Runebinder

by Alex R. Kahler

  When houses gave way to the broad downtown avenue, his nerves calmed. Their hotel rose up from the buildings on the other side, one of the few structures still intact. Uprooted trees stretched like black veins across the concrete. Marble slabs and pillars of other structures tumbled across the road in piles of white bone. Only the hotel stood strong and seemingly deserted, the clean red brick and white marble an anachronism in the destruction surrounding it.

  Something moved and Tenn turned on the spot, ready for the attack. A girl in black stepped out from the crumbling post office.

  “Audrey,” he said. He lowered his staff.

  “Jesus H.,” she said. There were two daggers in her hands, the kris blades glinting like wolves’ teeth. “I thought... We thought you were in trouble. Derrick’s had us on high alert since noon.” She looked between them, and it seemed to click then that Michael was missing. Her voice became a whisper, and her shoulders slumped. “What happened? I’ve never felt that much power. It was like a bomb going off.”

  Tenn’s pulse began to race. If the troop had felt their use of magic all the way back here, there was no way the necromancers had missed it. There was no way Derrick would let him live for his insubordination.

  “Where’s Derrick?” Tenn asked. The last thing he wanted was to admit what he’d done. Not when he wasn’t certain himself. He didn’t want to face their commander, either, but it would be easier to get it over with than wait in fear.

  Audrey nodded to the hotel. “His office,” she said. “He’s meeting with the captains now. Everyone else has been stationed in the field in case...”

  “In case we brought anything back,” Katherine finished.

  “Yeah.”

  “How pissed is he?” Tenn asked.

  Audrey gave a small grin, though it was more forced than anything.

  “Well, I wouldn’t go near him. Though maybe he’s cooled down by now.”

  “Right,” Tenn said.

  He’d have rather faced another bloodling.

  * * *

  Their base was depressing even during good days. Today definitely wasn’t a good day. The rain wasn’t helping.

  Outpost 37 hadn’t been built to house civilians, but to act as a buffer between Outer Chicago and the wild lands beyond. Wild lands that were inhabited by necromancers—mages who bowed in service to the Dark Lady, the Goddess of Death—and the Howls they created and controlled. There were other settlements and other outposts scattered across the States, many of which Tenn had bounced between after the Resurrection. Hunters had no say in where they were stationed to fight the forces of the Dark Lady. They went where the battle was. And, frankly, the battle was everywhere.

  Outpost 37 was home to him and maybe thirty other Hunters. For now.

  These were the trenches. Those stationed here would fight until they died, and their bodies would burn or be tossed in the lake, and a fresh batch of Hunters from Outer Chicago would come in to take their place. Or they were transferred to die in service somewhere else.

  Being a Hunter wasn’t glorious. But it did mean you were fighting back, trying to return the world to what it once was, rather than sitting around waiting to be eaten. After everything he’d seen during the Resurrection, joining the Hunters was honestly the only way forward. Revenge was the only reason he could live with himself.

  A few Hunters mingled in the hotel lobby. Maybe mingling was the wrong word; they were clearly all waiting for the alarm to sound. Their weapons were at hand, and though a few were reading musty paperbacks and another group was playing cards, there was a tension in the room that belied the apparent ease. Tenn nodded at those who looked up, waiting for them to ask about what had happened in the field. About what he’d done in the field. But they said nothing. Even the new recruits—easy to spot, from the lack of scars and the life in their eyes—knew better. Someone had fucked up, and since Tenn had been in charge of the food-scouting mission, it was on his shoulders no matter what.

  He looked down and continued up the emergency stairwell to the top floor.

  “What the hell happened out there?”

  The words were out of Derrick’s mouth before Tenn closed the door behind him.

  Whereas the rest of the encampment was cold and dark, this suite was warm and brilliantly lit, albeit far from welcoming. Flames danced across every surface, fires fueled by magic alone. It should have been beautiful, but it just set Tenn’s hair on end. The Sphere of Fire burned brightly in Derrick’s chest and his eyes darted with agitation. That was never a good sign.

  Derrick himself stood behind a grand mahogany desk, its surface coated in papers and maps and weapons. He was tall, commanding, his Mohawked hair burnt-red and his skin traced with scars.

  “I didn’t mean to—” Tenn began, but Derrick cut him off.

  “What do you mean, you didn’t mean to?” He stepped around the desk, hands clenched tight into fists. Small sparks flickered around his skin. “I felt your fucking magic all the way out here!”

  Tenn wasn’t about to point out that none of them should be using magic and that Derrick was betraying his own orders, but he knew that the amount Derrick channeled wasn’t enough to give them away, and, frankly, Tenn didn’t think Derrick would appreciate the reminder.

  “We were surrounded,” he said, lowering his eyes. “There were dozens of kravens. We wouldn’t have made it.”

  “Then you should have died.”

  Derrick’s voice was so terse, so fully void of emotion, that Tenn barely realized it sounded more like a command than anything else. It was a stab in the gut. Water churned over. You should have died, you should have died—your life is worth nothing, and neither is your death.

  “I meant to,” he said. His words sounded small. “But Water took over.”

  “The Spheres don’t control you. You control the Spheres.”

