Myths and Mortals (Numina Book 2)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  His final option was Jurris Hadmar. But Rone didn’t want to ask any favors of the ex-mobster if he didn’t have to. Hadmar . . . he wasn’t aggravating, like Dakis. He was just . . . creepy.

  Rising from the depths of his thoughts, Rone realized they were approaching the Innerchord.

  “Sandis.” He quickened his step. “Sandis, they won’t listen.”

  The Degrata loomed over them, the tallest building within Dresberg’s walls. Even from this distance, Rone could see the guards haunting it.

  Sandis slowed. “We could sneak in.”

  “In the daytime? They won’t be there at night.” Rone stopped, and thankfully, Sandis did as well. Lowering his voice, he added, “The Degrata isn’t like the citizen records building, Sandis. It’s too guarded. Too many locks, obstacles. And I don’t have the amarinth. Even if I did . . . it’s just not feasible.”

  Sandis peered toward the Degrata for a long moment before heading east, toward the stone walkway that trimmed the Innerchord. Some of the city’s only greenery lined the stones—rounded shrubs that looked like they could use some water and clean air. A few stone benches marked the edge of the path.

  Neither of them sat.

  Rone rubbed circles into his forehead. “This city is so wrapped up in itself it can’t see the disease festering right under its skin. It’s always been that way.” He dropped his hands. “God, I hate this place.”

  Sandis folded her arms.

  Rone slid his hands into his empty pockets. “If I had the amarinth, maybe I could sneak in there and leave a threatening letter. Or something.” He growled. “God’s tower, I never realized how handicapped I’d be without it.”

  Sandis peered toward the Degrata. “I wish you cared about me half as much as you care about your amarinth.”

  The half-mumbled words struck him like the back of her hand. He took one heavy step toward her, fire blazing anew. “Are you serious? I gave up the amarinth for you!”

  She spun toward him, eyes bright. “No, you didn’t. You lost it. And you wouldn’t have lost it if you hadn’t sold me off in the first place.”

  He laughed. Pressure built in his chest, and his throat wasn’t wide enough to let it out. He’d abandoned his mother at the southern pass out of Kolingrad to come back for her. He’d risked his life breaking into the grafter hideout. Black ashes, he’d fought a numen. “I lost it,” he enunciated each syllable, “because I came back for you. And I’m not the one who sold you off in the first place, sweetheart.”

  She turned away. “No. But you did in the second.”

  The accusation threw water on the flames. Rone stepped back. What the hell are you doing, Comf?

  He sucked in a deep breath, held it, released it. Shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. It was oddly quiet. The crowds of Dresberg didn’t mill through the Innerchord like they did the smoke ring. It was between hours, which meant no employees hustling to meetings, no bell towers chiming, no changing of the guard. There wasn’t even the chirping of a bird or buzzing of a fly. Just silence.

  Rone paced away from the bench, paced back, then finally sat on the stone seat. Planting his elbows on his knees, he said, “They were going to kill my mother. For something I did.”

  The silence continued. He didn’t need to look over to see if he’d caught Sandis’s attention. He knew he had it.

  He interlocked his fingers, pulled them apart, folded his hands again. “When your great-uncle offered me the job, he showed me the orders with my mother’s execution date. I had three days before they hanged her. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  The quiet stretched longer before Sandis said, “I’m sorry.” And then, “I wish you had told me.”

  Rone rubbed his eyes. “To what end? My hands were tied. But I came back, Sandis. I came back for you.”

  The sound of passing footsteps seemed wildly out of place in that moment. They weren’t headed for Rone and Sandis, but his ears fixed on them so his mind would have something to think about besides the growing awkwardness suffocating him.

  “I wish you had told me,” she repeated. Rone looked up. She’d sat on the bench, too, but on the far end, close to falling off its edge. Her body faced the Degrata, but her head pointed toward the ground. Her knees bent together, and she absently played with her nails.

  Rone sighed. “Sandis—”

  “I would have volunteered.”

  The words lanced through his chest. “What?”

