Bounty: An Urban Fantasy Novel (The Solumancer Cycle Book 3)

by J. C. Staudt

  The first dhampir hits the doorway full-speed, intending to dash inside. Instead she bounces off and skids into a tumble across the pavement, smoking from head to toe. The others change course, diving headlong through the grimy windows and rolling to their feet in showers of glass. I push magical energy into my legs, which only makes the spiderwebbed veins burn the hotter as I run.

  A door opens on the outbuilding’s second-level balcony, and a handful of familiar silhouettes pour through it beneath the starry sky. No sense entering the building now. Would that I might soar, Superman-like, over the top to join my friends on the other side. Leaking focus the way I am in my condition, my levitation spell might get me halfway up the front face before dropping me on my ass.

  Around the building’s right-hand side lies an alley where tall bundles of pipe snake along the facility from every gadget to its corresponding gizmo. I’m not familiar with the intricacies of the metal refining process, so there’s no telling which of these pipes contain inert substances and which are likely to blow. I’d better be careful with my spells.

  When I get around back, Ryovan is leading the others across a raised catwalk toward a pair of tall silos scaffolded with metal staircases. They’re far from the tallest structures on the island, but the Guardians will be safer up there than at ground level. It’s a dead-end if the dhampirs corner them up high. Judging by the irritated growls coming from inside the building, I’m guessing Mazriel has warded the upper door to buy them more time.

  Irys reroutes a detachment of her troops around the side of the building. Knowing they’ll catch me up if I continue toward the silos, I duck behind a thin cylindrical pump housing and wait for them to pass me. The dhampirs on the outbuilding roof have figured out a way past Mazriel’s ward and are clambering onto the catwalk. Over two dozen dhampirs remain, even after the ones Malanx and her demons have taken down.

  Through the gloom I estimate the spot where the metal catwalk is bolted onto its nearest support beam. The Guardians are past this point; the dhampirs are on their way toward it. I summon a circular ethereal sawblade and fling it like a frisbee. It lands higher than intended, but it does the trick. The catwalk crashes down, dumping all the dhampirs save the frontrunner, who hurdles the gap and continues her pursuit.

  What I didn’t notice when I threw the sawblade was the bundle of pipes behind the support beam. The blade sinks eight inches through galvanized iron and ruptures the smallest pipe in a shower of sparks. The ground shivers as fire billows in black plumes from the impact site, hurling shrapnel in every direction. A chain reaction rocks the nearby venting station, and the three massive bladed fans pop like volcano tops.

  Ryovan covers his head as the sky rains shrapnel. He stops short when he notices Irys and her group reaching the silos ahead of him. They’re climbing the stairs and leaping to the catwalk to cut him off. He vaults the catwalk railing and lands on the wide pipe running perpendicular beneath it. The others follow, teetering across the pipe like gymnasts on a balance beam.

  No, not that way. Not that way, I shout in a whisper.

  They’re headed toward the blast furnace.

  Where the wide pipe runs beneath a pair of smaller ones, Ryovan scrambles up the scaffolding and turns right, hopping from one pipe to its twin, left-right-left. Urdal and Des stay close behind him, but Shenn is still favoring her sprained ankle, and Mazriel is a slow climber. She slips from the scaffolding and crashes down, nearly sliding off the wide pipe but managing to catch herself. The lone dhampir who hurdled the earlier gap throws herself onto Mazriel’s back and bites down hard on her jugular. Mazriel clamps a hand over the dhampir’s face and fires an orange bolt.

  Mazriel makes it up the scaffolding on the second attempt.

  Irys throws herself from the silo to land hard on the utility building below, buckling the aluminum roof. She and her cohorts leap from rooftop to rooftop, vaulting an impossible gap to a tower whose tiered balconies overlook the bundle of pipes Ryovan and the Guardians are running down. I follow on the ground, possessing neither the speed nor the agility to climb two stories before giving chase.

  The dhampirs sprint across the balcony and drop onto the bundle of pipes just as Mazriel races past the intersection point. She tosses some of her orange napalm behind her, but it’s no better an idea than my sawblade spell was. The left-hand pipe bursts into flame, splitting down the middle to release a cloud of fire and black smoke. Two dhampirs throw themselves from the heights, drowning in flame.

