by Jen Ponce
If he were a human, Nex knew he could make an excuse such as, “I needed to use the bathroom.” He needed Devany’s quick thinking, smart mouth here to help him out of this mess. Alas, she wasn’t here to help him and so he took a direct approach, hoping the young warrior would appreciate his honesty. “I am looking for my friend,” Nex said. “Do you know where she’s being held?”
The fleshcrawler did not hiss at him as he expected, nor did he bash Nex’s brains into the wall. Instead, he took time to assure himself that they were the only two in that dark hallway before saying, “Yes. May I have access to your mind?”
Nex inclined his head. He missed speaking with his own kind and though there was a chance the fleshcrawler would try to harm him, he welcomed it. This fleshcrawler, at least, was more like his people than those fat, ignorant things fawning around the king.
The fleshcrawler opened his flesh and pressed the wound to Nex’s mouth. Awareness, energy, thoughts rushed into him. He was young, this fleshcrawler, but passionate. He’d seen Devany, had spoken with her before the Originator had snapped her neck. His name was Cazsada and, after the initial rush of information, he said, “She is being held in the Deeps.”
They needed a proper king, one who could lead them in the true ways of his people. This young one would make a magnificent warrior if he had the proper training. Here, his skills would wither and he would end up lazy and weak like his king. For the first time in a long while, Nex wished he was not a pegnon. Still, he had been a king, knew what it took to lead, and so he raised his chin and ordered, “Take me to her.” He suspected that this one would respond to his commands, and when Cazsada bowed his head, Nex knew his suspicions were correct.
“Follow me.”
They traveled in the shadows and Nex saw that Cazsada was a respectable hunter, one who could glide through the water with hardly a ripple. A silent killer, deadly.
Like a fart, Nex thought. Devany had rubbed off on him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Instead of killing them, something Devany would have complained about, Tytan and the others threw Gaius’s Skriven into Ravana’s prison, cutting them off from their magic and the minds of their brethren. None of them bothered to hide their true forms. It made grabbing them dangerous and difficult, especially when Tytan only had one arm to work with. At one point, he looked over at Kali and said, “Do you mind if I borrow one of those?”
She threw him a fierce grin but did not break her stride as she tackled another of Gaius’ pet monsters. They bound them, hooked them to Reach, and returned to Oren to find more, always more. Tytan did not know how many of them there were; Oren would not give that number away, even on pain of dismemberment. Even Elizabeta could not coax it out of him, despite her power over him.
“Do you wonder if they aren’t just sending us in circles?” Kali asked after they stuffed the twenty-fifth Skriven into a cell. “These bastards using themselves as bait while a few others do Gaius’s dirty work?”
Elizabeta could not ask Oren to give up the location of Gaius's lair. Skriven were strictly forbidden to endanger their own Originators, unless, of course, they could find their own soul and challenge their master for ascendance. Tytan kicked the Skriven at his feet hard enough to roll it into its cell. “The more we find and neutralize, the better.”
It screamed at him. Tytan was tempted to scream back but not while Kali was there to see him lose it.
Kali slapped the lock and energy hummed across the entrance to the cell. “All the while the rest are working toward a rip through time to get to a younger version of Devany?”
Would that be so bad? Tytan wondered. To have her alive, even a younger version of her, would be a dream come true. “The stories all say that the Originators destroyed their own souls to become what they were. Yet, Raven’s soul was on Midia, endlessly birthing the red riders. Perhaps Gaius's soul lives on somewhere. If we found it, we could kill him.”
Kali scoffed. “It would be an impossible task. Better to get another soul and use it to kill him.”
Tytan ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Devany and I tried that. Even though he’s been down there for centuries, he’s powerful. Even cut off from his magic, he’s powerful. I don’t know we would succeed even if we tried, even if we all worked together to end him.”
“You weren’t an Originator then,” Kali said.
“Ah, but Devany was.”
“Devany is, at her core, a human. She thinks like a human, and she feels like one, too. It holds her back.”