  She shook her head. “If you had told me . . . I would have gone.” She finally glanced up at him, and her walnut-colored eyes were so deep and sorrowful that for a moment, his heart forgot to beat. She dropped her gaze a second later, but the power of it lingered in the space between them. She might as well have shouted at him.

  She went on, “You had done so much for me. I would . . . I would have asked for a day, to find him. Talbur.” She rubbed her throat. “But I would have volunteered. I didn’t know Kazen’s plans for me then. Not entirely. So I would have.”

  Rone closed his eyes and set his jaw, clenching it until it hurt. When he finally released it, he said, “Don’t tell me that.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Sandis.” He shook his head, then cradled it in his palms. “Please don’t tell me that.”

  He’d assumed she’d run, because that’s what he would have done. Then he’d have had to chase her, restrain her . . . It would have broken him.

  God’s tower. He’d treated her like a slave, hadn’t he?

  He’d taken away her choice, just like Kazen. Just like Talbur.

  Rone stood and walked away from her, briskly, needing to clear his head. He couldn’t do that with her so close.

  When he started to get too far, he turned around and paced back, passing Sandis and trudging the other way until he was almost out of sight. Turned around again. He was nearly back to the bench when he stopped and set his hands on his hips, catching his breath.

  He looked toward the Degrata. Focused on it. The past was past; the best thing he could do now was get Sandis the help she needed. That they all needed, if Kolosos was truly as big a threat as she feared. But these bureaucrats . . . they didn’t care. The city could be burning, and they’d only care about how much it would cost them.

  If the name Comf had carried any weight outside of the Lily Tower, they would have listened to him. He would have gotten past the desk. But family relationships meant nothing in Celesia.

  Rone blinked. Turned his gaze east, toward the wall. From this angle, he couldn’t see a single stone of the tower that lay just beyond it.

  He cursed.

  “What?”

  Rone dug both hands back into his hair and pulled until it hurt. Cursed a second time, then a third.

  Sandis stood.

  “We can try one more person,” he mumbled. “Someone the triumvirate would have to listen to.”

  Black ashes in the pits of despair. He really, really hated this place.

  Chapter 7

  Rone didn’t bother with the official pilgrimage this time, merely tied a gray sash around his arm and Sandis’s and headed straight for the Lily Tower. So what if he didn’t enter with a big group of people? What were the priests going to do, fight him?

  Well, yes. They would. There were some sizable priests inside the Lily Tower. They weren’t all acolytes and old men.

  When he got to the door, he looped his arm through Sandis’s. She tensed, but didn’t pull back. Pilgrims weren’t contentious, and looking together would help the ruse.

  Not long ago, Sandis had willingly touched him. Smiled at him. He still couldn’t remember what her smile looked like, only that it had been genuine. Beautiful.

  The ball bearing in his gut burrowed deeper even as he told the priestess at the door, “Sorry, I hope we didn’t break any rules by leaving the tower. We wanted to see the grounds.”

  The grounds weren’t much to look at, but the woman smiled regardless, not bothering to check the filthiness of his hems—
a measure of religious hardship for pilgrims. She didn’t recognize him. He didn’t recognize her, either, so she must not have been on shift when he and Sandis had come over a month ago. She asked if they needed help finding their room, and Rone acted like he needed to recheck the directions. He described the room he and Sandis had stayed in on their last visit. She nodded and motioned them in. The high priest within greeted them with a smile.

  Rone tugged Sandis toward the stairs. Before they reached the second flight, she withdrew her arm from his. He pretended not to notice.

  They passed the second flight and trekked up to the third. The Angelic would have already given his speech to today’s pilgrims. It was close to dinner—the kitchens were probably running overtime to feed both clergy and visitors. Rone highly doubted the Angelic dined with the rest of them. He was probably in that secret little space of his behind the communion room.

