And touched stairs. Going up.
I let out a relieved sob and began to scramble on hands and knees, the worn edges of the risers biting into my flesh. The Knife made a little clicking sound against each step until I managed to get my legs under me. I ran, heart exploding with pain inside my ribs and the fear of the caverns behind me, filling with cold stone water mixed with Sephrimel’s ashes, in my mouth like bitter wine.
The stairs were narrow and dark, golden light from below fading as water mouthed and lapped behind me. If I could have stopped, I probably would have lain down despite the hard stone edges and tried to at least catch my breath. As it was, I had a hard enough time trying to keep myself upright, slipping on slick stone.
I ran, my fingers cramping around the Knife’s warm pulsing hilt. Sick fever-warmth spilled up my arm with each pulse. Whatever it had taken from Sephrimel it was feeding into me, in controlled bursts like an immuno-hypo’s time-release function. I’d been hurt bad enough, once or twice as a human bounty hunter, to slam painkiller-cocktails from a first-aid kit. This was the same feeling—knowing the pain was there, that I was functioning on borrowed time, that soon I was going to push my body past its limits, muscles tearing free of their moorings and my brainpan filling with blood from burst vessels—
Danny, you’re running blind. Slow down.
I couldn’t. Darkness was rising with the water, soft squelching sounds behind me that I knew was just the water sucking at the steps but my imagination had no trouble making into soft padded feet. Before the last glimmer faded and the dark wrapped close and soft as cotton wool over my eyes, the clutching of claustrophobia began in my chest. There wasn’t enough air. If I didn’t drown in the flood I would in the darkness, the weight of how many tons of earth and rock pressing down to crush the life out of me.
Focus. You have to focus. You have to.
I knew I had to. I tripped, barked both knees, and fell, my head hitting the wall with a sickening crack that made phantom stars swirl in front of my starving eyes.
Dammit, Danny, quit rabbiting! Get hold of yourself!
I lay on the stairs, panting, my shallow gasps echoing against the narrow stone hall. I sounded like an animal, exhausted from struggling in a trap. Just waiting for death from shock or blood loss, or for the hunter to come and put a plasbolt in me.
Claustrophobia descended on me, sheer terror wringing out what little sanity I had left. This was like Rigger Hall again, like the Faraday cage in the basement, where I had learned to fear dark closed spaces. It was ever so much worse than an elevator, because there was no escape.
My left shoulder flared with soft heat. It was so warm I expected it to glow as I stared up at the ceiling, stone edges digging into my hip and the back of my head.
Wait a second. I can see.
I shifted, and the light moved too, dappling the stone as soft wet sounds drew closer.
Just like a demon to die and leave his house to flood. The hideous, panicked amusement in the thought was a thin shield against rising hysteria. The light moved again as I tilted my head.
It was my emerald, glowing fiercely. Green light danced as I moved my head, slowly, watching the play of color against the stone. Spectral illumination—far too much to come from the one tiny gem in my cheek—bathed the steps. My tat writhed madly on my cheek, an itching so familiar and so comforting tears pressed hot against my eyes. I blinked them away. With the light came a little air past the clutching in my chest.
Get up, Danny.
I didn’t want to. I wanted to lie there and rest.
If you stop moving you’ll drown. Get up. Move.
I couldn’t. I just wanted to rest. Just for a moment, until I could find enough breath to move. Until the terror went away.
Then Lucifer’s already won. The deep voice was pitiless. Merciless. It wasn’t someone else’s voice used to prod me into action, unconsciously using a familiar tone so I could pretend someone was here with me, that I wasn’t alone. Are you going to let him win?
“Shut up,” I whispered. “Shut the fuck up.”
You might as well admit it, Danny. You’ve only got so much left in you. You’re only human. There’s no shame in admitting you’re beaten. He’s the Devil. He’ll win. All you have to do is lie here and wheeze. There’s plenty of air. Get up.
The soft lapping drew closer. How far below the water table were the mosaics, Inhana’s dark eyes now watching blackness instead of the slow dragging passage of time and the shuffling of her A’nankhimel?