  The pipe is also rippling in the opposite direction, toward the Guardians. They jump too, but not all off the same side. Shenn and Urdal go right, plummeting to the ground far below. Ryovan and Des jump left, landing on a raised gantry where train cars deliver their payloads to the furnace. Mazriel doesn’t react until the last second, when the exploding pipe tosses her onto the roof of a squat cylindrical structure resembling a holding tank of some sort.

  Ryovan glances back with a scowl, but keeps going. Des grabs his arm and pulls him down the train tracks toward the blast furnace. I’m almost to them now, albeit still at ground level. Demons are dispersing through the facility, tracking the dhampirs who’ve fallen from the heights.

  Irys maintains her pursuit. Without Mazriel to hold her back, she gains quickly. Des and Ryovan hop into the lowest scoop on the steep conveyor belt which carries raw materials to the top of the furnace tower. They bring their assault rifles to bear and lay down a hail of bullets in Irys’s path. She takes a hit and goes down, rolling behind an empty train car for cover. A few seconds later she’s on her feet, staying out of sight behind the train car as she hobbles toward the conveyor belt. I pass beneath the small burning pipeline, circle around one of the stockhouses, and ascend a staircase leading to the raised gantry. “Irys,” I shout. “Come back here and face me, you coward.”

  I know she hears me, but she’s ignoring my taunts in favor of Des and Ryovan. She drags herself from behind the train car and flops into the lowest scoop, her gunshot wound healing over as she rises. “This is the end, bitch,” I hear her shout. “You’ve fucked with me for the last time.”

  Ryovan and Des aim down at her through the scoop’s crenellated lip, but after a few dicey ricochets they give up shooting. My legs are burning, and so are my lungs, but I press onward. I fling myself into the scoop a few levels down from Irys and wait while the conveyor belt carries me to the top.

  I’ve always wanted to try a carnival Ferris wheel. It feels like I’m soaring above the city on wings as I rise toward the tower’s pinnacle. The way down may prove less enjoyable, given the fiery death waiting at the end.

  Des and Ryovan disappear from view as their scoop flips over the top. My heart skips; if they came all this way only to be tossed into a vat of molten metal I’m going to wet myself. Then I’m going to make sure Irys goes in after them.

  When Irys’s scoop reaches the top, there’s a burst of gunfire. Maybe this was Ryovan’s plan; to lure her up here and kill her the only way he knows how. A stiff buffeting sound and a messy metallic clatter follow the gunshots. I stand and wait, baffled, while my scoop crests the stack.

  The pinnacle looks like a belltower; four posts with an overhead rain cover, and a narrow ledge surrounding the furnace’s open throat. No one’s there, and for a second I catch another wave of that dark sinking feeling. They’ve all gone down. They’re all dead.

  Waves of heat ripple from the open funnel beneath me, and it’s a nimble feat to grab hold of the overhang and hop aside to the narrow ledge before the scoop can dump me in. That’s when I see them. All three, lying on a railed balcony of metal grating past the far ledge. Irys is bloody and full of holes, crawling over Ryovan, who’s groaning as he holds his palm against the wet red gash on his temple. Des crawls after Irys, but Irys grabs the stunned Ryovan around the neck and pulls him to her chest, pressing the barrel of a handgun to the side of his head.

  Des stops. “It’s me you want, Irys. Not him.”

  “I want you all,” says Irys
. “The order you die in doesn’t matter.”

  “Don’t do this. He’s only a human. Your advantage is way beyond fair.”

  “This isn’t about fairness.” Irys coughs, spitting up a line of red saliva. “It’s about achieving a goal.”

  “Your goal is a delusion. It’s wrong to murder the innocent.”

  “It’s what must be done. If our kindred are to survive, vampire and daywalker alike, humankind must be allowed to thrive while we remain hidden.”

  “Humankind is thriving. Alongside thousands from the otherworld. Our charge is to protect humanity from its true threats.”

  “The only threat I see is you.”

  “I wouldn’t do anything rash if I were you, Irys,” I advise, standing above her with a spell in hand.

