by Kat Ross
She glided like a specter across the grass, bare feet making no sound. Anne killed the eight sentries patrolling the fence first. Until the last moment, their eyes slid straight past the woman in white. Her blade was a blur and none had time to cry out. She left the bodies where they fell.
Then there was only the guardhouse. She rose up on her toes and peeked in the window. Three men sat at a table, cleaning their guns. Her muscles felt loose and warm. Nicely limbered up. She kicked the door in and slashed the closest one across the throat, taking the second on the backswing. The third died as he tried to stumble away.
When she heard no hearts beating except her own, Anne sprinted for the house. If someone was looking out an upstairs window, they might detect a dark blur of movement across the lawn. But it took her all of three seconds to cross from the guardhouse to the wide stone balcony stretching along the front of the mansion. She vaulted over the low balustrade and pressed herself against the wall. Anne dropped to all fours and crawled beneath a dozen dark windows. She paused at the last and listened intently. There were no signs of life in the room beyond. She used a trickle of earth to open the latch. Then she let go of the power. It would be too risky to touch it again.
The detached calm of the Nexus evaporated. Anne waited a moment for her racing pulse to slow. She sat on the sill, swung her legs over and landed silently on a carpeted floor, the sword in her right hand. Heavy drapes fell shut behind her. She locked the window, wiped her bloody feet on the rug and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.
She stood in a richly furnished salon with a frescoed ceiling and dark oil paintings on the walls. Anne slipped to the door and cracked it open. She stepped into a long corridor with more doors. All was quiet as she made her way deeper into the house, passing through a series of similarly lavish rooms arranged around vast marbled courts with glass domes far above. As imposing as the façade looked, Anne realized it was just the tip of the iceberg. The scale of Bekker’s house boggled the mind.
Long minutes passed. She saw no one, heard nothing. The place had a cold, sterile feel, as if it was never used. Anne started to wonder if Jacob had been wrong. Perhaps Bekker had taken Gabriel somewhere else. They could have gone anywhere through the gate.
Anne fought the onset of despair as she crept through a banquet hall with four fireplaces you could ride a horse into. She searched for stairs leading to other levels but saw none. Then she found herself back at one of the galleries she’d already passed through. She recognized the paintings, figures from Greek mythology. Anne cursed softly and retraced her steps, taking different turnings.
At the third marble court, she chose an archway to the left leading into a long gallery paneled with mirrors on both sides. They caught the dim light, throwing back a kaleidoscope of shimmer and shadow. She was about to enter when some primitive, deep-seated instinct made her wait. She scanned the far end and detected a patch of impenetrable darkness drifting along the gallery. It made no sound and if it hadn’t been moving, she never would have distinguished it from the other shadows.
Anne’s pulse leapt, a sour taste flooding her mouth. She hadn’t encountered a lich in a long time, but of all the creatures of the Dominion, they held a special terror. Once, as a child, she’d been trapped in a deserted village when a legion of Neblis’s Druj passed through. She’d curled into a ball, hardly daring to breathe, as they marched by a few feet away — necromancers, revenants, wights and the eyeless shades known as liches. One touch meant death. Unlike other Druj, swords were useless against them, even iron ones. They could only be unmade with air.
Anne stilled herself.
The lich moved down the center of the gallery, trailing tendrils of darkness. She watched in the mirrors as it drew closer. Once it came to the archway, the foul thing would probably notice her. But if she moved now, it definitely would. And liches were fast. Panic welled and she was seconds from grabbing at the power when she heard the clink of chains.
“Any sign of them yet?”
Two necromancers entered the gallery, about thirty feet down on the right. They seemed to have just encountered each other. One was tall and white-blonde with a handsome, square-jawed face. The other’s reflection was blocked by the first and Anne couldn’t get a good look at him.
“No.”
“You should go outside and check in at the guardhouse. Make sure the cannon fodder is doing its job.”
The reply sounded surly. “Why can’t you?”
