Myths and Mortals (Numina Book 2)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  A strange energy struck the center of her head and flowed down her arm and out of the hand touching Bastien’s forehead. A bright flash burned her eyes.

  Sandis wrenched back and turned away, blinking tears from her vision. Shadows swirled before her, dancing beneath her feet and across the walls.

  Heat tickled her skin, followed by the shush of blown breath.

  Raising her head, Sandis looked back and forgot herself.

  He stood before her in the flesh, bright and unyielding and so much more than she’d pictured. His ears brushed the ceiling. His eyes were night without stars, his fur—skin?—like polished graphite. Near-white light encircled his breast like heavenly feathers. Red and orange fire brushed his long face and neck, broken only by magnificent and deadly horns—four altogether. Two pointed up, two pointed forward.

  Staring up at him, she felt so small and insignificant. It took all she had to stay standing. Something ballooned inside her, threatening to snap her ribs and split her skin. Not in a painful way, but a very . . . reverent one.

  It finally pushed against her throat hard enough to move her voice into her mouth. “I-Ireth?”

  The numen lowered his head and hoofed the ground before reaching its muzzle toward her.

  Sandis placed shaking hands on either side of it. Heat almost too intense for touch raced through her arms and into her shoulders, settling in her chest with such familiarity it brought tears to her eyes.

  Words abandoned her. I missed you. I’m sorry. I failed. What can I do? But those phrases all seemed too human, too pathetic. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and Ireth dulled his fire and pressed his large nose against her breast.

  Weeping, Sandis hugged his muzzle to her and cried against his forehead.

  Ireth mewed softly back.

  Chapter 14

  Despite the overcast sky, Kazen wore his hat pulled low over his eyes. The uneven cobblestones underfoot did nothing to hinder his stride. Towering buildings stood like sleeping sentinels to either side of him, surveying the crowds at their feet. The people skittered like insects, buzzed like insects, toppled over one another like mindless, pathetic insects.

  Soon, very soon, Kazen would wake them from their buggish stupor. All he needed was a little more searching, planning, doing. He would get what he wanted, one way or another.

  Kazen lifted his head at a dull flash at the edge of his vision. A young woman in a janitorial uniform tried pushing her way against the flow of foot traffic. The aura was slight and could only be seen by those trained to notice them. An open spirit, one that reached beyond the body and wasn’t trodden down by the pain of existence. There were so few of those in this city. Kazen’s eyes followed her, his mind calculating.

  Too old. Not yet thirty, no, but more likely than not she’d had children. Birthing damaged a body beyond repair. Even if he were wrong, she’d only hold a three at best.

  But he wouldn’t find what he needed on these streets.

  He paused in the middle of an intersection, peering up at the pollution-choked sun.

  Oh yes. He should start there. Yes . . . that would do nicely.

  Pulling his hat down farther, he turned left, never once brushing against the throng.

  Chapter 15

  Rone moved swiftly over the rooftops of Dresberg—too swiftly for a man whose amarinth had not yet reset. His toe had slid on the last jump, and he’d barely made the one four leaps earlier. He hadn’t given himself time to judge the distance properly, and he wasn’t in the part of town where he’d previously hidden boards and rope for easier travel.

  He was sidetracked, his thoughts getting away from him.

  Dakis had been an aggravating dead end. If any of his contacts knew where Kazen had fled to, it would be Jurris Hadmar. The man had worked in Straight Ace’s mob in his youth and had hired Engel on two occasions—once to steal jewelry from one merchant cart and plant it in another and once to deliver a man to them.

  Rone never knew what became of either of those jobs, those people. He hadn’t felt bad about the work then. But it itched now. He was getting soft.

  But even back then, Hadmar had bothered him. He was a sketchy guy with too much underneath the skin, not unlike Kazen. He kept things simple, didn’t ask questions, and paid on time, but he wasn’t the sort of person you wanted to double-cross.

  He also wasn’t the sort of person Rone wanted to approach for a favor. But with this new hire of Kazen’s—Rone winced, remembering the sound his leg had made when it snapped—Rone was on edge. They all were. He wanted to end it.

  He wanted to stop pretending he didn’t hear Sandis whimpering whenever she slept.

