“Then, don’t.”
“I don’t cheat. You know this. I plan to let you off at the next stop,” he said, tilting the viper away from her neck. “There, you’ll run and I’ll follow. This deal is fair.”
She wasn’t of a mind to argue, but knew she’d be outed as an Inborn if she was shot and then healed. She’d need to leg it fast. “We have a deal. I’ll run.”
“Good, girl.” He loosened his grip, then slid the viper back into his pocket.
A hundred pairs of eyes watched her. All were fat with terror, wet with tears, and the faces freckled with blood. Most denounced her with their stares, as if she was responsible for the killing. She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything. Maybe she’d once done horrible things. Or maybe this Swangunner had targeted her because of Atlas Bancroft. Atlas probably is dirty. Losing focus, she held tight to her rock shard from Oubliette; outside of her fear, it was the only thing she felt.
Minutes later, the bullet train squealed to a halt at a pick-up station. Snofrid scanned the platform for the best route of escape. The least congested path was near the train information displays.
The Swangunner nodded at the doors. “Run, mieloji. I’ll follow in ten seconds.”
She dashed from the train car, smacking into people she couldn’t dodge fast enough. She stumbled, but bounced off a pillar and gained speed. Zooming past the ticket counters, she sprinted up the stairs two at a time. A brief glance over her shoulder confirmed that her time had run out. The Swangunner broke into a run.
She exited the station and leapt from the walkway onto the flat roof of a building. The Swangunner cleared the building with a grunt, landing on a walkway further below.
“Run faster, mieloji,” he advised, taking aim. “Otherwise, I’ll kill you too quickly.”
On instinct, she rolled across the roof and plunged down the opposite side. Her feet struck the ground amidst a troop of street performers. Wedging herself among them, she willed them to accept her and resume their acts. She waited, knees trembling, counting seconds that felt like hours. Finally, she stole a glance around her. The Swangunner was nowhere. She walked briskly, parting the audience until free of their bodies. Breaking again into a run, she kept pace alongside an electric hypercar.
“Watch it, sweet legs,” the driver snorted. “This isn’t a damn pedestrian crossing.”
“You watch it,” she shot back. “Pedestrians always have the right of way.”
Skirting the car, she passed by a group of teen protestors in red shirts and then swung into a vacant alley, which ran its course and T-boned into a gypsy trade market. She checked her peripheries, dodging low-flying transports and rounding stacks of whiskey crates. The Swangunner was nowhere to be seen, but even so, she went on running.
All types of people browsed the stalls, which exhibited purebred horses, guns and liquor. They overlooked her as she struggled to squeeze by. Just when she’d secured an opening, the Swangunner emerged from a rifle booth and charged her. He fired shots into the crowd. Crying out, she scrambled behind a pile of metal crates, maneuvering on her haunches. My hell. Run, she told herself. Don’t think, just run. Sprinting across an exposed patch of walkway, she ducked into a tavern.
It was a task to move through the knot of sweaty, dancing bodies inside. Beer glasses slid down counters and curvy prostitutes clad in lingerie catered to those who remained conscious; half a dozen bodies littered the floor, some vomiting onto the checkered tiles. There was no other exit.
She slipped into the bathroom where laughing girls with sweaty hair and smoky eyes jostled for the coveted space before the bathroom mirrors. She did a sweep of the floor, her memory recalling that such dives sometimes had secret hatchways to spirit away shady but well-paying customers if there was a raid.
She found it: a trapdoor just beneath the girl’s shuffling feet. “I need the door, girls,” she pointed. “A Swangunner is stalking me.”
“Go for it, hon.” A redhead lifted the trapdoor and Snofrid dropped inside. “Don’t let him push you around!” the girl called before sealing the door shut.
Snofrid found herself in a dank passage girded with corroded steel. Water dripped from the ceiling, dampening her hair and clothes. She followed the tunnel, imagining that it moved under several buildings, platforms and walkways. If he finds me in here, I’m a sitting duck.
The passage ended abruptly with an elevator large enough for one person. She rode it down and got off on a support beam beneath the city: it was safest not to return to city level in an elevator.