The thin moaning sound, I realized, was mine. I was lying on the steps groaning while the water rose. Like a beaten animal cowering in a corner.
Just stay there. The deep voice sounded disgusted. I sounded disgusted at myself.
The Knife hummed in my hand. Squelching, lapping sounds moved closer, teasingly.
“Get up,” I whispered. “Get up, you bitch.” If I can talk I can breathe.
I tried. My legs refused to move. The muscles were shaking, quivering as nerves rebelled, drunk on terror.
Just lie there, sunshine. Choke a little bit when the water reaches you. It will all be over soon, and you can rest.
Here in the dark. Forever.
It was amazing. Laughter rose inside me, from the wrecked place where I used to be human. It bubbled up past my lips, a dark rancid howl, and my eyes rolled up inside my head as I strained, the chilling little giggles broken by a long hunnnnngh! of effort.
I twitched.
Just lie there, sunshine. The voice was so reasonable, so calm, and so fucking disgusted with me. It’s all over.
“Like… hell… it… is!” The pauses between the words filled up with howling, insane laughter.
Something cold touched my boots. Moved up, slowly, along the outside edge of my shins, my soaked jeans turning colder as fresh fingers of water caressed them.
I jerked away from those caressing fingers. Scrambled, finding fresh strength as the Knife hummed in my hand like a high-voltage cable. The world turned gray, light from the emerald set in my cheek bleaching stone. Strings of damp hair fell in my face. I was sweating, great drops of unhealthy water standing out on my skin. Salt stung my eyes as I gasped, heaving for air against the constriction around my ribs.
I made it up to my knees.
Well, look at that, the disgusted voice remarked. You can move after all.
“Shut up.” Then I saved my breath for moving. The mark on my shoulder spilled a wave of strength down my skin, working in, barely enough to keep me upright. I choked on something hot rising from my abused, empty stomach, and stumbled along.
Each step was torture, working against the weight of childhood fear like a lead blanket. My knees felt shattered, my thighs on fire, my neck steel-strung cables drawn tight by a demented dwarf. I climbed up, swearing at myself with each step, curses that spilled past my lips the longer I moved, until I was gasping both for breath to move and to keep up the string of obscenities.
The sound of water faded. I kept going, until the stairs vanished and I emerged into a long, low corridor lit by orange orandflu strips, long-burning firesafe illumination. My breath returned with a whoosh, claustrophobia easing. I stared at the shapes on either side of the hall, not believing what I saw.
What the hell?
Stacked on either side of the hall were bones. Great pyramids of skulls over neatly piled femurs, pelvic bowls stacked like bread bowls, the arched shapes of what I realized were ribs arranged aesthetically, fingerbones mortared into the wall, smaller bones sticking into crumbling concrete.
Sekhmet sa’es. Catacombs. The word swam up through layers of shock and exhaustion, and I let out a short bark of relief. My lips were cracked and stinging with salt. My clothes were ruined, blood and seawater drying as they plastered against my fevered skin. I itched all over. Skulls leered at me, their empty eyes holes of madness.
They’re dead, Danny. They can’t hurt you. Going to stand there and gawk all day?
“Anubis—” The pra
yer began, but I stopped it short. On my own again.
But the emerald, and my tat—
Don’t think about that now. You have other credits to fry right now.
The walls trembled. I put out a hand to steady myself, touched a stack of bones that spilled from their careful teetering and puffed into dust on the way to the floor. The splinters that reached the stone broke with a dry whispering sound. How long had they been down here?
What was that? I braced myself against more crumbling bones.
The scar on my shoulder rippled with heat. And not just that—a sudden certainty bloomed just below the smoking surface of my mind, losing any conscious semblance of thought. It felt like a grassfire inside my skull, like I’d once seen on the rolling savannah of Hegemony Afrike. Smoke and crimson and dull gray dust, as far as the eye could see, the air too thick and hot to breathe, chunks of charred stuff visible even from a hover’s-eye view—animals too slow to escape the burning.
I blundered down the aisle of bones as Hajia Sofya tolled in distress overhead, her walls singing a long sustained note, like a real crystal wineglass stroked by the lightest of touches.