  Rone’s palms tingled by the time he reached the seventh floor. The communion room was the place pilgrims came upon completing their journey, so they could hear their special leader spout off some garbage about love and charity. The space was almost entirely white, save for the gray veins in the marble floor. A small stage sat at the back of the room, behind which hung gauzy curtains. Three people garbed in white stood on the raised area: two priestesses and a cleric. One of the priestesses held a broom and swept out the corners of the already pristine space. The other two talked quietly.

  Not letting their presence deter him, Rone put a hand on Sandis’s back to keep her close and marched for the curtains.

  “Excuse me,” said the priestess without the broom as she hurried toward them. “May I help you?”

  Rone ignored her. Stepped onto the stage.

  “See here, young man!” the cleric called, running after him. “The Angelic is very busy, you can’t simply go in.”

  Rone reached the curtains. The cleric reached him. Releasing Sandis, Rone spun around and swiped out his foot, knocking the cleric off both of his. The clergyman’s breath left him in one gust when his back hit the hard marble floor.

  Rone pushed Sandis through the curtains and down the narrow hallway beyond it, at the end of which was a door. A locked door.

  “Wait!” cried the pursuing priestess.

  Rone leaned back and slammed his booted foot into the door, just beside the knob. It flung open and hit the doorstop inside with so much impact the wood shuddered.

  The room was nothing special. Just as eye-burningly white as the communion room, but with a nice collection of circle-top windows with frosted glass to temper the sunlight. There was a desk, a set of drawers, and a well-made cot in the corner. No chairs, which meant no visitors.

  Oh, and a plant hung from a little hook in the farthest corner of the room. How quaint. Guess there are some living things Daddy cares about.

  The Angelic sat at his desk, poring over some book—scripture, maybe—and startled when Rone burst through his door. His aging face morphed from surprise to anger to bewilderment as he took in his estranged son’s face. He’d likely thought Rone’s most recent visit, when he’d come here to petition for his mother, would be his last.

  Sandis slipped inside. Rone slammed the door shut on the priestess and managed to lock the now-loose handle.

  The Angelic stood. “What is the meaning of—”

  “Let’s skip the pleasantries, Pops. I need you to listen for two damned minutes to what I have to say.”

  Beside him, Sandis muttered an apology and actually bowed. Bowed.

  “You’re kind of ruining the effect here,” Rone murmured.

  The Angelic folded his arms. “And pray tell, what effect would that be, child?”

  “Don’t act like you don’t know my name.” Rone’s words zipped from his lips like darts. “Believe me, I don’t want to talk to you, either, but you have the triumvirate’s ear. Hell is about to be unleashed in Dresberg, and someone needs to do something about it.”

  He wanted to add, You have to care about something, right? But the barb wouldn’t help him plead his case. He needed to be civil.

  Yet this place stoked his fire like nothing else.

  Sandis stepped up to the desk. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think we’d be so . . . abrupt. But we’re here, and we need to talk to you. Please.” She bowed again, clutching the newspaper, and Rone resisted rolling his eyes.

  The Angelic pursed his lips. Shifted his attention from Rone to Sandis before sinking back into his chair. “If this is not of the utmost importance, I’ll have you delivered to the police.”

  Sandis paled. “Sir, you remember me, do you not?”

  He hesitated, but nodded.

  “Do you read the papers?”

  He scrutinized her. Nodded.

  “There have been reports of missing children. Children who are the age . . . preferred by grafters. They’re being killed.” She set the newspaper on the desk.

  “I am aware.” He massaged his forehead. “It is incredibly unfortunate. I’ve had the clergy here pray for these lost souls and their families.”

  “It’s more than that,” Sandis persisted. “It’s . . . summoning. Sir, Kolosos is a real threat. Kazen will stop at nothing to bring it—”

  “Have you really burst into this sacred room to repeat the same empty warnings you’ve already delivered?”

  Rone growled. “It’s an office. Get off your high horse.”

  “Rone.” Sandis pleaded.

  Rone leaned against the door. It was silent on the other side—he hoped their pursuers hadn’t run off to get backup. He hadn’t really planned what he would do after sucking up to his father.

