by Rainy Kaye
Sasmita helped guide her out and stepped down next to him, holding Fiona between them. Ever and I grabbed the remaining clothes and then shut the van doors before following the other two up the stairs, our footsteps rattling on the grated metal steps. The night seemed to swallow up the sound.
The stairs wound up the rock and came to an end at a deck surrounding a building propped up on metal braces. A door stood open to the side.
I dropped the armload of wet clothes to the floor and turned to Randall, dusting my hands together but mostly for warmth and circulation. “We need to get moving if we’re going to follow them. You ready?”
He looked between Sasmita and Ever. “You two man the fort?”
“We got it,” Ever said, pointing vaguely to the kukri on her hip.
Sasmita hesitated, the argument to join us on her face, but then her shoulders fell.
“Here, take this, at least,” she said, pulling off the only dry jacket amongst us and passing it to me, followed by her gloves. “We’ll get a fire going in here and I won’t need it.”
I pulled on the gloves and then jacket and zipped it up to my chin. “Thank you. Being mummified never felt so good. Wish us luck.”
With that, I started for the stairs.
“Luck,” Ever murmured.
As we headed back down the stairs, the cold wind beating at us, my mind flipped through the options of what those people could be up to. Truth was, we had never really seen them in action, not when they didn’t know they were being observed. We had given ourselves over to them by accident in Green River, and they had stumbled onto us in the house in New Orleans where we had inevitably recovered Fiona. Even here, we had invaded their lair, but they had been waiting for us.
We still didn’t know what they did.
What did these men do when no one was looking? What plot were they actually executing that we continued to interrupt?
It was time to find out.
12
Randall and I headed back in the direction of the men, and I lowered my head as the wind bit at the exposed areas of my face around the edge of the mask and iced my still-wet hair. As we neared them, the headlight beams below, tinged with green and blue cast from the tentacle magic, guided us to the ledge. We crouched down to watch. No trees or boulders provided cover. Our only hope of not being seen rested on the men not looking up.
They stood around in a small group, conversing quietly. The cadence of their voices reached us, but not the words. The respirators prevented any hope of lip reading.
Not that I could do that, anyway.
After a moment, two of the men parted from the group. One wore a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black pants. The other made my heart panic. I would have recognized him even without the long green tunic; I guess he had survived the avalanche, after all.
The one in the white shirt opened the trunk. Inside, something long was wrapped in a blue tarp and bound with rope.
“This doesn’t at all look like a kidnapping,” I muttered. My leg tingled with growing numbness. I stretched it out to the side, though I didn’t know if I looked predatory and lethal, or a bit like a frog.
The wind picked up, laced with ice. It gnashed its teeth at me with each pass, but my jacket, gloves, and even the mask buffered most of it.
I dug my fingers into the edge of the drop and strained to catch anything being said below, but they had stopped talking.
The two men hefted the bundle from the trunk and, with one on each end, carried it a few yards away. They placed it on the snow as the rest of their comrades gathered around in a lazy circle. The man in the white shirt bent and touched the first restraint. It fell apart, landing on the ground. He leaned farther and tapped the next one, and then the next. They each gave away like they were butter instead of rope
He pulled the tarp back as he stood. Lying inside was the body of a man. He was stiff and cold and lifeless.
“Oh, not a kidnapping,” I whispered. “A murder.”
Randall scowled, never looking away from the scene. “Why would they be unwrapping a body they’re going to dispose of?”
A bitter taste filled my mouth, and I said nothing as I studied the cadaver. He was probably late seventies, with a thin beard and bushy eyebrows. His hands were folded on his chest, and his knuckles were puffy.
A tentacle of red magic unfurled from the man in the white shirt. It moved as if searching the air before coming to rest on the corpse.
The tentacle pulsed magic. Once. Twice.
The corpse sat upright.
I bit down on a yelp, clutching Randall’s arm with my gloved hand.
The corpse relaxed into being alive again, resuming a natural posture. It looked around at the circle of men, brow furrowed.
He may not have been alive a few minutes ago, but he was good as new now. Not just a cadaver dummy, but a living, breathing person again.
Somehow.
He blinked a few times, and then rubbed one eye with the back of his hand.
“Tell us where he is, Arthur,” the man in the white shirt said, staring down at the newly risen cadaver. His voice carried just above the wind. “We tracked his magic to you.”
Arthur, the no-longer-a-cadaver, scowled, as if trying to recollect memories jarred from being dead, and then said, “Oh. That bastard. How should I know? He fuckin’ killed me.”
His tone sounded like the creature had stiffed him on a tab at the bar, not murdered him.
“Where did he go?” the man in the white shirt said evenly, his tentacle of magic still resting on Arthur, presumably feeding him the magic that powered his resurrection.
Arthur shrugged.
“I was dead.” He looked around the woods, as if the realization suddenly settled on him. “Why am I not still dead?”
The man in the white shirt smiled. “Because I chose to give you life. Be nice, and maybe I’ll let you tie up your loose ends.”
“What loose ends?” Arthur started to stand.