Japhrimel. His name rose from the smoke in my head. He’s in trouble. He needs me.
I didn’t argue with the certainty. I just stumbled forward, wearily, with all the speed my exhausted, aching body would allow.
CHAPTER 11
The long hall gave onto another bigger chamber, an ossuary with old stains showing against patched crumbling mortar where bones had dissolved into mineral streaks. There were more strips of orandflu lighting and a few dim bulbs burning out overhead, hanging from long cords. I got the idea nobody had come down here for a while except a mad dreadlocked demon.
The temple kept crying out as I stumbled through other passages, following a faint indefinable pulling against my bones. I no longer questioned it, I knew Japh was nearby and he needed me. I had the Knife now. I was going to save the day.
Well, at least half the Knife. Better than nothing, wouldn’t you say, Danny?
I told that voice inside my head to shut up and almost ran into a dead end, a blank wall barring my path. I turned back, retraced my steps, and found a long sloping corridor going up, with decent lighting and—thank the gods—signs in Merican, Pharsi, and Graeci.
I’d somehow found my way into the part of the temple set aside for tourists. I could have laughed at the irony, decided to save my breath.
The letters blurred and ran together, but I glimpsed enough to tell me the main part of the temple was down this hall and to the right, behind a massive blue-painted door that loomed up, quivering in its socket.
I started down the hall, dragging my right leg a little. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the fact that Japhrimel was on the other side of that door.
Unholy screechings and thuddings resounded as the door shook again. The entire temple flinched.
The Kinslayer will fight to his last breath, but the Prince’s minions are numberless, and even a killer such as yours may eventually fall.
Had Sephrimel done what he had threatened?
The door rocked as something hit it from the other side, a long bloodchilling howl shivering it against its maghinges. They let out a distressing squeal, and the door sagged, no longer looking quite right. The massive sheet of blue plasteel, decorated with the Hegemony sunwheel, looked like someone had slammed it with a plascannon bolt on the other side.
I kept moving, finally within touching distance. Last thing I need now is the damn door to fall on me. Hurry up, Valentine.
I reached out with both hands, intending to shove. If the maghinges were damaged they might not open, and I’d have to think of something else.
Doesn’t matter. The cold disgusted voice spoke up, the one that only showed itself when simple endurance was the only thing left. Japh’s in there and he needs me.
The Knife let out a shuddering, bloodchilling howl, one that burst out of my own lips as I coiled myself, compressing demon-elastic muscles until I exploded forward, hitting the doors with tired flesh and unhealthy, feverish Power both. My heart stuttered under the strain, a blinding flash of pain searing between my temples as mental muscles stretched, straining.
I landed on both feet, the door flung away like a ball of trash. It soared in a graceful arc across interior space, and I was driven down to one knee as my legs almost failed me. The Knife vibrated in my hand, force pouring into me, beating back exhaustion.
The inside of the dome was soaked with bloody light. McKinley, his face a mask of effort, drove a winged hellhound down to the floor, his left hand clamped in its throat as Vann unloaded plasbolt after plasbolt at it, missing by a hairsbreadth each time as it twisted, cartilaginous spine crackling. Lucas skipped to the side and fired on an imp, its greasy sick white skin stretching as it chattered, its bald, hairless babyface twisted around the syllables of Hell’s mothertongue. Other imps writhed on the floor as rotting fluid gushed from mortal wounds.
Japhrimel stood before the high altar, his hands clasped behind his back as he regarded the demon in front of him. The left side of his face was black with mottled bruising, something I had never seen before. Behind his slim dark shape, Leander crouched, his katana an arc of brightness held in the guard position, spitting blue sparks as runes twisted in the steel’s heart.
My arrival halted everything except the hellhound’s gurgle as it died under the lash of plasbolts. The demon crouched in front of Japh was mantled in darkness like feathered wings, a shadow of black flame and diamond spangles. Corpses littered the inside of the temple, stinking and running with brackish fluid as demon flesh decayed. Hellhounds with and without wings rotted as I glanced at them, my attention centering on the feathered demon as it turned fluidly to face me, drawing itself up, and up, and up. It had to be at least nine feet tall.