  It was ironic, seeing as Fire users were notorious for the tempers their chosen Sphere gave them. But it was a phrase they’d all learned during training. It might not be true, but the meaning was clear: you didn’t give in. Ever.

  “Not this time,” Tenn said. He looked up then, just in time to see something new flicker across Derrick’s features. Fear. “Water took over. It... I don’t know. It killed them. Every last one.”

  “You aren’t that powerful,” Derrick said, his voice muted. It wasn’t a dig; it was fact.

  Tenn didn’t have anything to say to that.

  “I should have you killed for this,” Derrick said. He stood up straighter, as though taking more control of himself and the situation. “You jeopardized the safety of everyone in this troop. Because of you, we have lost the element of surprise.”

  This outpost has been here for over a year. We lost that element a long time ago. But Tenn didn’t say that. Of course he didn’t say that. Outposts always changed locations. Keeping one in place had been a new tactic, decided by the higher-ups of Outer Chicago itself. If it was expected that base locations changed, having one stay put would be a surprise to the necromancers and the Howls. So long as it kept a low profile. So long as it wasn’t compromised.

  “I’m sorry,” Tenn said.

  “Tell that to your comrades who are going to die tomorrow.”

  Tenn’s eyes shot up.

  “Tomorrow?”

  Derrick turned and walked back toward the desk.

  “Our scouts have spotted them. The armies are moving. They will be here by sunrise.”

  A lump of dread twisted in Tenn’s stomach.

  “We need every fighter we have,” Derrick continued. “So I won’t kill you. Not tonight. I’ll let the necromancers do that in the morning.”

  There wasn’t the slightest hint of humor or mockery in Derrick’s voice.

  Tenn bowed his head and turned from the room.

  It wa
sn’t until he was halfway down the stairs that he realized he hadn’t even mentioned that Michael was dead.

  It didn’t matter. In the morning, thanks to him, they all would be.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE RAIN TURNED to a drizzle as the night bore on. Tenn stood on the hotel roof, watching water pool and stream below. The hotel offered the best view in town—quite literally—and without magic to guide their sight, they needed all the vantage they could get. There was a small, guttering torch on the ground, the only source of light in the darkness. Beyond, everything was dark and sifting and slick with rain.

  He knew that Derrick hadn’t sent him up here out of necessity. He was up here for punishment. Far from the glory of battle. And, being so high up, he’d be the first thing the necromancers could target.

  Tenn turned at the sound of footsteps. Katherine. She’d been chosen as the other lookout, probably on some sort of probation because of him. He wondered if this was the worst of her punishment for not killing him in the field.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  He didn’t answer, just tightened his grip on his staff and stared out into the dark. His stomach flipped over, and once more the thought flickered through his head, What is wrong with me?

  “What happened out there—”

  “There’s nothing more to talk about.”

  “I wanted to thank you.”

  Tenn’s internal tirade silenced. He turned to her. Firelight flickered over her face, but even in the shadows he could feel her eyes trained on him.

  “What?”

  “You saved my life. You avenged Michael’s death. So...thank you.” She brushed a strand of hair from her face and looked toward the darkness. “Don’t make me say it again.”

  “I...”

  But there wasn’t anything else for him to say. He hadn’t tried to save them. He hadn’t wanted to save them. Something else had taken control.

  She sighed and walked over to the edge of the roof.

  “Derrick is an asshole,” she said. She glanced at Tenn. “And I think he’s scared of you.”

  He frowned. “What?”

  She didn’t look at him, just kept staring out at the shifting rain and shadows.

  “Everyone felt it. That much power... Hell, I was there, and even I don’t believe it.” She paused, took a breath. “It should have killed you.”

  “I know.”

  “What did it feel like?”

  It wasn’t the question he expected.

  “Honestly...it was terrible. I’ve never felt so much pain.”

  She nodded to herself.

  “Fire can be like that, sometimes. It burns through you. But it feels good, in a way. All that pain makes you feel alive. Even if it does nearly kill you.”

  “Yeah.”

  Except it wasn’t like that. Not really. Fire was about rage. Water just felt like drowning in misery. And delighting in it.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked. Again, not the question he expected.

  “Yeah.” His stomach rumbled with the thought. Derrick had sent him up here immediately after their meeting, and Earth was still ravenous. “Starving.”

  “I’ll grab you something from the storeroom. I think they have Twinkies down there.”

  She walked over and patted him on the shoulder.

  He wanted to ask her something, anything. He wanted to talk, to have someone help him understand how the impossible had happened. Instead, he stayed silent. He knew she wouldn’t have any answers, and he didn’t want her thinking he was crazy as well as dangerous.

  She left, the roof door slamming loudly behind her, and he went back to his watch.

  It was nearly impossible to see anything in the darkness, but he was out here to sense more than see. Necromancers would use magic to lead the Howls in their army. Most turned to the Goddess of Death for power or immortality, to be on the winning side of this constant battle. There really wasn’t a middle ground—either you used magic to fight the Howls, or you used magic to create them.