The tentacle tugged, keeping him in his place.
“Doesn’t everyone who has died have something left unresolved? A final act, a final word,” the man in the white shirt said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Now, tell me where he went.”
Arthur lowered his gaze to the tentacle, and thoughts swam along his face.
“I’ve already answered you,” he said slowly, quietly. “I don’t know anything. I was stoking the fire, and I stepped back to grab a log from the stack nearby, turned around and there he was, right there in front of me, coming out of the picture. I dropped the log, tried to yell to my wife, but he grabbed the poker and rammed it through my chest. I didn’t die instantly.”
Arthur paused, but the man in the white shirt gestured for him to keep talking.
I held my lungs, afraid to breathe.
Uncertainty glazed Arthur’s expression, but he continued. “He took the painting and then hauled it and me, stuck on the skewer, out of the house and outside of town. When we reached the edge of the mountain, right before the drop off, he dragged me over to a tree and stabbed the end of the poker into the trunk, pinning me in place. Like a bug on a board. He stormed away with the picture and left me to die.”
The man in the white shirt nodded. “I imagine he had uses for you still, but so do we. What direction did he leave with the picture?”
“He disappeared in the snow,” Arthur said. “He seemed to be headed back toward town, but…that can’t be right, can it? Why would he go back to town?”
“You tell me,” the man in the white shirt said. “What would he want in town?”
Arthur shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“Perhaps you should think about it,” the man in the white shirt said.
The tentacle pulsed red. Arthur screamed, head jerking back, body spasming.
I shove my hand against my mask, where my mouth would be, and at the last second swallowed down a cry.
The man in the white shirt’s expres
sion tightened. “Any ideas?”
Arthur shook his head, panting. “There’s nothing in town. There’s nothing he should want here. We don’t have anything.”
“Well, where did he go?” the man in the white shirt snapped.
“I…I don’t know,” Arthur said, voice shaking.
The tentacle pulsed red again. Arthur screamed and flailed, but the tentacle kept him anchored in the snow.
“Try again,” the man in the white shirt said.
“I don’t—Maybe the—” Arthur gasped between half-formed guesses. “There’s a—bank? A library!”
The man in the white shirt shook his head. “Why would he go there?”
“Perhaps he wanted…I don’t…” His answer turned into another scream as the tentacle pulsed red again.
I turned and shoved my respirator-clad face against Randall’s shoulder. My stomach churned.
“I don’t know! I just got this damn painting from a stranger I met at the café,” Arthur blurted. “I always collected unusual things, and when he said he had a one of a kind painting, I was instantly interested. His name is de Luca—Vincenzo de Luca.”
My heart stopped. Vincenzo de Luca. That was the man who had sold Arlo the portrait of Eliza Brown.
I dared to look at the scene again.
Arthur mopped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.
“De Luca said he was just coming through, but he was willing to unload this rare piece. Of course I bought it. Such a fool. I had no idea…no idea what it was. I don’t know what it is now, either. I had it a few months, then I started to feel ill. I didn’t make the connection then, but now—how could it not be the picture? Everything that went wrong after that, it was that damn picture, ending in my death a few days ago,” he said, and then his expression lit. “De Luca said he was headed west.”
The man in the white shirt stiffened. “I do not care about de Luca. I want to know where the mage is. Now.”
The tentacle turned red again. Arthur screamed, beating at it with his fist.
Stomach acid rolled up my throat.
My magic tingled to life. Before I could think, I shoved to my feet and took off down the slope. Randall shouted and scurried after me. Snow kicked up around us as I half-slid to the base of the incline and came to a halt with a crunch of twigs and ice.
The men in the circle twisted around to look at me.
Randall pounded after me. “Saf, oh, my god, what are you doing!”
I swept down to grab a rock and then rammed it in the face of the man in the white shirt. The rock smashed the front of his respirator. I swung it back and slammed higher, into the top of his head.
He stumbled backwards. The tentacle slithered off Arthur. He slumped, lifeless, and then fell to the side.
The tentacle swung at me. I dropped the rock, dodging out of the way. My feet slipped from under me and I landed in the snow.
The man in the green tunic took a step toward me, his eyes lighting with recognition—and then outrage. He lashed a tentacle out at me, and I rolled to the side.
Somewhere nearby, Randall fought with the other men.
He should have stayed on the slope. Dammit.
The tentacle wound around my ankle. I kicked at it with my other foot. It didn’t budge, but hefted me up in the air. My lungs wheezed and blood filled my head, until it felt as it might explode. The tentacle whipped up and then down. The snow rushed up to me. I slammed into the ground, forcing the air from my lungs. I tried to inhale, but my ribcage felt like it would split open.
I focused on drawing in magic, and heat shot through my body. The tentacle sizzled and released me.
Forcing in a breath, I scrambled to my feet. Heat radiated through me, and I kept feeding it until my skin pulsed with gold magic.
Randall looked at me, eyes widening. One of the other men yanked a long sword, pulsing red, from his back as he charged Randall. He swung, and Randall dropped to the ground.