  But Hadmar wasn’t his quarry today.

  He finally stopped atop a factory where two men in work uniforms were smoking cigarettes. An industrial pipe billowing smoke hid him from view. Not a great place for a break, considering the air quality, but Rone needed to rest his legs before jumping again, or he’d be self-made roadkill on the cobblestones six stories below. Grabbing his foot, he stretched out one thigh, then the other. Wiped sweat from his forehead.

  He shouldn’t care this much. God’s tower, he shouldn’t care this much. She would never forgive him. He should turn around right now, pack his bags, grab his emigration papers, and go. His mother was waiting for him. Maybe he could even beat his letter, get there first. He had six days left. Still enough time.

  The image of his mother in her small Godobian cottage entered his mind. Her hair was neatly pinned back, as she usually wore it, and she held his letter in her hands, reading it with a slight frown on her thin lips. Then the door would burst open, and he’d shout something stupid like, “Honey, I’m home!” and then she’d yell at him and hug him, and they’d do dull, safe, homey things until it was time to turn in. Day after day, year after year.

  It wasn’t the worst future he could imagine.

  Despite the smoke, the smell of Sandis clung to his nostrils. And Sandis aside, he was partly responsible for this mess. For the ghosts she jumped at, too. He couldn’t walk away. Not yet.

  He rubbed his eyes and turned away from the chimney. Rather than make the jump to the next building, he searched for the stairwell the smokers must have used to get up here. He found it and, not bothering to conceal himself, took it down into the factory. A cotton factory. Sandis’s father had worked at a cotton factory, hadn’t he?

  Why did he remember that?

  He took the stairs down to street level. The air here felt cooler. He slipped off his jacket. Walked with his head down, his eyes searching. No sign of grafters, but that didn’t shock him. No sign of the man who had thrown Sandis over his shoulder like she was a sack of flour.

  The assailant had been ready to leave with her. Why? The thought made Rone’s blood boil.

  Next time he’d rip the bastard’s head right off his shoulders. Maybe then Sandis would forgive him.

  More likely she’d be offended by all the blood.

  Rone turned down a side street out of habit. It had been a few years since he’d cleaned these gutters, but his feet knew where to go, even if his head was in an entirely different space. He crossed the road to a different street, this time looking over his shoulder as he went. Not searching for anyone specifically, but making sure he hadn’t drawn any attention to himself. He rounded a block twice just to make sure, then, because he was such a good person, he approached the flat from the front instead of from the brick wall in the back.

  He pounded his fist on the door four times. Waited. Pounded three more.

  The second the latch gave, Rone pushed his way inside.

  He nearly got fingernails in his eyes in exchange for his bold entrance, but Arnae Kurtz, his old seugrat master, had enough control to stop before striking. Shutting and bolting the door, he said, “You are the densest man in my acquaintance, Rone Comf. I told you not to come back here. You endanger—”

  “A man who knows seugrat attacked me yesterday,” Rone interrupted, pausing in the middle of the s
itting room. He thought he heard a sound behind the wall in Kurtz’s small kitchen, where his secret room lay, but he didn’t pay it any heed. Whatever refugee had taken up with him wasn’t Rone’s business. “Tall.” He held his hand a few inches above his own head. “Skinny. Weirdly pale. Dark hair, dark eyes.”

  Kurtz folded his arms across his broad chest. “Dark hair and dark eyes? In Kolingrad? That certainly narrows it down.”

  Rone glowered. “The sarcasm is not appreciated.”

  “Neither is your attracting attention to my flat.”

  “I wasn’t followed. And the grafters have been dealt with.” More or less.

  Kurtz raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

  “Narrow face. Sharp shoulders and elbows.” Despite his healing, Rone could still feel all the bruises those sharp joints had pounded into his skin and muscle. The cracking of his knee still echoed . . .

  Shaking his head, Rone drew on his memory for more details. “Quiet. Didn’t speak at all. Really dark eyes. Black as tar.” He sighed and almost sat in the closest chair, then turned at the last minute, changing his mind. “He found the flat where Sandis and I were staying, along with one of her friends. A vessel friend.”

  Kurtz’s arms fell from his chest. “Another?”