  “Wizard,” she sneers, pulling Ryovan tight to her chest. “You wouldn’t harm your precious leader.”

  “Do it, Cade,” Ryovan urges. “This has to end now.”

  “He won’t,” Irys says. “He’s weak. Like you. He cares for you.”

  I do care for Ryovan. He’s the kind of man I wish I knew how to be. And hitting Irys in the dark, exhausted as I am and with the jitters of demon power surging through me, is going to be a challenge without catching Ryovan by mistake. There’s no time to think about it, though. Irys adjusts her grip; she angles the gun against Ryovan’s bleeding temple and curls her finger around the trigger.

  “It doesn’t matter what happens to me, Cade,” says Ryovan. “You were always meant to lead the Guardians. This is your fight now.”

  Irys smiles and pulls the trigger.

  Chapter 31

  Des screams.

  Irys turns the handgun on me and fires a second shot. The bullet pings off the rain cover, and something hot burns in my chest. I stumble and nearly fall down the furnace’s throat before steadying myself against the post beside me. Another gunshot, and blood splatters out Desdemona’s lower back. She leaps onto Irys, and the two dhampirs grapple for purchase. Irys’s greater strength quickly gains her the upper hand as she throws Des against the railing and sweeps her legs out from under her. Des reaches for a handhold but can’t grab the banister in time. She topples over the railing and plummets into the night.

  I don’t see her hit the ground, but I hear it.

  Rage sweeps through me. I thrust my spell down at Irys, a pinpoint dart, sharp as a thumbtack and infused with neurotoxin. Not the permanent kind of neurotoxin; the quick-as-can-be magical kind meant to incapacitate its target for a short period of time. It’s the spell I’d intended to use before, but now without a hostage in her arms it feels insufficient.

  The dart strikes home in Irys’s breast. Her body stiffens. She twitches as her system processes the toxin faster than any human could. Then she raises her gun toward me once more and fires. I duck behind the post and wait for the blast.

  Click.

  She’s empty. I throw myself onto the grated balcony with the intention of pinning her down. I should know I’ll never overpower a half-elven dhampir, but rage is overriding my logic. Irys scrambles to her feet before I land and shoves me away as though I weigh no more than a newspaper. I slam into the side of the tower, but stay on my feet somehow and cast a spell.

  The furnace tower shudders beneath us.

  Irys stops. “What was that?”

  “Fuck you. Distraction’s the oldest trick in the book. I’m not falling for it.”

  Irys’s bullet wounds are healing over. This isn’t going to be as easy as cutting off Krydos’s male appendage or filling Gilbert Mottrov’s body with fire. Exploiting her weakness to magic will only delay the inevitable. She’s going to kill me.

  I push a gout of flame in her direction. She shields herself with an arm, but the effect is minimal. When the flame subsides, the edges of her vinyl clothes are smoking. Half her face is blistered and most of her snowy white hair is singed, the scalp beneath bald and curdling. I wonder if the wounds she’s sustained so far tonight have begun to tax the limit of her fast healing.

  Irys examines her burns, turns her icy glare toward me, and charges. Halfway there she stops and jerks back the other way, legs dangling. The tower shudders again, and a voice deep and thick asks, “What would you have me do with this one, Cade Cadigan?”

  I become aware that I’ve dismissed my detection spell. When I raise it again, Malanx is hanging from the tower with Irys clutched in one massive hand. King Kong ain’t got nothing on this chick. Denzel’s words, not mine.

  Irys struggles against her, but even her impressive strength isn’t enough to escape a demon whose size and weight are an order of magnitude greater than hers. “Die, wizard,” she screams helplessly. “Die with your friends.”

  If she hadn’t just hunted down and murdered some of my dearest friends, I might be inclined to give Irys Montrovia one last chance. Some heroes refuse to kill their enemies even when they’re the most despicable people ever. Well, I’m not one of those heroes. “Throw her in.”

  Malanx holds Irys over the furnace’s throat.

  I raise a finger to stop her.

  “Yes?” asks the Tyrant of the Underworld.

  “First pull her in half to make sure she doesn’t claw her way back out.”

