Myths and Mortals (Numina Book 2)
Page 12
After half a second’s hesitation, the stranger grabbed Bastien just as he had grabbed her and threw the Godobian over his shoulder, showing only a little strain at the weight.
He was going to take Bastien.
Bastien, not her. But then why . . . ?
She didn’t have time to think about it. Sandis flung herself across the floor, barely managing to grab the stranger’s ankle before he could reach the door. She didn’t trip him, only made him stumble. The tall man’s black eyes dropped to her, calculating.
Through the far wall, a neighbor shouted, “You okay in there?”
Bastien’s fists beat at the stranger’s back. The slender man crouched and spun, breaking Sandis’s hold while gaining momentum. He released Bastien, sending him flying into Rone’s bedroom door. The wood buckled under the impact.
The stranger lunged for Sandis.
“No!” she screamed, kicking out, managing to land a heel on his cheekbone. All it did was turn his narrow face slightly to the left. He grabbed her under the arms; she knotted her fingers in his hair and pulled.
Two strikes, just like he’d done to Bastien, only under her right arm. The limb tingled and went numb, like she’d slept on it all night, cutting off the blood. It fell uselessly to her side.
“Help!” she cried as the stranger again lifted her and kneed her in the stomach. Her air left her. Her pulse radiated around the blow. Before she knew it, she was on his shoulder again. Bastien groaned, but he wasn’t getting up fast enough.
The stranger stopped abruptly. Using her left arm, Sandis pushed herself up just enough to see why.
Rone stood in the doorway, two bags of groceries at his feet. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said.
He sped from the door frame and collided with the stranger, and Sandis found herself falling face-first into the carpet.
The impact jarred some life back into her arm, but she could do little beyond twitch her fingers. A foot stepped on her hair as the two men shuffled deeper into the room, fists and feet flying. Sandis rolled back toward the couch, nausea pressing into her bruised belly like someone stoked it with a bellows.
She lifted her head and glimpsed a woman in a smock peeking through the doorway. The woman—the neighbor?—then widened her eyes and fled. Rone threw a punch at the stranger’s head. The stranger ducked and spun, kicking out. Rone evaded the blow, but the stranger repeated the maneuver with his other leg, and this time he struck Rone in the ribs. The space was small; Rone hit the wall and winced, but pushed off and threw himself at the taller man, landing knuckles to his stomach.
“Watch out for his hands!” Sandis croaked. She tried to push herself up, forgetting about her numb arm, and teetered onto her left hand. The stranger’s heel kicked her neck as he evaded another one of Rone’s blows. She reeled back, coughing and stumbling on her awkward limbs. Pain spiraled into her head.
Her pinky brushed something hard. Her rifle case. She tried to move the fingers on her right hand, even as the stranger flew over the couch and struck the window, shattering part of it with his elbow. Her knuckles bent just a little more, especially her pinky, but the limb was still heavy and useless.
She grabbed the case with her left hand and slid it out from beneath the couch, fumbling with the locks. Her father had always told her firearms should be stored separately from their ammo, lest an accident happen, but Sandis hadn’t unloaded the gun. Not when she might need it at a moment’s notice. If the last seven weeks had taught her anything, it was always be ready.
She heard a cry and looked up. Bastien knelt on the floor, blood dribbling from his nose. Rone and the stranger fought around him, moving so quickly they blurred. They seemed to strike and block at the same time. Rone ducked from one blow, only for the stranger to slip behind him and send an elbow into the inside of his shoulder blade. Rone fell.
Sandis’s right hand twitched, still useless. She grabbed her rifle by the barrel and set its butt against her knees, trying to hold it in place with her chin. She half hugged the thing and cocked it—
She heard the snap before she saw it—the stranger’s foot slammed down on Rone’s knee and overextended it until the joint shattered and the bones popped apart. Rone’s scream deafened her.
She didn’t hear the rifle go off, only felt it. The recoil thumped against her jaw and into her skull, setting a match to the headache already flourishing there.
