Death's Mistress

by Karen Chance

  We hit the main corridor again a few minutes later, Anthony lolling like an old drunk and me swearing. I propped my hand on the wall for a moment, trying to get my breath back. And when I moved it, I left a sweaty outline behind. I stared at it resentfully, breathing hard, and wondering why I never got the skinny villains. And then I heard that sound again. And unless I was very much mistaken, it was closer.

  But I still couldn’t tell the direction. There were too many side tunnels, too many echoes. Even our own voices sounded strangely like they were coming from several places at once.

  “Come on, come on, what are you waiting for?” Anthony demanded anxiously.

  To decide whether or not to leave your ass here, I didn’t say.

  “We have to move it!” he said, poking me.

  I pushed off the wall, and slung him back over my shoulders. “I’ll move it. As long as you tell me what you’re doing here.”

  “Geminus called me up in a fearful panic, raving about the fey and retribution and Zeus knows what all. Turns out someone was trying to blackmail him for that damned rune and he’d gotten it into his head that I had it. He threatened to go to the Senate unless I handed it over.”

  “And did you?”

  “I couldn’t give him what I don’t have,” Anthony said testily.

  “Then why did he think you did?”

  “Who can say? You know these gladiator types. A little thick in the skull.”

  “Unlike these Senate types,” I said, stopping. “A little slippery of the tongue.”

  Anthony waited me out for maybe half a minute, and then he cracked. “You would leave me here? A wounded man?”

  “You’re not a man, and in a heartbeat.”

  He expanded my vocabulary of ancient Roman curses for another moment, while I just stood there. “Oh, very well!” he said resentfully. “He saw me going into Elyas’s study last night, moments before he died.”

  “So Louis-Cesare was right. You did kill him.”

  “I may have my flaws, but I am loyal to those who are loyal to me. And Elyas was an old supporter. I didn’t go there to kill the man!”

  “Then why did you go?”

  “For Christine. Louis-Cesare has been looking for her for a century; he has some strange obsession with the woman. I thought if she was under my control, I would hold him. I went there to strike a bargain with Elyas. I would protect him from any retribution from Alejandro, but I wanted the girl.”

  “But you didn’t get her,” I said as I started staggering back toward the arena. I just hoped like hell that the stairs were still there.

  “No, thank the gods!”

  “What happened?”

  “I arrived to see Elyas and was told he’d retired to his study. I went along and knocked, but there was no answer. I went in and found him, trussed up like a Christmas goose.”

  “Why didn’t you do something? You could have saved him—”

  “I could have done nothing of the kind. I’d seen this trick a time or two, and one look was enough. The wax was already soft. Removing the blade would have dislodged it and merely killed him sooner.”

  “You could have tried to heal him, then.”

  He made an exasperated sound. “That sort of thing may run in your line, but mine isn’t so gifted! And even had it been, it is doubtful I could have helped him. You saw his throat—it wasn’t slit; it was bisected. He was seconds away from death, and there was nothing to be done about it.”

  “So that’s what you did? Nothing?”

  “I attempted to question him, to find out who was responsible, but he was groggy. I couldn’t get anything useful out of the man and was about to summon his second when Louis-Cesare showed up.”

  “The study was soundproofed,” I pointed out. “You couldn’t have heard him.”

  “The charm doesn’t work when the door isn’t fully closed, and in my surprise, I hadn’t bothered to pull it shut.”

  I tried to think back, and it seemed to me that he was telling the truth—about that much, anyway. The study door had been partly open when I arrived, sending a wedge of light out into the hall. That was how I’d known where to go.

  “I heard the servant conducting him down the corridor,” Anthony continued. “And . . . an idea presented itself.”

  “You left him there, knowing he would die and that Louis-Cesare would be blamed.”

  “And that I would get him off. He was never in any danger, other than to his pride. Which could stand a prick or two, I might say.”

  “You planned to force him to remain under your control, practically as a slave!”