  Just as the living trees mangled Malanx’s demon soldiers during tonight’s battle, Malanx lowers herself from the tower, clamps her other hand around Irys Montrovia’s upper body, and twists her like a bottle cap. I feel the rain as the demon lord carries the dhampir’s remains over my head and dumps them into the furnace. There’s a hiss from within, followed by a flare of light and a swell of smoke blacker than the petcoke fields.

  I crawl to Ryovan and cradle his head in my lap. Everything comes crashing down; the adrenaline, the demon blood, the panic of knowing my friends were in danger. They might still be, but I’m no good to them now.

  I recall the night, not so long ago, when Ryovan and the Guardians crashed into my life through Gilbert Mottrov’s windows and saved my bacon. When he prayed an entire pool into holy water. His habit of bowing to me like I was important. Giving me my father’s signet ring even after I refused to join. Watching over me all those years. Knowing I wasn’t ready to read the Book of the Sightless. Protecting me from Misthaven, and from the truth about my father. “You can’t leave like this, Ryovan. I’m not the one for this job. It’s you.”

  Footsteps ascend the balcony stairs. Shenn appears from around the side of the stack, followed by Urdal and Mazriel. They stop short at the sight of Malanx hovering above. Shenn looks at me in alarm, then notices her father. Mazriel shoves past her, falls to her knees and pulls Ryovan away from me, clutching him in her arms.

  “I couldn’t save them. I’m sorry.”

  Shenn’s eyes redden with tears. They’re falling before she makes a sound. She bites her lip, sniffs. “Elona and her armies. They’re coming for you.”

  I look to the horizon, where a brilliant point of starlight floats toward us from the city, accompanied by a million others.

  Malanx gives a deep thrumming grunt. “Hmm. I had hoped my time in the mortal world would last longer. My forces are in no condition to continue the fight against such terrible foes. With reinforcements from the underworld, perhaps we would stand a chance.”

  “The book,” I say. “Mazriel. Where’s the book? The grimoire.”

  “You will not have it,” she snaps, tears running down her red face.

  “It belongs to Shenn now. And if we don’t use it, we’re dead.”

  “There’s no time,” says Urdal.

  “There would be if Githryx were around.”

  “Githryx has turned on us,” says Mazriel. “The black bat is a traitor.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Githryx was feeding Irys the times and locations of the crossings,” Urdal explains.

  “Githryx was the spy? I mean, I guess it makes sense. He had constant access to Mazriel and the grimoire. But he helped me. He brought me through the underworld to Malanx
.”

  “Well get over it, because he’s a lying snitch,” Shenn says tearfully.

  “There’s no way we’re getting that book now,” Urdal agrees.

  “Isn’t there?” asks a voice in the sky.

  I look up.

  “I’m impressed with your work,” Calyxto offers, floating with arms and legs crossed a few feet above Malanx’s shoulder. “You and your buddy Steve there did a hell of a job on that summoning. I almost think you two ought to go into business together.”

  “We had the help of a sorcerer from the old world. What are you doing here, Calyxto? I thought you were in hiding.”

  “I am.” He puts a finger to his lips. “Sh-h-h. So I hear you’re in need of a book.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So if you wanted to call in that favor I owe you, now might be a good time.”

  “I do. I want to call in the favor.”

  Calyxto turns to Shenn and holds out his hand. “Spit.”

  She frowns and leans away. “Huh?”

  “You own the book he wants, don’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  “Then spit in my hand.”

  Shenn hesitates.

  Calyxto checks the horizon. “Not much time left.”

  “Spit,” I tell her.

  “Spit,” says Urdal.

  Mazriel locks eyes with Shenn, then nods.

  Shenn spits in Calyxto’s hand. He winks out and reappears an instant later. He reaches behind his back and produces the Book of the Sightless as if he’s been hiding it there the whole time. “This the one?”

  “How did you do that? How did you get past the wards around the hospital?”

  “With an invitation from the owner. That’s you. Subject to the terms of our hastily-agreed-upon agreement, which states—”

  “Not another trick,” I groan.

  “Which states,” he continues firmly, “that this agreement renders any and all prior agreements null and void, and that no agreement hereinafter involving such currencies as souls, servitude, slavery, or subjugation shall be made between the aforementioned parties. Namely, you… and me.”