She took hold of the nearest support strut and swung herself over to a wide beam. She worked her way along in this manner. Her heart pounded so quickly it seemed to catapult her over the struts. Now and then, her shoes brushed the treetops, heightening her fear of falling. Being under the city, she had no idea where she was going, only that more distance meant more safety.
Or at least she thought it did.
She glanced over her shoulder and suddenly glimpsed the Swangunner racing across the beams. The girls in the bathroom had probably given her up. Terrified, she dropped down a level and snagged a metal cable. She moved along the cable, hand over hand, dangling over the abyss, until she alighted safely on a beam. The Swangunner’s footsteps grew louder; he was gaining on her. Heart thrashing, she again glanced over her shoulder and noticed something strange. His head was swinging back and forth, searching, as if he couldn’t see her. Thinking she’d gone mad, she searched for an explanation. She nearly cried out, sandwiched between shock and relief, when she found she couldn’t see her arms, torso, legs or feet. Someone had raised a Concealing Spell over her.
She turned in a full circle, scanning, until she spotted a person in a full-face gasmask, watching her from a nearby beam. The person remained still, like a block of granite, and flecks of purple magic gleamed on its gloves. Immediately, Snofrid mistrusted the person’s motive for helping her, though she was still thankful. She waited until the Swangunner was a speck in the distance before saying, “Thank you.”
“Protecting you wasn’t a kindness. As you shall soon see.”
Snofrid tensed, struggling to combat the hypnotic effect of the person’s voice; it was the most spellbinding voice she’d ever heard, so sultry it could’ve charmed a bull.
The person sprang onto Snofrid’s beam. Purple magic billowed from its hands, threading along Snofrid’s body until it had eaten away the Concealing Spell.
“Who are you?” Snofrid managed to ask.
“Someone whose side you will want to be on.” The person pulled off its gasmask and ran a gloved hand over its bald head, which was as smooth as an eggshell.
Fisting her hands, chin held upright, Snofrid’s first thought was that this person was infinitely more dangerous than the Swangunner. It was a Seer, Necromancer Inborns who rejected standard magic, and instead, risked their physical beauty—and sometimes even their lives—trying to master a hazardous branch of the spirit element, known as the Leaky Spells. Fortunately, the ivory facial armor this Seer wore covered its grotesque features that, if shown, would likely terrify even the most stouthearted soldier. There were surgical scars below its neckline, probably where its breasts had once been. Her violet eyes were the lone feature Snofrid could make out through her mask; they appeared blank, as if emptiness lay beyond them. She wore a corseted tunic beneath her green wool cloak, which cascaded down one shoulder, exposing half of the House insignia that embossed her breastplate—a Komodo Dragon enclosed by a wreath of purple monkshood blossoms.
Before daring to utter a word, Snofrid warned herself that the majority of Seers could petrify creatures, communicate through the mind and manipulate people with their voices. However, this one had clearly been subdued. The iron three-ringed collar around her neck meant that she’d been tamed by a master.
The girl fitted on her glove and said aloud, “I’m Hessia Nabash. Address me as Hessia.”
Snofrid recognized the name and raised her left hand in salute. Hessia Nabas
h was rumored to have been enslaved by a Skinwalker Commander and was famed for her victories in the Middle East. It made no sense for her to be here. “I’m Snofrid Yagami.”
“I know who you are.”
Snofrid furrowed her brow. “How?”
Hessia didn’t reply. She buckled on her gasmask, then circled around her. “I’ve wasted time enough searching for you, so I’ll make this brief. I’ve been sent by my master to propose a trade. If you agree to it, you’ll be rewarded.”
Snofrid ballooned with curiosity. “I’ll listen, but I can’t promise anything.”
“I’ve requested nothing more than listening at the moment.” Hessia lifted a piece of Snofrid’s hair, which was still thinly crusted in blue slime. “Fifteen days ago, you were marked by a beast in the woods outside of the Gehenna slum. Its saliva still clings to you.”