  Anthony sighed wistfully. “It was perfect. I should have known; the Fates have always hated me.”

  I stopped because we’d reached the door to the arena, or at least I assumed it was behind there somewhere. A massive fall of dirt, bricks and rock blocked the way. The whole damn thing might have caved in, or it could be a localized fall caused by a weak spot in the tunnel. And there was only one way to tell.

  I swore under my breath, letting the flashlight play over the rough ceiling, or as much of it as I could see through the hanging cloud of dust. I could see where the old bricks had given way, letting through a ton of dirt and a cascade of long white roots. In the flickering light, they looked almost like grasping fingers, reaching out—

  Okay, yeah. Enough of that. I’d been down here a little too long, listening to Anthony’s ravings. I needed to get us both out of here, although it wasn’t looking promising. The only way through the fall, assuming there was one, was going to be at the very top. I had a sudden vision of myself having to shimmy through on my back, the rock inches from my nose, another cave- in just waiting to happen . . .

  Have I mentioned that I really, really hate little dark places?

  But there wasn’t much choice in this case. I tucked the flashlight in my belt to leave both hands free. “I’m going to check it out,” I told Anthony. “Stay here.”

  “As opposed to?” he asked wryly.

  “I’ll be right back,” I promised. I wasn’t sure who I was reassuring: him or me. From Anthony’s expression, I think he figured that out, but he didn’t say anything. I started to climb.

  It was about as fun as I’d expected. It was pitch-dark except for the bouncing beam of the flashlight, which never seemed to be pointed where I needed it to be. And even when it was, it mostly highlighted the choking dust cloud, which wasn’t helping me see or breathe. I misjudged the distance and cracked my head on the rough ceiling, and then my foot fell through a gap in the loose earth, causing a mini-avalanche.

  My feet managed to find purchase at the last second on a section of brick that had all come down in a piece. I held on, hiding my face in my jacket and trying not to breathe as a few hundred pounds of dirt flowed over me. It finally stopped, and I looked up, blinking dirt and dust out of my eyes.

  I was practically buried, with only my head sticking out of the fall. I coughed, got my bearings and started trying to fight my way free, causing the load of debris around me to shift. Unfortunately it mostly shifted back onto me. I scrambled to try to compensate, thinking I saw a gap up ahead, but a sudden cascade sent me sliding back down the mound on my stomach, getting pummeled by rocks, roots and sharp-edged bricks the whole way.

  I slid to a stop at Anthony’s feet, gasping and choking on the new wash of dirt in the air. “Now what?” he demanded. It didn’t look like patience was the consul’s strong suit.

  I scowled up at him, bruised and filthy. “Now we’re going to have to find another—”

  “No!” He was starting to look panicked again. “There’s no time. We have to go out here.”

  “I don’t have a backhoe in my pocket,” I snapped, struggling to my feet and vainly trying to dust off my clothes. But my sweat and his blood had caked the dirt onto them; all I was doing was smearing it around. I decided it could wait and looked up to find Anthony staring at me.

  He wasn’t going to plead, wasn’t about to beg. But h
is face was doing it for him. The heatless flame of the flashlight flickered over drawn features and colorless flesh. Around his many wounds, dark rings glistened like hungry mouths, smearing his clothes and staining his skin. But it didn’t look like any more was flowing. I suspected that might be because there wasn’t much left.

  Anthony was running out of time.

  I stared into the blackness of the corridor behind us, seeing nothing. But my brain supplied an image of the dark, unknown passageway, which probably opened onto more caverns and then more passageways . . . endless regressions into deeper and more silent darkness. I could find my way out, eventually, of that I had no doubt. But I couldn’t do it and carry Anthony, and I wasn’t sure what I’d find when I got back.

  “I’ll give it another try,” I said reluctantly, and he nodded, looking slightly relieved. He got a hand to my backside and pushed, and I scrambled up the slippery slope once again.