“I seem to recall how worried you were when she lost her soul,” Tytan said.
“I did not ever complain. I said nothing about it.”
“You didn’t have to. You like what she is, who she is, what she’s done.”
“I’m not saying I don’t. I’m just saying her humanity keeps her from being all-powerful.” She rubbed the back of her neck with one of her hands. “That’s not a bad thing. Except when it comes to killing Gaius.” He looked away, though he felt her eyes on him. “You hope that they succeed, don’t you? You hope they bring a younger version of her back.”
He could deny it, but she wouldn’t believe him. And hell, what did it matter, his hopes? “Yes, I do. If Nex were here, he would agree with me. We need her.” Silently, he added, I need her.
“You do not have your soul. And yet you are acting as though you do. What do you think that means?”
He knew what true emotion felt like thanks to Devany. What he was feeling now was not even close to the real thing. He also knew, however, that he was not the same Skriven as before. How that had changed when there was no soul in his body, he did not know. Perhaps a vestige of her remained inside him somewhere, a small part of her that reminded him what it had felt like to be whole. He cleared his throat, unwilling to dwell on such painful thoughts. “Speaking of that bloodless football, where the hell is he?”
Kali snorted. “He asked me to take him to the realm of the fleshcrawlers. He seems to think Devany is still alive. “
Hope, sharp and painful, lanced through him. “Why?”
She shrugged. “He is mad with grief.”
Tytan raised an eyebrow. “Nex? Mad with grief? I don’t think so. Did he feel the bond between them?”
“I do not know. I did not question him. I also did not find any part of her in the fleshcrawler realm when I went to hunt for her. They are not clever things, nor are they tricky. They couldn’t have hidden her from me. She is gone, Tytan. Don’t let hope destroy you.” She gestured toward Elizabeta and Oren. “Let’s hunt more of Gaius’s children. It will keep us busy.”
He knew she meant it would keep him busy, but that was all right. He needed to take his anger and frustration out on someone, and Gaius's Skriven would be the perfect whipping boys.
Morgan stared out Marantha’s window, though his blank gaze didn’t see any of the bright flowers outside. His mind kept going back to the news of his daughter’s death like a tongue poking at a sore in his mouth. “She can’t be dead.”
Perhaps if he said it enough times, it would be true. His wife’s death had almost undone him. He couldn’t face a world without his daughter. How could he?
Oh god. Liam. Bethany. He’d been so selfish, thinking only of his own pain. How in the world were his precious grandchildren feeling? He stood, purpose rushing through him. “I need to go to my grandkids.”
“Kroshtuka said he would come for you,” Marantha said. “Well, one of his people told me that.” She picked up the small stone that had been given to her by a Wydling girl not much older than Devany’s daughter. She held the stone out to him.
“Would you come with me?” he asked. “I’m not sure I can do this alone. I don’t know if I can see their faces and not have my heart broken.”
“Of course,” she said. He knew she’d never been in the Wilds, knew she was a bit afraid of what she would find as any witch would be. That she was willing to go despite her fears warmed him, though it did not fill the achi
ng chasm in his chest. As soon as her hand was in his, he chanted the words. The rock warmed in his palm and soon they were standing inside a cave, elders of the Wydlings gathered around a dancing woman who looked to be about eighty years old.
Someone broke off from the group, a man with bushy eyebrows and a scowl on his face. “Who are you?” he asked sourly, then sighed. “Oh. I’m sorry for your loss.”
He didn’t sound sorry, but Morgan knew this man never sounded anything but grumpy. “Thank you. We’ve come to see—”
The old man nodded. “Kroshtuka is in the village.” He turned away and went back to the gathering. Morgan put his hand on Marantha’s back and guided her to the cave opening.
“He wasn’t very friendly.”
“He’s not. My daughter calls him … called him Caterpillar Eyebrows.” His throat tightened around the words.
Marantha slipped her arm around his waist and squeezed. “I’m sorry, Morgan.”
