered his cell, no more than a shadow amongst shadows; he caught him around the throat with his chains and easily snapped his neck. The second guard, a female, tried to waylay him with a long cutlass, but he swung both fists and smashed his chains upside her head. She crumpled to the ground.
He stood still, his breath labored. His temples throbbed. He fought to stay balanced—perhaps he wasn’t as recovered as he thought. After a long minute, the dizziness passed and he began to search the bodies of the assassins. He found a set of keys along the woman’s belt and unlocked his chains. Then he swiftly left his cell and locked the two guards inside..
Burn limped quickly through the freezing underground corridors. No torches or lanterns illuminated his path, but with his heightened senses, he was able to distinguish the most used passage through the dungeons. He knew this was a risk. He might run into more of the Shade, but he needed to find an exit, and this route seemed the most likely. He followed the tunnel cautiously through the darkness.
His concussion had left him disoriented. He didn’t know which direction he was traveled in, only that he had to escape the underground as soon as possible, before more of the Sixth Race appeared. His long ears perceived a distant trickle of water, a hollow gust of wind, and he started in that direction. Burn suspected he was in the sewers beneath the city, and that the water would eventually empty into the Crown’s Rush. Hopefully, the drainage tunnels would be wide enough for him to travel through.
* * *
Ferran climbed into the Ebonaire carriage alone, then started off down the long, curved front drive. He watched laborers outside the window clearing the road and shoveling salt onto the snow, in preparation for the next storm. So much salt, worth its weight in gold, he thought, watching them sprinkle it across thick patches of ice.
He had left Lori in an argument with Olivia, Danica’s handmaid, who apparently thought the Healer’s treatments out of vogue. Olivia said half of Lori’s techniques were considered “country cures” not used in the city. Lori threw her hands up in exasperation, seeming ready to skin the maid alive.
He snickered quietly in the carriage. The First Tier even had trends for medicine. Olivia accused the Healer of brewing up bunk concoctions that might ruin young Danica’s mind. He half-expected Lori to smack her in the mouth.
Ferran unfolded the map before him and tried to direct the coach. They left the Ebonaire estate and traveled deeper into The Regency. He tried to follow the access tunnel on the map by using ancient landmarks and street intersections. That made it all very troublesome, as some streets had been repaved and renamed, or alleys had been built in-between; twice, he lost all sense of direction. The sky was solidly overcast and there was no sign of hills or the river. He wasn’t overly familiar with this district of The Regency; his driver had to backtrack several times.
Finally, Ferran found himself in front of a quiet house on Timerlin Lane. He spotted it partially by luck, partially because he thought the entrance to a sewer access tunnel might be nearby. The townhouse appeared dark and quiet, with no servants or horses in sight. He stared at the curtained windows for a long moment. The owners might have left for the season. Perhaps it was a vacant guest house for a much wealthier family?
He stopped the coach and got out. A black wrought-iron fence surrounded the property. Dark ivy covered the house’s white facade. A navy-blue door stood atop a series of flagstone steps, with a brass knocker in the shape of a boar’s head: the king’s emblem. This must be a guest house of the royal family reserved for visiting nobility.
The gate to the fence was locked. The house looked deserted. He frowned for a while, looking at the map. According to the old blueprints, access to a sewer drain should be directly where the house stood. Perhaps it was located somewhere in the yard? After a brief inspection of the garden, he could only decide either the map was wrong, or the sewer drain was somewhere under the house.
He placed his hand on the black iron gate to open it, and immediately felt a tingle of energy through his fingers. Magic? The smell of burning hair reached his nose. He recognized its particular stench from years of exploring ancient tombs; some sort of ward or concealment spell protected this house. He wondered how many people noticed the building on a day-to-day basis—probably not many.
With a quick command to his Cat’s Eye, he deactivated the spell and entered the yard, though now he was on alert and looked around cautiously. Only the races could work magic
“Looks like a storm a'brewin,’ Milord,” the driver called from his seat on the carriage. “Will this be a long visit?”
Ferran glanced distractedly over his shoulder at the sky. The clouds appeared coarse as wool and low enough to snow. Yes, snow would fall soon, and it looked like a heavy storm was coming. “Not long. Wait for me.”
“Aye, Milord,” the driver replied.
He walked confidently to the front door and immediately tried the knob without bothering to knock. It was locked, and he sensed a second ward. Now thoroughly suspicious, he disabled it with his Cat's Eye and used his lock picks to spring open the door. Then he hesitated. Caprion's prisoner said the Shade's leader lived in The Regency. Could this possibly be their base of operations? It seemed improbable in such a quaint neighborhood, but what if he ran headlong into a nest of assassins?
He listened, but heard no sounds from inside. The house appeared silent and abandoned, protected by a few weak wards and human locks.
He entered the front door. A short hallway led into a wide-open dining room, then branched off from there. The furniture appeared untouched. Ferran couldn't hear even a murmur of a voice.
He moved carefully from room to room. The dining hall was immaculate, as was the drawing room and the servant quarters. A staircase led to the upper levels, but he didn't hear any noise from the floor above. Ferran began to wonder if he was in the right house. He took a quick look at the small backyard—nothing unusual. He scanned the map again, puzzled.
On his way out, he paused in the hallway near the front door and turned to his left. He had not noticed a small sitting room at the very front of the house, with a large bay window overlooking the garden. Now it caught his attention, because there was a low fire simmering in the hearth. That unnerved him; a fire wouldn't be left burning unattended. A plate of fresh fruit rested on a solid oak table. The house must not be aban
doned after all—perhaps the owners were upstairs. If he had a lick of sense, he would leave immediately before he was discovered.
But Ferran was not a man of sense. As his eyes scanned the far wall, he found himself staring at a large bookshelf. His curiosity stirred, and his hands itched to touch the covers. One particular shelf of books stood out from the rest. The leather tomes looked old and well-used. He pulled a few out to examine them. Origins of the City of Crowns, The First King, and Legends of the Six Gods.
Ferran frowned. He thumbed through the books quickly and paused when he glanced at the back page—each one carried the seal of the royal library. These books belonged in the King’s palace. Why were they in this house?
His hand hesitated over the final binding: A History of the Wind Temples. A strange tingle of energy shot up his fingers, causing his Cat's Eye to glow red. He squinted at the book's title and grabbed it from the shelf. The moment he touched the leather, he smelled the stench of burning hair again and the journal-like book shimmered before his eyes. A concealment spell. Cold energy soaked through his fingers. He caught his breath.
He recognized the small, unassuming book from Silas' library: The Book of the Named.
Ferran could hardly believe it. He almost released a whoop of excitement, but managed to control himself. The Shade must be confident indeed to hide such a priceless artifact in plain sight. Then again, they probably didn't expect a treasure hunter to track it down. He smirked.. Sometimes, it was good to fear one's enemies.
Then he heard an odd thump from somewhere deep in the house.
Ferran shoved the book in his pocket just as a maid entered carrying a feather duster and a basket of cleaning supplies. She paused when she saw him, but didn’t seem alarmed. Her eyes narrowed. Ferran felt a tingling at his wrist, and the sudden spice of magic clogged his nose, heating his nostrils. With a swift command to his Cat’s Eye, his vision blurred and cleared, and he found himself looking into the green eyes and at the black hair of someone of the Sixth Race. Another concealment spell?