“Mr. Bekker gave me other orders. The Afrikaner is coming.”
The way he said it, with an edge of fearful awe, made Anne wonder who the hell the Afrikaner was.
“I have to wait at the portal for him.” A low laugh. “Not even D’Ange will last long in his hands.”
Anne felt a rush of joy to learn Gabriel was here and alive, but as the two men spoke, the lich had been drifting steadily closer. It didn’t radiate the cold stench of revenants, and it lacked the macabre animation of wights, yet there was something fundamentally awful about liches. They were like jagged tears in the fabric of the living world.
It was nearly on her when one of the necromancers snapped his fingers. “Shadow!”
The lich wavered, spitting distance away, then flowed back down the gallery like smoke. Anne wiggled into the niche of a statue next to the archway. She hoped they would say something more about Gabriel, but the faceless necromancer, the one who was meeting the Afrikaner, strode away, trailed by the shade. The other, the blonde one, stalked down the gallery in her direction, moving swiftly and with purpose. She pressed behind the statue, her hand tightening around the hilt of the sword. His footsteps passed. Then they stopped abruptly. He sniffed the air. Exhaled. He opened his mouth and drew a deep breath. Tasting it.
“Come out, come out,” he said softly, his sword rasping from the scabbard.
Anne stepped from her niche.
His eyes crawled over her. “Well, look at you. All bloody.” He smiled, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Just how I like my women.”
She’d learned the sword from Vivienne, whose mastery of edged weapons equaled Gabriel’s mastery of the chains. But this man would be nothing like the sentries. Necromancers carried swords by ancient tradition and knew how to use them. Anne’s skills, on the other hand, were decidedly rusty.
He took a step closer, amusement on his face. “Are you the advance party of the heroic rescue attempt?” He patted his thigh as if calling a dog. “Let me put the collar around your pretty little neck and it will go easier.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
He studied her with a spark of interest. “All right. Show me, little one. Maybe I can give you some pointers.”
The marble was cold and slick beneath her feet as she raised her sword. He moved with loose-limbed grace like a dancer, his own blade coming up, and then it began. There was no prelude, no testing. Just blades joining with a force that sent shockwaves down her arms. Well-fed necromancers had the strength of ten men and this one had clearly gorged himself not long before. His sword was also iron, but longer and heavier than the one she’d taken from the sentry. A true broadsword.
He drove her down the gallery, their blurring blades reflected back a hundred times in the full-length mirrors. Within a minute, sweat slicked her palms and trickled between her aching shoulders. She was too fast and he knew it. He was starting to wonder why she wasn’t dead. Anne parried an overhead strike that nearly drove her to her knees. His smugness turned to irritation, his mouth setting in a hard line.
Then her bare feet lost traction on the marble as she pivoted away and the tip of his sword sliced down her shoulder. The edge was so sharp she didn’t even feel the sting, only the hot rush of blood. Anne gritted her teeth.
I have to put him down. Have to put him down before others come….
Viv would have cut him to ribbons by now.
She made a clumsy swing for his head, which he easily dodged. She forced herself to slow, panting with terror, only def
lecting his thrusts at the last possible second. A sadistic gleam entered his eyes. The cat toying with the wounded mouse — which wasn’t far from the truth. Blood slicked her hands. Her grip was starting to slip. Anne weakly fended off a slash from the left. She staggered, the tip of her blade scraping the floor. Her arms trembled as she tried to lift it.
His lips curled in triumph.
She saw his stance shift for the killing blow and Anne struck with the sudden speed of a cracking whip, a devastating lateral slice that knocked the blade from his hand and took his head. It rolled to a stop against one of the mirrors, still smiling.
She bent over and braced a hand on her knees, nauseous from fear and hatred and adrenaline. Anne forced her tumbled thoughts in order, even as she kept a sharp eye out for the revenant she knew was on its way.