Snofrid touched her hair reflexively. She was aware that various species of beasts marked prey with their saliva and scolded herself for not making the connection. It made tracking the prey effortless when they needed to feed. “Why does a Seer care about a beast?”
“I’ve been tasked to ensure that the beast dies. That’s why I’ve been sent: I want you to offer yourself as bait.”
Snofrid suspected the girl was delusional. “Why would I just offer myself?”
“To please me.”
“Your voice is hardly powerful enough to control me.”
Hessia fingered her glove threateningly, as if she was going to strip it off and paralyze Snofrid with her touch. “My master and I were sent to destroy the beast by the Empyrean City. You have been given the honor of assisting us. Before you decide, keep in mind that, either way, the welx that marked you will come for you in thirteen days.”
“Scaring me won’t convince me to help you,” Snofrid assured. She wondered why a Seer and her master had been sent to kill just one beast in particular. The Empyrean City was home to three of the five Inborn Lords, making it the most powerful Inborn city on Earth. “I’ve studied many beasts, but I haven’t heard of the one you’re searching—”
“Only a select few have,” Hessia cut her off. “Join us and you’ll be among them.”
Snofrid froze up. Notwithstanding feeling indebted to Hessia for the Swangunner, she was leaving the city with Lycidius and Desya in a week. Still, she felt it would be smart to gather as much information about the welx as possible. If the beast would come for her in thirteen days, she needed to be prepared. “I need more information about the welx before I decide.”
“You’ll never know more than what my master wants you to know,” Hessia notified. “The beast is a welx, a rare species in the order Bashea, but the one we are hunting is possessed by a Spectral.”
With this new information, Snofrid’s courage wobbled at the thought of the beast coming for her: Spectrals could raise magic, even if inhabiting beasts.
“The welx hibernates for seventeen years at a time. Upon waking, it feeds thrice,” Hessia explained. “Its feeding cycle spans the course of six weeks; its diet is very specific: it feeds on Inborn Halos. As of now, it’s already taken two victims—one in Salem and another discovered this morning: the Chancellor of Hollowstone’s son.”
“Remus Leathertongue?” Snofrid asked.
“Yes.”
Snofrid doubted this day could get any worse. Remus had been possessed by a Spectral spy, which meant there would be catastrophic political and military repercussions when the human authorities also confirmed this. “Why do you need to kill the beast?” she asked. “Is the Spectral possessing it a traitor?”
Hessia’s tone morphed into a croak, shedding its beauty. “Spectrals are lower than traitors. They’re abominable. The rest is confidential.”
“I’m sure you can give me a hint without breaching your confidentiality agreement. At least tell me why it’s a threat.”
“I will. But only because my master allows it. The Spectral possessing the welx has mastered the earth element.”
“That’s not possible,” Snofrid protested. “Spectrals aren’t strong enough to master Elements.”
“This one is strong enough.”
“Then tell me how.”
“You’re not privy to that information. Obeying my master is your only concern. The welx is not only being hunted by us. Others search for it as well, not to kill it, but to use it. Preventing them from doing so is also our mission. If you join us, you’ll report to my master until the mission is finished. Make your choice.”
Snofrid wasn’t going to agree, regardless of her plan to leave Hollowstone. Few Spectrals or Necromancers ever mastered one of the six elements fully—earth, air, fire, water, spirit and metal—and it generally took decades to do so. Having mastery over the earth element gave the Spectral possessing the welx the ability to manipulate soil, rocks and plant-life at ungodly capacities. This made her want protection, especially considering the welx would track her when she left the city. But her decision was already made. “I can’t help you.”
“Why?” Hessia demanded, her tone intolerant. “You have a healing ability. There’s no risk.”
Snofrid’s mind did a one-eighty. “How do you know I can heal?”
“My master, Commander Hadrian, briefed me before he sent me to recruit you.”
Suddenly, the events of the past few days converged and made sense. Snofrid realized that the Commander had bid so high for her at the slave auction because she’d been marked. He’d wanted to use her in his hunt. It took all of Snofrid’s willpower not to turn around and walk away. She never wanted to be within range of the Commander again. “Like I said, I can’t help you.”