He nodded, grateful for her presence even if he couldn’t say it aloud. Halfway down, someone called their names. It was Lizzie, an Elder, a Dreamer. They made their way back up the stairs so she wouldn’t have to totter down, and Morgan accepted her hug when he reached her. “I would have said hello, but it looked as though you were busy.”
“I needed to talk to you about your daughter.”
Morgan hung his head, struck by how much that word still hurt. How any thought of Devany hurt. “I wanted to be with my grandchildren. I’m sure—”
“She’s not dead.”
His head jerked upright. “What? How would you know?”
“I’ve been Dreaming, searching for her. She joined Meat Clan. When she died, she would have come home. That’s part of the magic of our People. When she didn’t come home, I worried that perhaps the manner of her death or where she died had kept her from us but a few nights ago … I heard her.”
“Heard her?”
The older woman shielded her eyes as she gazed over her village. “Let’s go inside where I can sit.”
“Of course,” Morgan said, thought what he really wanted to do was shout at her to get to the point, to give him hope that he would see his daughter again. They passed the gathering, wended down witchball-lit hallways to a small cave that opened to the sky. Water trickled down the rock and tinkled between boulders before disappearing into a hole in the far wall. There were wooden benches covered in cushions and Lizzie directed them to have a seat.
“Marantha, right?”
“Yes. How did you?”
“Devany told me about you.” The old woman had kind eyes and a face that would inspire people to open up to her—and it didn’t stop Morgan from wanting to shake her silly and scream at her to spill it. Instead, he nodded politely and smiled in the right places—he hoped—while Marantha and Lizzie made their introductions. Finally, finally, Lizzie turned her gentle gaze back to him. “As I was saying outside, I heard her. It was like she was … enraged, or maddened. It wasn’t coherent or directed at anyone.”
“How do you know it was her? How do you know it wasn’t just a figment of your imagination or a … a death echo or something?” He didn’t know if there were such things as death echoes. Probably, but hated to think of his daughter’s last moments filled with screaming terror.
“Have you ever been to the Swamps, Morgan?”
He sat back, staring. Remembering. Pieces falling into place in rapid succession. “She was bitten by a fleshcrawler. They shared their gift with her, drained her, filled her back up again. You think that when that damned Originator broke her neck, he activated the venom.”
“Yes. I’ve never seen the change myself. Fleshcrawlers are very stingy with their gift, as they call it. Long ago, my mother told me a story of a young Wydling man who wanted the gift after falling in love with a fleshcrawler.”
Morgan snorted. At her look, he spread his hands. “How could you fall for one of those … things? They’re—”
“He saw her beauty and loved her for it. So he begged her to change him. He hunted for her, put up with her abuse, her taunts. One day, he fought for her, fought a fleshcrawler who had come to do her harm. She could have taken her assassin out without breaking a sweat but the Wydling insisted on fighting for her. He was torn apart but his fierceness in battle won her over. She gave him her venom and when he died, he changed.” Her eyes grew distant. “He was not right in the head for many years, or so I was told. His friends and family came to say goodbye, but he was like a Wydling possessed by a Ryder. Unpredictable, angry, violent. One by one they gave up and one by one they died while he lived on, for fleshcrawlers are near immortal. Eventually, this Wydling turned fleshcrawler became king.”
“So, you’re saying she’s alive, but she’s crazy and I’ll never get her back.”
“I’m saying she’s in a period of great transformation. I know the world-walkers have ways of transferring souls, of creating bodies. I know Devany did such a thing for the witch Arsinua, once her friend.”
Morgan pondered her words. A vessel and Devany’s soul. That’s all they needed. Right? If Tytan took her soul from her body and placed it into a vessel, she would be okay. The venom affected the brain and the body, not the soul. She could be made whole … if she was, indeed, alive.
“I believe she’s alive. Part of her. Her soul won’t be consumed by the fleshcrawler venom,” she said, speaking his words out loud, “but it will be changed by it over time. We need to find her soon, sooner the better. I think she can be saved.”