  Tenn figured they were all insane. The Dark Lady was just a myth. The trouble was that the necromancers took the idea of her seriously. Their cult was what had caused the Resurrection—the day the first Howl was created. Tenn never quite understood the event’s name—Resurrection—since Howls could only be created from the living.

  Really, it didn’t matter if She was real or not. Her followers were dangerous either way.

  Footsteps sloshed through the puddles behind him. He didn’t turn around, assuming Katherine had taken the stairs at a run.

  “Beautiful night, isn’t it, Tenn?”

  It wasn’t Katherine. It wasn’t any voice he knew.

  He spun around, staff raised and ready.

  The man in front of him was a stranger. Despite the freezing rain, he wore dark jeans and a thin white shirt unbuttoned to his waist. The fabric clung to his body like some romance-cover model, accentuating his perfectly chiseled chest and stomach, his smooth olive skin. Chin-length black hair hung in loose waves and twined over his ears. Everything about the man screamed sex and desire and danger, from his broad shoulders to his low-slung jeans. Even his copper eyes glinted seduction. Tenn’s heart raced, but whether from fear or something else, he couldn’t be sure.

  “Who are you?” Tenn asked. He took a half step back, then realized he was already too close to the edge. Thunder rolled overhead; he could barely hear it over the thunder in his own blood. “How did you get up here?”

  The stranger cocked his head to the side, the smile never slipping, as though he were examining a plaything. Or a tasty appetizer.

  “How civil.” He ran a hand through his hair, and even that movement seemed perfectly executed. His voice was low and husky, a bedroom murmur. “He asks not what, but who.”

  In the blink of an eye, he stood an inch before Tenn, his face so close their lips nearly touched. Copper irises filled Tenn’s vision. The guy’s heat sent sweat dripping down his skin.

  “My name, young Tenn, is Tomás.” His voice made Tenn’s heart beat with lust.

  The name rang a bell Tenn didn’t want to recognize, a tone tolling destruction. He knew he should push the stranger away, should use the staff lodged between them to force a retreat, but he couldn’t budge. Tomás was still as stone and just as immovable. He burned like a radiator; rain hissed and steamed, and Tenn’s skin seared with the nearness. The heat. He should push him away. But the heat...the heat...it made him want to draw Tomás closer.

  Something clicked in the far corners of his mind, and Tenn knew precisely what he was facing and just how screwed he was.

  “Incubus,” Tenn hissed through clenched teeth.

  Tomás’s eyes narrowed. “What did you call me?” The words dripped venom.

  The copper eyes. The heat. The perfect seduction. Tomás was a Howl birthed from the Sphere of Fire, a demon craving human warmth. And like all incubi and succubi—their female counterparts—they preferred feeding through more lascivious acts.

  “You’re...an incubus.” Even before the words left his lips, he knew it was the wrong thing to say. Tomás’s eyes sparked red.

  “Incubus?” His composure cracked. Model became monster, and Tenn’s desire turned to fear. “You dare call me incubus? Monster? Demon?” Tomás grabbed a fistful of Tenn’s hair and yanked his head back. Where Tomás’s flesh touched his, Tenn’s skin turned to ice.

  “I am more than any incubus, little mouse,” Tomás whispered. His lips just brushed the nape of Tenn’s neck, sending ice and flame across his skin. “And you would do well to remember this.”

  He let go, and Tenn stumbled, nearly careening off the roof’s edge. When he steadied himself, Tomás was a step back, hands clasped behind him and an insidious smile slashed across his perfect fac
e.

  “The army is coming,” he said. His words were calm, and a frightening juxtaposition to the rage that seemed to lurk within. “They will be here before dawn. You cannot stop them. If I were you—and I’m most assuredly grateful I am not—I would be gone before they arrive.”

  Tenn tried to catch his breath. He hadn’t realized just how fast his heart was pounding, just how much he wanted to run. But whether he wanted to run away from or toward Tomás, he couldn’t tell. Fucking incubus. They were renowned for their ability to draw desire from their victims. He couldn’t believe he was falling for it.

  “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

  Howls didn’t reason. They didn’t talk or tell you their names. Howls killed. The fact that Tomás didn’t follow any of these rules scared the shit out of Tenn.

  Again, Tomás’s head cocked to the side. The grin didn’t slip and, for a moment, he just stood there, considering, as rain dripped down his delectably disheveled hair. Tenn kept his focus on the man’s eyes; he couldn’t be trusted to let them wander anywhere else. It already took all of his concentration to keep his thoughts focused, to not imagine what the man would look like naked, or how they would feel pressed against each other.

  His pulse doubled every time he considered it.

  “Because,” Tomás finally said, “my sister, Leanna, has an interest in you. And what she desires, I, too, covet.”

  That name rang a bell, this one louder than the first. Leanna was the Kin who controlled America. The one who ran the Farms and dictated where the necromancers attacked. For many, she was an embodiment of the Dark Lady herself.

  Tomás’s name clicked into place.

  Tomás was also one of the Kin, one of the six most powerful Howls in the world—the direct descendants or creations of the Dark Lady. They were the ones who ran the world now; the monsters who had humanity under their thumbs. Tenn’s eyes widened.

  “Bingo,” Tomás said. “Tell the boy what he’s won.”