Scarlet bloomed on the stranger’s left arm. He paused over Rone, who writhed and hissed and tried to reach for his leg but couldn’t for the pain. The stranger touched his shirt sleeve and brought his fingers back, almost . . . curious, at the blood.
He raised his dark gaze to Sandis, then shifted it to Bastien. Lifted his injured arm. Flinched.
Then, swift as the wind, he soared toward the open door and disappeared.
Sandis crouched, her own arm tingling like it was stuffed with needles, the rifle still clutched in her left hand. Her breaths raked up and down her throat, and her pulse sounded in every part of her body. She heard distant voices around her—more neighbors, people on the street? She was outside of herself, floating away—
Rone groaned.
She dropped the rifle and leapt to her feet, pain and nausea forgotten. His leg was bent at a terrible angle, and the amarinth had been used too recently to be of help. He kept trying to reach—
“Rone?” She knelt at his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and bared his teeth. She grabbed his face with her left hand. “Rone, stop moving. Stop!”
He swore through his clenched jaw, then swore again.
Outside, a police whistle blew, the sound sending gooseflesh cascading over Sandis’s body.
One of the neighbors had called the scarlets . . . or perhaps patrolling officers had heard the gunshot.
Sandis let one of Rone’s favorite words pass her lips. Before her thoughts caught up with her intentions, she found herself on her feet and rushing out the door, onto the balcony. No neighbors were near, probably wanting to get away from the ruckus, but several people had gathered on the street below. Among them, Sandis spotted two men in scarlet uniforms, the image of a sailless boat pinned to their shirts.
“That way!” she shouted, pointing in a random direction. “He went that way! Please, hurry! He’s wearing all black!”
The neighbors turned to look at her. The scarlets hesitated only a moment before running in the direction she’d indicated. It wouldn’t get rid of them for good, but it would give her time.
Shaking, Sandis rushed back into the flat and slammed the door shut as best she could on its bent hinges. Her gaze shot from Rone to Bastien.
“You’ll have to hide,” she told the latter. “Tuck in your shirt. And Rone—” She looked at him, at his set jaw and pallor. It made her stomach and heart sick. “I don’t think we can get you to a hospital without someone learning too much.”
Bastien came over, his hand and lip stained with blood. He favored one leg, but the other worked well enough to keep him upright. His shoulders quivered. “W-We have to set it.”
“God, no,” Rone spat, blinking tears from his eyes, only to squeeze them shut again. “A few hours . . .” He was close to hyperventilating. “A few hours and—”
“A few hours until what?” Bastien looked green. He didn’t know about the amarinth.
“Look in his room, in his bag,” Sandis said, trying to keep her voice even while her heart rampaged in her chest. “See if he has bandages. I think there’s pain powder in the cabinet by the privy. Go!”
She wanted to send him to the market, but Bastien was still trembling, and his red hair stood out like a flag. And what if the stranger had friends?
You can do this. You can do this.
She had to move Rone.
She inched toward him, her right palm tingling as feeling slowly returned to her arm. She wiggled her fingers experimentally and found she could also bend her elbow a little. Swallowing hard, she said, “Bastien’s right. We have to set it.”
“You’re going into shock.” One of the boys in her line at the firearm factory had gone into shock after accidentally shooting himself in the foot. She knew what it looked like. Knew what it felt like—that same cold, pain-laced confusion had swallowed her after Kazen burned gold deep into her skin. Reaching over with her good arm, she wrenched a pillow from the couch and shoved it under Rone’s head. She was fairly certain she could set the leg. All Kazen’s vessels had been taught basic wound treatment. Sandis now suspected the lessons had been in case Kazen got hurt, not one of them.
After she set the leg, she would have to move him and hide the blood before the scarlets got back . . . or before more showed up.
She touched his thigh.
Rone groaned and flailed, then bit down on a scream. “God’s tower, Sandis!”
“I’m going to smash that gun into your head if you don’t stop moving!” she hissed back. “The police are outside. If they don’t see you, or this”—she gestured to his mangled knee—“then they can’t force me to take you to the hospital.”