I’d interrupted a hell of a fight. Twisted shapes of dead demonflesh were everywhere—some with a mass of hideous legs and others vaguely human-shaped, but with a grace and alienness even in death that humans couldn’t match. There were also imps, their claws blackened and their faces grotesquely puffed.
I stayed on one knee, trying to get in enough breath as the demon in front of Japh turned its piercing silvery eyes on me. Feathers ruffled, each one edged with a dark steel gleam.
It had a slim, ageless face, built like Japhrimel’s—lean and saturnine, long nose and thin mouth, winged dark eyebrows. The hair feathered into wisps so fine they lifted on uneasy air as everyone froze.
All eyes on you, Danny.
Or maybe they weren’t looking at me. Maybe they were looking at the Knife, its finials stretching out and clasping empty air, my hand fitting against its hilt as if it was made for me.
The wooden weapon keened, a low hungry sound.
Get up, I told myself. Get up, you stupid bitch. That thing is threatening Japhrimel.
It worked. Fury poured through me, a rage red and deep like hot blood from a ragged hole. My legs straightened. I gained my feet in a stumbling rush and threw myself forward, the Knife held in the way my sensei taught me, flat against my forearm for slashing, the pommel reversed with its claws digging into my wrist.
Burn, a half-familiar voice whispered inside my head. Burn them. Make them pay.
Shapeless shouts rose, Lucas yelling my name, Leander screaming, McKinley letting out a cry that shivered the air. Everything vanished but the enemy in front of me and the need to make him—whoever he was—pay.
In blood.
My left shoulder woke with a crunch of agony, Power flushing along my aura and hardening. Japhrimel’s strength filled me like a river in a burning bed; the demon and I collided with a sound like all the jars of the universe smashing at once. The Knife rammed through muscle and bone, shrieking with satisfaction as the entire world stopped, crackling flame filling my ears and running through my veins. I was made of it, this fire, and if it escaped me the world would burn.
The only thing scarier than not caring was h
ow good it felt.
I held the silver-eyed demon on the Knife, ignoring the sudden blooming of pain as it clipped me a stunning blow on the head with one taloned fist. A soft breath of satisfaction slid past my lips, ruffling the pin-fine black feathers along its high cheekbones. We were close enough to kiss, its teeth champing as it writhed, held away from me by the humming force of the demon-made weapon in my aching, bruised, battered hand.
I found I didn’t mind. Not with the flame pounding behind my heartbeat, thumping in time to a song of fury and destruction.
I had called upon Sekhmet, the Fierce One, and She had answered.
Burn, I thought, and the heat passed through me as the Knife gulped. The demon writhed, its mouth contorting in a scream of pure agony. But still, it reached for me, its claws flexing as it prepared to kill, even with the blade buried in its ribs.
I knew I couldn’t kill a demon, I thought, and braced myself.
Japhrimel arrived.
He tore the demon off me, the Knife pulling free of my fist with an unholy screech. The world snapped back into its normal pace, chaos descending out of the stillness of concentration. I went flying back, the heavy shield of Japhrimel’s aura over mine blunting the force of my fall as I collided with Vann. McKinley skidded to a stop while Vann and I went down in a tangle of arms and legs, I struck out with fists and feet, screaming.
The sound was incredible, howls of anguish and agony meshed with thudding booms and tearing like limbs pulled from their sockets. Vann had an arm around my throat and McKinley descended on us, trying to hold me down as I thrashed. The noise reached an amazing crescendo, felt more through the body than heard. My own scream was lost in that wall of clamor.
Sudden silence, sharp as a sword, sliced through blood-drenched light. I sagged in Vann’s hands, smelling the dry demon-and-other reek of Hellesvront agents. McKinley was repeating something over and over again, and it took a while for the echoes to shake out of my head so I could hear what he was saying.
“Christos,” he kept saying. “Jesu Christos. Mater Magna, Jesu Christos. Is she all right? Tell me she’s all right.”
Dante Valentine Page 131