  I don’t know if the previous avalanche had sloughed off most of the looser debris, or if I was just getting the hang of things. But I made it to the top this time with little difficulty, putting out a cautious hand to the ceiling so as to spare my head. I wedged myself into a somewhat secure-feeling space between the ceiling and wall, and sent a pale tongue of light through the small space I’d previously noticed.

  It was a definite gap. But I couldn’t see anything on the other side, either because the flashlight’s beam didn’t extend that far, or because there wasn’t anything to see. I could slither in there only to find another wall of dirt and rock. Or another avalanche waiting to come down on my head.

  My fingers were aching from gripping the flashlight so hard, and it wasn’t going to be much use anyway. I tucked it back in my belt and started crawling, before I could talk myself out of this. The gap at the top of the mountain was claustrophobically small, and the air was almost unbreathable. It also got smaller as I went along, to the point that my elbows were brushing it on either side, and my chin was carving through the dirt like a plough.

  It was almost impossible to imagine dragging Anthony through this, even if there was an opening on the other side. The smart thing would be to turn around, to find another way out as fast as possible, and to send help back for him. He was as tough as nails, as he’d more than proven; maybe another hour or two wouldn’t make a—

  My head popped out into open air on a little cloud of dust. It was so unexpected that it caught me off guard, and I didn’t stop my forward momentum fast enough. I found myself tumbling down another steep slope, head over heels into darkness.

  I smashed into the pile of very hard debris at the bottom and just lay there for a moment, trying to breathe. It didn’t go so well, at first because the wind had been knocked out of me. And then what little breath I had caught at the sight of someone standing just inside the shadow of the main door.

  He was sliced diagonally by bands of ruddy light from some source behind him. I vaguely recognized it as the graffiti marquee, its dim glow filtered through a haze of dust. I couldn’t make out much even with the light; there was too much crap in the air. But a monstrous shadow sprawled on the floor beside him.

  I watched, out of breath and momentarily helpless, trying to get back to my feet. But my left foot was caught on something, and before I could figure out on what, the indistinct shape moved forward. Its hand lifted and the shadow appendage moved along with it, rippling, giant, and terrifying.

  And reaching out for me.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Panic caused me to jerked my trapped foot hard enough to crack the heavy old root it had become wedged under. I ignored a bright searing pain from my ankle and scrambled to my feet, gun in hand. Only to have it caught in an iron grip.

  I twisted but couldn’t break the hold, so I did the next-best thing and threw my attacker against the wall. He hit with a thud that had more dirt dropping down on top of us, but he still didn’t let go. Instead, he spun me into his arms, and somehow got a grip on both wrists. So I stomped on his foot, trying to get enough leverage to—

  “Please do not hit me below the belt again,” a man said, sounding heartfelt. “I have not yet recovered from the last time.”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, relaxing back into Louis-Cesare’s arms.

  “I followed Anthony. I wanted to know what was important enough to keep him away from the challenge of the century. Why are you here?”

  “I followed you.” I twisted in his grasp, and he let me go, a little reluctantly, I thought. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. “Everyone is looking for you. The consul’s about to have a fit, Marlowe’s tearing his hair out and Mircea . . .”

  “I know. I called him an hour ago, informing him that I will return for the trial. I never intended to do otherwise, but I had to be free to gather evidence, if such existed.”

  “I think Marlowe is already doing that.”

  “Yes, but there are places even he cannot go.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as Anthony’s private rooms. I wished to search them for the stone—”

  “You searched my rooms?” The outraged voice drifted faintly through the rubble.

  Louis-Cesare’s head jerked up. “What was—”

  “Anthony,” I said sourly. “I found him a little while ago.”

  “You found—” He looked at me incredulously. “But he could drain you from here! If he is the killer—”

  “I don’t think he is.” I wanted to ask how Louis-Cesare had managed to search Anthony’s rooms when Marlowe himself couldn’t do it. But I decided it could wait. “Did you find anything?”

  “No.” He looked frustrated. “But he is dangerous nonetheless!”