Bastien came back in with a roll of bandages. He looked between Sandis and Rone several times before dropping them on the floor.
Turning back to Rone, Sandis asked, “Do you have anything to help with the pain? Whiskey? Laudanum?”
Rone pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He didn’t answer. To Bastien, Sandis said, “Check the kitchen.” Then, biting her lip, she prodded Rone’s ruined knee. His good knee came up and nearly socked her in her bruising chin. She bent her right elbow, testing it. Full feeling had returned to the limb, though it ached where the stranger had jabbed her.
She carefully put both hands into position. Her hands were relatively small and Rone’s leg relatively thick, but she thought she could do it—
She grabbed his leg and jerked it into place, hearing a sickening pop when she did so. Rone said nothing.
He’d passed out. All for the better.
“Help me move him,” she said as Bastien returned empty handed. “Then hide.”
Cool, smoky air filtered in through the broken window. Sandis lit a lamp to chase back some of the darkness. The scarlets had returned, three of them, only moments after Sandis and Bastien dragged Rone’s body into his room. Sandis introduced herself to them while Bastien hid in the privy. Assuming Rone legally rented the flat, she gave her name as Sara Comf—her mother’s first name, Rone’s surname. Surely the scarlets would be thorough enough to at least verify his name, unless they deemed the attack an unworthy cause. For once, Sandis hoped they would shirk their duty. She told many truths and a few lies, and thank the Celestial, the scarlets announced they wouldn’t come back until morning to further their investigation.
Sandis didn’t want to be there when they returned.
After the police left, Sandis set Bastien to watch over Rone while she ventured out for bandages, a variety of liquors, and some packets of powder from an apothecary. Fortunately, with the city so thickly populated, she didn’t need to go far. She took a bit of the medicine herself, to counter the ache that radiated from the large bruise over her stomach.
She wrapped and elevated Rone’s leg as best she could, but the swelling was terrible. She placed the amarinth on Rone’s chest and watched it rise and fall with his breaths, willing it to reset. They would have to explain to Bastien, who slumbered in Rone’s bed, in the morning. A person didn’t just heal overnight like Rone was going to. And he would heal. The injury was not grievous enough to kill him. Not before dawn.
“Rone.” She gently prodded him. “Rone, try again.”
His eyes fluttered open. He exhaled, the smell of whiskey permeating the air. She’d given him as much as she could as often as she could, hoping to dull the pain. He’d broken his leg helping her, after all. And Bastien.
He felt around. Sandis guided his hand to the amarinth, which he spun lazily. Nothing.
She sighed.
“Thank you”—his voice was soft and groggy—“for . . . finding it.”
Sandis set her hands in her lap. “I was in the right place at the right time. Bastien helped.”
“Ssstill.”
“I know it means a lot to you.”
Groaning, Rone tried to roll over. Sandis pushed his shoulder down to keep him on his back. He didn’t resist. “Bastien . . .” He laughed, though it was more of a sad, drunken chuckle than true laughter. “M’Mom’s in . . . Godobia.”
“I know.” Then, hoping to distract him, she asked, “Is she well?”
“Think . . . so. I’m . . . still here.”
“And you’ll be here until the amarinth resets.” She glanced toward the bedroom. It didn’t matter if Bastien overheard, in the end.
Rone muttered something she couldn’t decipher. “Go to sleep, Rone. I’ll wake you up in a bit.”
“. . . piss pot.”
“What?”
“Your great-uncle. He’s . . . a piss pot.”
Sandis rolled her eyes. Studied her lap. “At least he never pretended to be anything else.”
His half-lidded eyes rolled toward her. “S’not fair.”