He rose, cracking his head a good one on the low ceiling. “Ow, damn it. Yeah, we can save her if we can find her. Damn it. Where’s a Skriven when you need one?”
Vasili stared at the tiny wad of wax in Elizabeta’s palm then at Oren’s pale face. Back and forth he went until he felt her firm fingers grip his chin. “It’s … impossible.”
“Not only possible, but real.” She poked the purple thing with a finger, making him wince.
Of course, nothing would happen to her if she touched the damnable thing. It would only affect Skriven, affect them most terribly for …
“He will be in pain for as long as he draws breath.” She sounded reverent, as if she were looking at her creator rather than a chemically constructed poison pill. Oren had been the key, Oren and his idiocy. He hadn’t given them the way to torture Gaius forever on purpose. Elizabeta was good at talking in circles, making things seem one way when they were another. Her talent in that regard coupled with the compulsion of the inkle flower meant Oren was doomed to give up the good stuff. “Isn’t it amazing?”
“Yeah. Now we just have to give it to him. That won’t be hard or anything.” He hated that his compulsion was to shit all over this momentous accomplishment, but in his experience, Originators used your hope against you, and it was safer to doubt.
Somehow Elizabeta understood, and instead of being hurt or disappointed in his reaction, she merely squeezed his arm, reassurance and acceptance in her gaze. “We can give it to Kali and have her smear it on him. She will only have to touch him with it to get things started. After that, after it takes effect, she can cram it down his throat.” Her beatific smile belied the fierce words. “Then we can all watch him burn.”
He put a hand on her arm, gently, and guided her hand with its poison pill to a mortar on the table. “Drop it in there and wash your hands. I’m taking you somewhere to celebrate.”
This time that smile was aimed at him and it warmed him from the inside out. “Really? To Earth?”
“Oh.” He hated Earth, hated the way the air felt on his skin, hated having to change the way he looked to fit in with the humans. “We could … yes. I actually meant—” He didn’t get the words out before she was hugging him, her firm body pressed tight against him. Behind them, Oren made a disgusted sound and Vasili pulled away, tugging at his vest. “Okay. What about him?”
She shrugged. “We can put him in a cell in Reach. Keep him from doing any harm. Oh, Vasili! I’m so excited. I haven’t been hom
e in so many years. And I know it won’t be anything like my home, but it will be my planet with my soil under my feet.”
He couldn’t say no in the face of her joy. Disgusted with himself, he hooked Oren to a cell in Reach, ignoring the tower’s inquiries into his health and his comings and goings. Why the hell was it so chatty, anyway? It was a freaking building, not a person.
Oren tucked away for safe keeping, Vasili traveled back to Elizabeta and transformed himself into the dreadlocked man Tytan had made him once before. Elizabeta laughed at him, which did not improve his outlook for the journey. “You must do me, too!” she said, her hand clasped before her like a giddy school girl—he knew what those were, he read Earth fiction.
“You are fine just the way you are.”
“I want to be in disguise like you. And I must have clothes that match the time.”
He studied her, the golden hair, her blue eyes, the way she danced on the balls of her feet when she was excited and changed her into her opposites. Dark hair, dark eyes, skin the color of midnight skies. He put her in clothes that matched his own: plaid shirt, jeans, boots. She looked radiant and she spun around in delight. “You made me so pretty.”
She was so pretty because of who she was, not what she looked like, but Vasili kept this sentiment to himself. “Let’s get this over with. Tytan will want to know what we’ve managed to accomplish.”
“Tytan is busy allowing his arm to reattach.” She tweaked his cheek with her fingers. “Oh! You even painted my nails.”
No detail too small, he thought. “He’s been awful since Devany died. That will make him ten times crankier. But news of our breakthrough will cheer him.” As much as the new Originator could be cheered. “Ready?” He held out his arm to her and she looped hers in his.
“Ready. I want to eat so much food, Vasili. I’ve heard it’s better now than it ever was and that there’s so much of it everywhere. And I want to look at books and listen to music and dance. We can dance, right?”