  He dismissed the inquiry with a brusque wave of his hand. “This guy kicked my ass. Hard.” Rone took a deep breath. If Sandis hadn’t shot him . . .

  Kurtz frowned. “Then how . . . oh yes. I remember.”

  Rone merely nodded, knowing Kurtz referred to his amarinth. “Does he sound familiar?”

  Kurtz rubbed his short gray beard and paced the width of the room before settling on the sofa near the front door. “He’s not anyone I trained. How old?”

  “Thirties.”

  Kurtz shook his head, and the movement somehow made exhaustion swallow Rone whole. He finally dropped into that chair.

  “I am not the only master of seugrat in Dresberg, though I admit it’s a dying art.” Kurtz clasped his hands over his knees. “I’m sorry, but the man doesn’t sound familiar.” He paused. “That good, eh?”

  He’d suspected as much. Kurtz was choosy with whom he taught. Surely this assailant wouldn’t have passed the test.

  Kazen knew seugrat. And he’d be more than happy to have a stone-faced maniac under his tutelage. Yet Rone had a hard time believing Kazen would have waited this long to use such an impressive asset. That pale-faced stranger had been far more competent than any of the grafters who’d been sent after them. Perhaps the guy had merely been on a different job and unavailable.

  “I thought I was dead,” Rone confessed. “I honestly thought I was dead.”

  A trickle of the fear he’d felt right before the man shattered his knee—the moment Rone knew he’d left himself open—traced down his spine like the finger of a corpse. He shut his eyes for a moment and planted his elbows on his knees. When the sensation faded, he said, “He wanted her.”

  A brief pause. “Sandis?”

  Rone nodded. “He was trying to take her away. Apparently, he went for Bastien, too—the other vessel. I’m betting he switched because she was lighter.”

  Silence glistened between them. Kurtz shifted on the sofa, drawing Rone’s attention to him.

  He looked disturbed. His wrinkles deepened; his bottom lip curved into a deep frown. “I wonder.”

  Rone straightened. “Wonder what?”

  “Both vessels? Hmm.”

  Standing from his chair, Rone snapped, “Wonder what, old man?”

  Kurtz didn’t react to the jab. He stared ahead in thought. “Have you heard of remedial gold?”

  Drawing his brows together, Rone answered, “No.” But his memories flashed back to Sherig. Hadn’t she used those words?

  “Old wives’ tale, or so I thought. A special kind of gold sold on the dark market for far more than the worth of the metal. Believed to have medicinal properties. What, I’m not sure.”

  “And what does this have to do with Sandis?”

  “It has everything to do with Sandis.” His master’s dark eyes finally lifted. “Remedial gold is stripped off the backs of vessels.”

  Rone’s stomach clenched. He took a step back. Swallowed. “The . . . brands?”

  Kurtz nodded. “I don’t know more than that, so don’t ask. This is something I heard from a cleric a long time ago.” He rubbed his beard again. “It’s a thought. If you’ve truly eliminated the grafters as a threat, then that might be what motivates your man, especially if he wasn’t picky about which vessel he took. A man could live comfortably for the rest of his life off a single flayed vessel.”

  Flayed.

  Rone stared wide eyed at Kurtz and pressed a knuckle to his lips to keep from retching as his mind pictured too vividly what the process might look like.

  Could Kurtz be on the mark? Could that be this bastard’s purpose?

  It wouldn’t matter, then, if Sandis cut the brands or not. Gold was gold. The image of her lifeless body lying on some table, the skin on her back missing—

  Rone swallowed bile. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He started for the door. Paused. “Do you know anyone else in the city who teaches seugrat? Who might be able to identify this guy?”

  Kurtz stood and shook his head. “I’m afraid the only one I’m acquainted with went to Gerech some time ago. I doubt he’s still there.”

  Rone set his shoulders. “Thank you.”

  “Thank me by not sending me to the same place, hm? I love you like a nephew—a nephew, mind you, not a son—but so long as you’re involved in the things you’re involved with, you can’t keep coming to my door. I won’t be so hospitable if you do it again.”

  Rone extended his hand, and Kurtz took it. An unspoken promise, and silent thanks.