“Consider what you’re saying, civilian. Then understand that my master won’t accept a refusal. It’s expected of you to pay service to your kind, to do your duty. Otherwise, I’ll see to it that you’re shamed.”
“That’s blackmail!” Snofrid pointed out, her temper flaring.
“Duty isn’t blackmail. It’s merely an honorable choice.”
Snofrid, feeling the weight of worry, took into account that Desya might also be condemned when news of her refusal reached the proper channels. Even if they were both vagrants already, it wasn’t widely known. If Hessia made good on her threat, the result would blacken their names in every part of the world.
“We’re stationed in a war bunker under the city,” Hessia said, fishing a pair of gold-plated goggles from her pocket. “These are globus goggles. Should you decide to choose duty over fear, they’ll direct you there. Meet me the day after tomorrow, at 2000 hours.”
Snofrid snatched the goggles from the Hessia’s hand, convinced that the Seer wouldn’t allow her to leave unless she accepted them. She turned on her heel, eager for freedom, but was stopped by Hessia’s hand on her shoulder.
“As I said, this information is classified. You’ll be expected to swear into a Covenant Spell.”
Snofrid was now doubly relieved that she’d rejected Hessia’s trade. Like any contract, Covenant Spells bound two or more parties together, each pledging to do something for the other; but, if broken, the spell preyed upon the betrayer’s greatest fears, often times making them a reality. The only known ways to break the spell were if both parties agreed to end the arrangement or if one party died. “Please let me go,” she said.
“For now. May we meet again.” Hessia released Snofrid’s shoulder.
Snofrid stuffed the globus goggles into her satchel in bitter frustration. When Hessia was out of sight, she set off in search of a service elevator. Panic burrowed its way into her conviction, fracturing it. The past few days had been a whirlwind, and she hardly knew what problem to focus on. Learning why the Swangunner wanted her dead was her top priority. However, she didn’t see a sure road to answers. It was like being tossed into an exam that she hadn’t studied for. Nothing fully registered. The girl she’d been two days ago wasn’t the girl she was now. This one was purposeless. The moment this thought entered her mind, she flushed it out. Such thinking wouldn�
��t help her. Instead, she needed to gear all her focus towards her forgotten past.
The Divine Hound
Snofrid stared hard at the photograph of her and Atlas Bancroft, trying to imagine what he looked like. His gasmask covered most of his face, leaving only his blond hair and steel-blue eyes visible. She wondered if she’d chosen to date him impulsively or if she’d truly loved the human. She hoped it was the latter. Risking the title of vagrant for anything less than love was insanity. Questions raced in her mind, so many questions.
Sighing, she folded the photograph into her satchel and glanced at the wall clock. Only eight minutes had passed since she’d last checked the time. It felt infinitely longer. She’d awaited Desya’s and Lycidius’s return for hours last night before finally dozing off sometime after midnight. Lycidius hadn’t come home or even called in for an update. She had no idea where he could’ve gone, but Desya had messaged her a while ago, letting her know that he was working a second patrol shift until 7:00 a.m.
Grabbing a knit sweater from her drawer, she climbed down from her bedroom into the kitchen. On the television, a news bulletin was giving a Hatred Day summary, listing damages to the city. She nibbled on a bowl of Natto—fermented soy beans on steamed rice—and watched. The horrors of Hatred Day still clung to her body, driving her restlessness. Yesterday hadn’t been as violent as last year’s Hatred Day, but the death toll still ranged in the hundreds; this had foreseeably delayed Neko’s examination of her.
She’d spent half the day researching the welx. In learning that she attended the University of Hollowstone, she’d contacted one of her college professors, Dr. Darther Cricket, for information. Even with his aid, they’d turned up nothing. Since the welx only woke from hibernation for six weeks every seventeen years, she figured it had never been sighted. This or all knowledge of its existence had been wiped from the beast database. Accordingly, she decided to focus on answers that were closer at hand—like Atlas and the Swangunner. Peace of mind was something she desperately needed.
Hatred Day Page 7