I wanted to turn and run, but the man with the tunic rounded on Randall. His tentacles extended into loose coils on the ground around him.
Without thinking, I darted toward the man. As if on its own accord, one of the tentacles swung up at me. I caught it with my burning hand and yanked on it. The tentacle writhed, smoke rising off from it, and tried to tug away from my hold.
I didn’t really have a plan, but it seemed if I could destroy this extra limb, I would be that much closer to being able to fight these bastards on a level playing field. The tentacle bucked and pulled. I grabbed with both hands and clamped down.
Something moved in the corner of my eye. I released the tentacle in my grasp and jumped back just as another one swung out. It coiled around my waist and flung me through the air. My head hit a rock. A sharp pain split down my skull.
The man in the tunic, with a tentacle of magic coiled along his legs on either side, stormed toward me.
I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my brain.
My magic died.
I tried to push upright, but my limbs didn’t want to respond.
He leered over me. Without a word, he extended a tentacle, wrapping around my torso and one leg, and hefted me in front of him so I hung upside down, level with his face. My katar fell from the sheath at my side and dropped to the snow.
I twisted and arched, head pulsing, but was unable to break free. My magic had abandoned me again.
He sneered at me. “It’s time for us to talk, little girl.”
13
My body ached, my muscles pushed to the limit from trying to escape the restraint of the magical tentacle as the man in the tunic trudged through the snow, deeper into the woods. There was no use. My own magic had forsaken me, as usual, and the katar was still on the ground back where we had left Randall.
We walked so far, I had no idea where we even were anymore. For such a small town, with a definitive surrounding area before reaching the drop offs, I managed to get turned around a lot.
The man halted, and the tentacle flipped me around so I was pointed upright. Blood rushed from my head, and the world tilted. The tentacle slammed me down on my ass onto the ground so hard, my teeth snapped together.
He did not release me.
“Where is my medallion?” he asked. “I will give you exactly one chance to answer my question.”
The tentacle shifted from green to red.
I tensed, but then forced myself to relax.
“I dropped it,” I said, giving him a sweet smile. “Clumsy fingers. Lost it out in the snow.”
I expected a pulse of whatever hell they channeled through the red tentacle magic. Instead, he narrowed his eyes at me, not at all buying my answer, but as if something more important crossed his mind.
He took a step closer to me. “Tell me again, why exactly did you come to Haven Rock? Why didn’t the cockatrice deter you?”
“I really wanted to get some skiing in,” I said. “Work on my slalom and fakie.”
The tentacle tightened, just a little. Just enough to remind me it was still there.
“I was wrong about you,” he said. “I thought the dark ones would have no use for you, but that might not be true.”
I peered up at him, trying to discern where he was going with this.
He closed the space between us and stared down at me. “You see, you’re a witch, and I have a theory about our mage friend.”
I imagined behind his mask was a wicked smile.
“I think he might be very interested in you, after all,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“Oh, it’s just a theory,” he said, walking past me. His tentacle pulled taut and yanked me back. “Let’s test it out.”
He dragged me backwards, my back burrowing through the snow. As my vision swam, I clawed my gloved fingers at the white slush on either side of me but found no purchase. I couldn’t fight back. He was stronger than me by far. All I could do was try to keep my mind from collapsing under the fear that weighed down my body.
We came to a stop deep in the icy forest. My vision cleared, and I found myself staring up at the cloudy night sky.
The tentacle yanked me upright, off my feet, and swung me. My back slammed into the trunk of a thin tree.
My head lolled, but I snapped upright, forcing myself to be conscious, alert. He stepped around me as his tentacle held me in place. I tried to bend forward, tried to pull free, but I could barely move.
He gripped my wrists, one in each hand, and he tugged my arms back behind me, my elbows bending slightly around the tree trunk. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but I could feel him winding rope around my wrists, binding them together.
Fear jolted my heart. I didn’t know where he got the rope from, but apparently, he took the whole always-be-prepared thing to heart when it came to hostages.
I tried to push off the trunk of the tree with the sole of my boot. Agony shot through my shoulders, deep in the joint, as I wrenched forward. Sickening pain rolled through my stomach, and I thought I might throw up in my mask if I didn’t stop.
It took all my willpower to relax my arms, to resist struggling as he finished securing me in place.
The tentacle uncoiled from around me as he stepped to my front.
“You see, I think because you are a witch, he will claim you as his own,” he said.
Something about his tone seemed…endearing. Affectionate. I tried to find the malignant thoughts behind his eyes, but they just weren’t there.
“And if the mage does come for you,” he said, “then we will know how to bait him for our trap next time. There’s plenty of witches around these parts, after all.”
He tipped his head closer to me, and reached out with one hand, stroking his finger down the bare skin beside my respirator.
I tried to repress the shudder but failed.
He smiled behind his mask. “Your sacrifice is appreciated. Now, just a little magic mark to entice him.”
He lifted his finger from my cheek, magic slithering up his arm and through his hand, as he tapped my forehead, right at my hairline. Warmth centered where he had touched.