  “I am certain that this”—Sandis gestured to the article—“is the work of Kazen, sir. That he’s trying to find a vessel powerful enough to host Kolosos. It isn’t merely a matter of the underground occult anymore. He’s hurting everyday citizens. Your followers.”

  Nice touch, Rone thought.

  His father sat down, then reached back and rubbed the base of his neck. After a long moment of silence, he withdrew his hand and laced it with the other before setting both on his desk. “I understand your fear, child. It is a natural state within all mankind.”

  Rone shook his head. “A sermon won’t fix this.”

  The Angelic ignored him. “But as I said before, such evil as you speak of cannot be summoned into this world. It is not possible. The Celestial wouldn’t allow it.”

  Sandis glanced to Rone, but this time there was no hardness to her features, only worry. “Even if that’s true,” she continued, “Kazen is hurting people. His brutality is . . . extreme.” She shivered. Rone almost reached out to comfort her. Almost.

  Now the Angelic looked at Rone. “And you’ve gone to the police?”

  He withheld a snort. Had his father really lived outside the city for so long that he’d forgotten about its corruption? Rone could remember him complaining about the scarlets when he was only a high priest and still gave a slag about his family. “The police are crooked. We’re too unimportant to be seen by anyone who matters. What we’re asking is for you to call on your theological right to speak to the triumvirate. Press them to take action.”

  The Angelic considered this. Frowned. Sighed. Stood again.

  “I assure you, I am staying informed on all current events. I will overlook your trespasses this time, but not a third.” He looked to Rone. “Why don’t you go downstairs and get something to eat before you leave. No one will question you.”

  Rone’s shoulders went slack. “That is your solution? A promise to pray, and then bribe us with free food?”

  Sandis set her jaw. “Please, sir. You have a voice—”

  The Angelic pointed to a bellpull on the wall. “I will summon security if you do not leave. I am sorry I cannot do more.”

  Wouldn’t do more. Had he actually expected his father to act like a human being? Yes, part of him had. Even though his father had refused to help his estranged wife when her life was on the line, he’d hoped this w
ould matter to him. That the danger to the children—to the city—would shake him to his senses.

  Sandis pressed her lips into a tight white line. Rone thought he heard retreating footsteps as she reached for the door, but when she opened it, the way was clear.

  Rone scowled at his father and turned after her.

  “She’s one of them, isn’t she?” The Angelic’s voice was like hot, rank breath on the back of his neck.

  Rone turned around. Took in his father’s white-and-silver robes. “Go to hell.”

  He slammed the door behind him.

  There was no one in the communion room when they left the office, much to Rone’s surprise. He’d expected a small army of Celestial worshippers to pounce on him and Sandis, bind them up in pilgrimage ties, and throw them out the fourth-story window. But the place was empty and shockingly clean.

  Sandis walked a few feet ahead. Before they reached the stairs, she peered over her shoulder. The pity on her face was stark as spent oil against porcelain. Rone looked away. They took the first flight in silence . . . until a woman in white stopped them.

  The priestess who had chased them to the office. She looked as pale as her robes and stricken. She was alone.

  Rone took two more steps to put himself between the woman and Sandis. Had she overheard anything? Surely she’d been too far ahead of them to catch the Angelic’s question regarding Sandis. Had Rone messed up again by bringing Sandis here?

  Oddly, the woman pressed her index finger to her lips and motioned for Rone and Sandis to follow her. They hesitated only a moment. She led them through the third floor and back to a winding, narrow hall lit with the same circle-top windows cut into every level of the tower. Rone glanced over his shoulder repeatedly, but no one followed them. Seemed the priestess didn’t want company, either, for she searched the hall before slipping through a door.

  Sandis looked at Rone, her eyes full of worry, but when he shrugged and stepped into the room, she followed right behind him.

  He closed the door to a small library.

  “This way,” the priestess whispered, and she passed two rows of books before following a third almost all the way to the back of the room. The window there faced west, and sunlight poured in at Rone’s eye level, forcing him to raise a hand against it or be blinded.