Gabriel is here. Somewhere in this damned gigantic maze. If only I could have followed the other one—
Movement in the corner of her eye. In the mirrors. Anne stood up straight, her skin prickling.
It wasn’t the revenant.
“Well, fuck,” someone said. “She killed Janssen.”
Necromancers blocked both ends of the gallery, two in front of her, the third behind. They didn’t look happy.
Anne turned in a slow circle, her blade coming up again.
22
Balthazar shifted his feet, trying to ignore the misery in his joints. That the strain of dangling from the ceiling was now the worst pain actually marked an improvement from his previous condition. His mouth was parched, but at least his right eye was still watering, which provided some meager relief.
I’m drinking my own tears, he thought. How appropriate.
Axel and Daan had returned to their post near the door, where they were swapping dirty pictures. Gabriel had said nothing in a long time. His mood seemed to have evolved from fury to something unreadable.
Balthazar cleared his throat. “Do you really have a wife?” he whispered.
Gabriel nodded.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“Who is it?”
“Anne Lawrence.”
Balthazar blinked. “You married Alec’s sister?”
Gabriel’s face darkened. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“No, I…. Not in the least. I’m just surprised.”
In fact, he was thrilled. If a daēva was coming, they might have a slender chance of getting out of there alive. Balthazar frowned. “Isn’t that the one you…”
“What?” Gabriel demanded.
“Never mind.”
They were quiet for a minute.
“Anne Lawrence,” Balthazar murmured slowly.
Gabriel glanced over. “If you say her name again in that tone, I still might kill you.”
“What tone?” Balthazar stared at him in bewilderment.
The reply was brutal. “Just don’t.”
Balthazar sighed. “Does she know where you are?”
Gabriel closed his eyes, his voice calm again. “She’ll find me.”
“I don’t suppose she’s with Alec and Vivienne?” Balthazar asked hopefully.
“No. But it doesn’t matter. She’ll tear this fucking place down stone by stone if she has to.”
Balthazar nodded, an odd tightness in his chest. He’d always assumed D’Ange was immune to normal human emotion. That he would fall in love with a daēva — and even stranger, she with him — was an inexplicable and touching thing.
“Aren’t you afraid....” He trailed off, expecting another outburst, but Gabriel seemed beyond anger now.
“Of course I am. More than you can possibly imagine. But I can’t stop it. I can’t stop her.”
Even as a child, Gabriel had been supremely confident. If he had a weakness, it was an inability to control his temper. Balthazar had never seen him show fear, not once during his harsh training or the many beatings he took for disobedience. Not even when he saw a revenant for the first time. Most of the boys would piss themselves when they faced those decayed warriors risen from their stone catacombs.
Now Balthazar saw genuine terror in Gabriel’s eyes. Tightly leashed but unmistakable — and not for himself.
“I can only have faith in her,” he said softly. “As I should have done before.”
Balthazar could think of no reply and they lapsed into silence again. Time passed. His eyes drifted shut, seeking solace in oblivion, though it refused to come. He hoped Lucas would stay far from this place. The Order would arrive eventually, but they couldn’t match Bekker’s numbers. And Bekker himself would be back soon.
I wish Vivienne were coming, he thought wistfully. I really do. Just to see the looks on their faces.
He lost himself in a daydream of Lady Cumberland laying waste with her scimitar. Alec Lawrence was there, too, but somewhere else, off stage. Together, they wiped out all the baddies, Bekker included. At last, Vivienne strode into the chamber and stood before him, dark skin glowing in the light of the torches. Gabriel was…. Rescued or dead, it didn’t matter. The important thing was they were alone. Oh yes, and his shirt had been savagely ripped down the front, displaying his lean musculature to great advantage.
“Balthazar,” Vivienne murmured in her smoky voice. “You poor darling.”
That part was all very nice.
But instead of freeing him and carrying him off over her shoulder, she laughed, patted his cheek, and turned away. He begged her to come back, but Vivienne just winked and strode off, leaving him like a flopping carp in a net….