Plucking up the amarinth, she set it back on his chest. “What is fair, Rone?” Her throat tightened. She swallowed and took a deep breath, in long and out quick, like the form of meditation Bastien had taught her. “You . . . You were my savior.” There was barely any voice behind the words. “And you took me right back to him. Kazen. You knew what kind of man he was. You knew what he would do, but you didn’t give me a choice. I really . . .” She hugged herself and stared at the floor. “I really thought . . . you and I, we had—”
She stopped, noting the sound of his breaths, long and drawn out. He’d fallen asleep again. Sandis wilted beside him. She couldn’t blame him. His skin was hot with fever, and his belly full of drugs and liquor. Reaching up, she brushed hair from his forehead.
His slumber, the darkness, the silence . . . for a moment, they made it easy to pretend. Pretend they’d left Arnae’s house and found Talbur, that she had convinced her great-uncle to pay the bribes to release Rone’s mother, and everything else had fallen into place. Pretend her heart didn’t beat in two separate pieces, and that Rone cared about her the way he cared about his mother and his amarinth. That maybe he did the things he did solely out of affection, and not out of guilt.
She was tempted—so tempted—to curl up next to him and lay her head on his chest, just for a moment. He would never know, and she could imagine them back before it all happened, in Arnae Kurtz’s secret room, enveloped by darkness and hope.
It was the last time she remembered being happy.
Her eyes burned, and she banished the memory, knifing it like a butcher would a pig. Looking at Rone, thinking these thoughts . . .
Celestial, make it stop hurting. I’ll do whatever you want if you take it all away.
This new assailant could only have been hired by Kazen. His fighting style . . . it was seugrat, wasn’t it? Just like Kazen’s style of fighting. Was this stranger a new hire or someone Kazen had reared himself, someone he’d stowed away where the vessels couldn’t see?
Part of Sandis wanted to give up and flee. She’d never seen Rone beaten so badly. She was scared. But even if she quit, she couldn’t leave Dresberg. She didn’t have the identification that would allow her passage.
No, Sandis had to fight. And not because she was trapped by her lack of papers. Because Kolosos—
She turned, sure the shadows shifted the moment she thought the monster’s name. Celestial above, it was waiting for her. Waiting for her to close her eyes. Waiting for a moment of weakness.
Shaking her head, Sandis dug her fingernails into her palm. She needed to think. Plan. Fight.
The stranger . . . he’d wanted Bastien, too. Not just her. Did Kazen think Bastien strong enough to host Kolosos, or did he simply want Ireth back? Or both. She shivered.
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Maybe Rone wasn’t strong enough to fight this new man, but a numen was. Ireth was. Sandis needed to stay focused. Become a summoner. Find the others.
Win.
That soft breeze wafted through the window again. This time it smelled like sulfur. Smelled like the bull from her dreams. A bull with claws and cracking red-and-black skin, narrow, glowing eyes—
“Rone.” She jabbed him between ribs. “Rone, wake up. Try again.” Please don’t make me be alone right now.
He stirred. She poked him again. Picked up his hand and put it on the amarinth. Held it there until the fingers gripped.
He groggily spun the thing.
The center glowed faintly, and a soft whirring filled the room.
Chapter 13
It was almost dawn. Another night had passed with little sleep. Sandis was beginning to think she’d become a nocturnal creature, like the rats that skittered about on the streets between trash heaps.
A rat. It felt like something Kazen would call her.
They’d left Rone’s flat two hours ago. Now Sandis trudged up the stairs behind Bastien to their next temporary home, her limbs aching for rest. Rone was already fishing in his pocket for a key. She’d never been to his mother’s flat before, but apparently his contract for the place hadn’t terminated yet. She knew he wanted to leave Kolingrad for good, but even if Kolosos weren’t a threat, he couldn’t without emigration papers. Sandis and Bastien . . . they couldn’t even leave the city. They could try to smuggle away on a caravan, like they’d done briefly after their pilgrimage to the Lily Tower, but surely they couldn’t stow away two people. And Sandis wasn’t about to abandon her new friend—or the old friend he carried with him.
The thought made her remember her great-uncle’s promise to bring her to his country estate, but she managed to push the thought away before the ensuing sadness could take root. At least Rone was healthy again, though he still wore the trousers with the bloodstains on them. He pushed the door open with his elbow.