  “Not so much at the moment,” I said drily.

  “He killed Geminus!”

  “He says not.”

  “I saw the body, Dorina. There are very few opponents who could have done that to a fighter of Geminus’s caliber.” It was the same thing I’d been thinking, but it still didn’t make sense.

  “He was attacked, too.”

  “By Geminus, no doubt attempting to defend himself.”

  “I’d think the same, but those weren’t defensive wounds. Anthony said something killed Geminus and then attacked him.”

  “Something?” Louis-Cesare’s expression spoke volumes.

  “That’s what he said, but he isn’t completely coherent at the—”

  The scream that tore the stillness caused us to jump as one, tensing against attack. But it wasn’t on our side of the fall. “Anthony!” Louis-Cesare called, as I scrambled back up the slope.

  There was no answer, but an odd scent suddenly flooded the air, sweetness on the verge of putrefaction, hard and sharp-edged. I’d smelled it somewhere before, but I couldn’t place it. But there was something off about it, something wrong.

  The tiny tunnel at the top of the landslide was even harder to get through quickly. By the time I’d managed it, I’d lost what skin remained on both my elbows and cracked my head on the ceiling a few more times. Which was why I just stared at the scene on the other side. For a moment, I thought maybe I’d hit my head a little too hard.

  Anthony was slumped against the wall, staring upward with an expression of stark terror. Half a dozen stakes had been pulled out of his chest, and lay scattered on the floor, their bloody tips pointing at the creature stroking red hands over Anthony’s torso. The tiny, delicate fingers slid through slippery blood, teasing the edges of mortal wounds almost playfully.

  But they were stronger than they looked. One of them suddenly backhanded Anthony, the manicured nails tearing into his cheek and snapping his head around, smashing his face into the rough wall. He forced his head back up, working his jaw absently. A trickle of blood made its way down his cheek before he began sluggishly to heal.

  This seemed to enrage his tormenter, who gave another of those unearthly screams. Another slash of nails laid open his chest, but although he jerked against the pain, he kept his teeth clenched on
a scream. With a digging twist the nails gouged deeper, until he twitched helplessly against their merciless grip, his head tossing back and cracking against the unforgiving bricks.

  “Rotting carrion. How many times do I have to kill you?” his tormenter hissed.

  “A few more, it would seem,” Anthony said, grimacing. And then he had to grit his teeth again as those knifelike nails started tearing downward in sharp, hard tugs.

  The movement galvanized me out of my shock. A moment later, I was slip-sliding down the tumbled mass of dirt as Anthony’s nightmare looked up, snarling. I tensed, gun in one hand and heavy-duty flashlight in the other. But then the lips that had been pulled back in a rictus softened into a smile, and the glittering hate in the eyes melted away, as if it had never been there at all. If it hadn’t been for the blood smearing her pale blue gown, she would have looked completely normal.

  “Christine?”

  “Hello, Dory.” Her voice was calm, even, friendly. If I hadn’t been watching, I’d have never known that her fingers were still tracking the furrowed paths of Anthony’s wounds, slick with his blood.

  I’d ended up teetering precariously on a pile of fallen bricks, so I stepped cautiously to the side. She didn’t noticeably react. “Uh. What are you doing?” I asked, equally carefully.

  “What does it look like?” Anthony asked hoarsely.

  I thought he might be wise to stop drawing her attention. The hate returned to her eyes as she looked at him, so focused that I could feel it pulsing between them. Then her hand tightened on the stake in his heart, and before I could stop her, she had jerked it out.

  Anthony choked back a scream, while Christine crouched over him, holding the bloody spike. She held it up, examining it with a puzzled frown. “Why isn’t he dead?” she asked me.

  I was wondering the same thing, until I saw his neck. There was a stuttering, puckered line where, until very recently, a gaping wound had been. He’d healed, I realized in disbelief. The stubborn son of a bitch had healed a mortal neck injury with a stake through his heart. I wouldn’t have believed it was possible without seeing it myself.