  Wrenching open the door, Rone swept back onto the street, keeping his head down until he reached the main thoroughfare, his stomach still unsettled.

  Remedial gold. The idea haunted him as he trekked back through the city. Not on rooftops this time, but following the uneven lines of the cobblestones, occasionally moving over for a carriage or wagon. The idea that people actually bought it . . . Surely they couldn’t know where it came from. But if they didn’t, why would it sell at so high a price? And on the dark market, no less?

  Sick bastards. As far as Rone knew, there was nothing special about the gold brands on Sandis’s back outside of giving her the ability to be possessed. Were people so twisted? Did the Celestial’s worshippers really spit on the occult, then turn around and wear it around their necks, their wrists? Could they pretend not to believe in the Noscon blasphemies, only to spend their coin on gold stripped from the skin of vessels?

  Rone pressed the heel of his palm into his stomach, worried he was going to be sick.

  Wood planks—a temporary fence—forced the road to bend inward to accommodate construction where a building had just been torn down. Likely its replacement’s walls would be so close to its neighbors not even a rat could squeeze between them. Everything in this godforsaken city was cramped and bloated, and it worsened by the year. Rone sneered as he moved around the fence.

  A flare of black hair caught his eye.

  It shouldn’t have. Nearly everyone in Kolingrad had dark hair. But he paused at the sheer blackness of it, his heartbeat accelerating, the back of his mind screaming, The mercenary. The one who’d snapped his leg like a piece of chalk.

  Cringing, Rone stepped back, ready to fight—knocking over a woman in the process—but it wasn’t the seugrat-trained man at all, just a construction worker carrying a heavy beam on his shoulder, while another man held up its back end.

  But Rone didn’t move. He stared at the man, his black hair pulled back into a short tail. He was tall and lean. He looked . . . familiar.

  A memory tugged at Rone’s mind. Sandis running off in Kazen’s lair. Rone pushing through the sea of mobsmen in hopes of finding her—a small group of people pushing right back, dressed neither like grafters nor Riggers. They’d worn
beige shirts just like the one Sandis had worn upon their first meeting. She’d refused to take her jacket off because the shirt opened in the back, revealing her script.

  Vessels. And Rone could have sworn one of them looked like that construction worker.

  Rone tucked closer to the fence, letting the crowds in the street push past him. Someone cursed him out for getting in the way, but Rone ignored the comment and stared harder at the man with the beam. The worker stumbled a little—he was strong but inexperienced with the labor. New. Hoping for a better look, Rone pushed along the fence, squinting past it. The man was fully clothed—no chance of checking the skin on his back for golden brands. But if Rone could see his face, maybe . . .

  The two men moved the beam down a slight slope. The man in question turned slightly, giving Rone a glimpse of a broad forehead and a narrow face, eyes a little lighter than Sandis’s.

  It was him. Rone was sure of it.

  After checking for the foreman or police, Rone jumped the short fence and ventured onto the construction site, staying out of the way. He circled the area until he got close to that hill, then pressed against a small storage unit, probably full of nails, tools, and the like.

  He waited.

  About ten minutes passed before both construction workers came back up, perhaps to retrieve another beam. Rone’s gaze homed in on the black-haired man. He looked to be a couple of years younger than himself and had a stoic cast to his expression. Granted, Rone would be pretty emotionless, too, if he had to spend his days working construction.

  As the two men neared, Rone coughed and muttered, “Kazen.”

  He’d hit the mark. The dark-haired man stiffened and looked around, while his companion continued on without him.

  Rone stepped forward, putting himself in plain sight. He raised his hands. “I’m not a grafter. I’m friends with Sandis,” he said, and the black-haired man’s eyes narrowed. What were their names again? He knew Alys—she’d tried to kill him multiple times in her numen form. And . . . Heath. No, he was the dead one. Rist?

  The vessel glanced at his fellow worker’s retreating back before stepping behind the storage unit beside Rone. “Who are you?” he asked, his words quick and hard. He puffed out his chest, trying to look intimidating—and in all honesty, he was. In looks, anyway. But knowing what cloistered lives vessels led, Rone suspected this guy likely didn’t have much clout when it came to fighting. “What do you want?” the man pressed.