“What did Constantin say to you?” Balthazar asked, more from a desire to break the oppressive quiet than any real interest in the answer.
Gabriel gave him a bleak look. “Not much.”
Balthazar twisted, trying to coax a crack from his aching spine. “Let me guess. He grew tired of living in poverty. Thought he deserved better. So when Bekker approached him, offering riches beyond imagination, he saw a way to reap the rewards you’d so long denied him.”
Gabriel cast Balthazar a sharp look. “Close enough. Except for the part about Bekker coming to him.” A flash of anger. “He went to Bekker.”
“Christ.” Balthazar grimaced violently. It was triggered by a sudden white-hot lance of pain in his neck, but Gabriel nodded, oblivious. “I know. Grasping son of a bitch. He always thought we should rob the men we killed. Empty their coffers to the last cent. But it was blood money. Ill-gotten gains. I wouldn’t allow it.” He snorted. “Constantin has no clue what true poverty is. But I think seeing the way those men lived…. Instead of revolting him, it made him want it for himself. And once the seed was planted, his bitterness grew like black mold in the dark. Until the man I knew was gone.”
Balthazar let out a long breath as the spasm receded. “I’d hoped it might be more interesting. An illegitimate child Bekker had discovered and used as leverage. Some personal grudge against you. But simple greed? After all those years together?”
Gabriel’s chains clanked softly. “You’re not making me feel better.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, even Bekker’s Neanderthals think he’s an arsehole. He won’t last long.” Balthazar sensed Gabriel staring at him and gingerly turned his head. “What?”
“At the museum. What was your plan?”
“Kill him right there. In front of everybody.”
Gabriel frowned.
“It would have worked. He trusted me, as far as Bekker trusts anyone. I was four feet from him. With a sword. A ceremonial saber I’d claimed was a family heirloom. Then you shot the windows out.”
“How did you intend to get away afterwards?”
Balthazar smiled. “Make a portal in Bekker’s own blood.”
“But he’d sense a talisman—”
“I’d have used his. He always carries one.”
Gabriel was silent for a moment. “That has a nice symmetry. Simple and bold with an element of poetic justice. It’s something I might have thought of myself.”
&n
bsp; “I know. If we survive, do you still intend to come after me?”
“No.” A sigh. “I’m too tired.”
Balthazar wiggled his toes. They were starting to go numb. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but a holiday might do you good.”
A smile touched Gabriel’s lips. “That’s what Anne said.”
23
Anne’s gaze flicked over the Antimagi, calmly assessing her chances of walking out of the mirrored gallery alive and/or uncollared.
They weren’t good.
One, yes. Two … perhaps. But three at once?
Like Janssen, whose headless corpse leaked at her feet, she doubted they were seasoned enough to summon black lightning. Otherwise they would have used it on her. But this was small comfort since all of them carried broadswords and were twice her size.
“Listen to me carefully, bitch,” said the one to her right. He had shoulder-length black hair and a thin, pointy face with a deep dent in his chin. “Throw your sword down or you’re in serious trouble.”
The others laughed. “She’s in serious trouble whatever she does, Pieters,” one remarked.
Anne said nothing. She decided to wait and see how it played out. Running like hell was always an option, but it wouldn’t help her find Gabriel. And this Afrikaner…. She didn’t like the sound of him.
Pieters studied her for a long moment. He wasn’t stupid. She’d killed Janssen. Then they all looked down as a three-foot crack split the marble floor. A powerful arm emerged, jeweled rings flashing on filthy grey fingers. Chill air gusted the length of the gallery. A few mirrors shattered. Anne shrugged and donned her sorry, not sorry face.
“It’s all yours, gentlemen,” she said sweetly.
The black-haired Antimagus gave a feral grin. He closed his eyes and pressed his palms together in an attitude of prayer. When they blinked open, the irises were a sickly yellow. His teeth sharpened to little razors, crowding his mouth so his lips didn’t close right. The others watched with amused expressions.
