“The shepherd does not want us to reach him,” Mother observed through clenched teeth. “And he has sent a terror to do his work.”
The other carriage dropped back alongside us, and a rock hit the window next to Mother. Mary quickly lowered the window, just enough to hear Dalton as he shouted across at us, his hair wet with rain as we sped down the road, the carriages shaking and jumping.
“It’s a Tarasque,” he cried. “We might outrun it. Coldthistle is but six miles down the lane!”
“And then what?” Mary wailed, stricken. “We’re leading that thing to our friends!”
“Mother! Can you not do something? Appeal to its . . . its . . .”
“It’s coming closer!” Khent kicked open the carriage door. The horses up front whickered and bucked, gravel and rain spraying our feet. “I want to get a better look.”
And with that, he climbed out and onto the roof, the heavy tread of his boots thumping above our heads an instant later. Mother shook her head, opening her hands to me with a soft sound of regret.
“I cannot harm this creature, child. It cannot hear reason as a human might, and bloodshed is not my way,” she said.
“I can try to lead it away,” Dalton screamed from the other carriage, banging on the door to get Niles’s attention up front. “We’re lighter and faster, perhaps we can be a distraction!”
“And then what!?” I heard Fathom shoot back from the driver’s box.
She was right. Simply outrunning it was not enough. Eventually—soon, in fact—we would reach Coldthistle House, and with no word from Wings, we had no guarantee that its inhabitants were in a state to be of any use. My heart raced. I hadn’t yet even seen the thing, but I could hear it shaking the ground as if a herd of giants pursued us across the moors.
“Mary,” I said hurriedly, rummaging in the only bag I had taken into the carriage. “Can you shield us?”
“I’m still weakened, I fear,” she replied with a whimper. “And I doubt I can stop something that bloody big!”
The creature chasing us let loose a high-pitched shriek, an unholy clamor that sounded as if the sky itself had been torn in two. The breath of it rattled the carriages, buffeting us forward a few meters. The carpet bag nearly leapt out of my hands from the constant and violent shaking. There was so little inside. Some bandages for my hand, a tawdry novel, Dalton’s diary, and the dull supper knife I had taken from Lady Thrampton’s ball . . . I picked up the knife and twisted it in my hand, an idea slowly but steadily forming.
I fumbled toward the window, sticking my head partly out and looking up, finding one of Khent’s hands gripping the wood and canvas edge of the roof.
“Yehu! How is your arm?”
“Mended, silly one, you know that!” His face appeared suddenly, bouncing back and forth as he struggled to stay flattened to the roof.
“No, I mean . . . can you aim? Can you throw?” I called.
His eyes lit up, his mouth falling open with eagerness. Perhaps it was unkind, but I could imagine a dog excited over a bone making just such an expression. “Eyteht, I once raced chariots with the god-king himself. I let him win, though he was lousy with a lance.”
“Perfect!” I cried back, then softer to myself. “I think.”
“Louisa, don’t be ridiculous, you can’t go out there.” Mary scuttled across the bench to me, trying to grab my ankle, but the carriage shot forward again, and I dodged out of her grasp.
“Do you have a better idea? Trust me!” I ignored the flash of pain in my hand as I pushed open the carriage door and the wind whipped against me. The rain lashed harder than I expected, and I said a silent prayer that this would work and that I would accomplish it without losing my legs under the wheels.
“Pull me up!” I put the knife between my teeth and grabbed the roof’s edge with both hands, trying to steady myself as the breathlessly fast pace and jumping wheels nearly rattled my bones free of my body. Khent swore, his strong hands closing over my wrists and yanking hard, my feet kicking free.
For a single, terrible, exhilarating, wonderful moment I was hanging there in the air, as weightless as a bird. I heard myself squeak with crazed relief as he hauled me up and onto the roof. But it was harder to find purchase than I expected, and I was forced to lie completely flat, creating as little a target for the wind as I could.
“What are you doing!?” He was furious, his face a finger’s breadth from mine as he dropped down next to me.
“Good God, it’s massive.” I ignored him, transfixed by the hulking beast galloping after us. It had the bulk of a dragon from legends, though its head was that of a mangy lion, its legs thick and stumpy as a bear’s, scales covering it from neck to whipping, barbed tail.
“Dalton said it’s a Tarasque,” I shouted over the wind. “Whatever the hell that means.”
“Fascinating. How do we stop it?”
“With this,” I said, reciting another prayer in my mind. It certainly couldn’t hurt. We would need more than skill and luck to keep that mountain-size lion from gobbling us up. The welts in the muddy earth it left in its wake would soon be ponds. I glanced ahead, wind stinging my eyes, the stretch of road becoming familiar as we neared Coldthistle. Dalton had raced off the road and onto the flat country land to the side, trying to divert the beast’s attention, but the Tarasque remained dogged in its pursuit of our carriage. It had no interest in the fast little phaeton gliding away. The Tarasque gave another shuddering, trilling roar, and its foul breath was close enough to ruffle our hair.
There was no more time.
“With this,” I repeated. “And your arm!”
Closing my eyes, I clutched the supper knife in my fist. I poured all of my concentration into it, focusing so hard on its transformation that I could hear the blood singing in my ears. My breathing raced out of control, but that only helped, the chaos and fear accelerating the dark magicks of my blood until the knife in my hand grew and grew, becoming heavier and longer until I could no longer hold it. Khent caught the idea quickly, ripping the spear out of my hand and crawling to his knees.
I craned my neck to watch him, squinting against the hard-beating rain. He lifted the spear to his shoulder and gave an experimental poke toward the Tarasque, but then he sighed and shook his head.
“Grab my feet, Louisa, and don’t let go. Gods, but this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”
I did as he asked, reaching out for his boots, clamping my hands down over them and throwing myself forward to pin them better with my weight. Khent climbed shakily to his feet, balancing with the tip of the spear on the roof. Inside the carriage, I heard Mary screaming with alarm. I felt it, too. The Tarasque was gaining, tireless, perhaps spurred by seeing a living target appear so clearly. Its breath jerked the carriage forward and back, the rear wheels lifting off the ground for an instant, and its loose and flapping jowls threw spit in every direction. Some of it landed on the carriage roof by my foot, and I watched it sizzle and eat away at the canvas and then the wood, burning clear through.
“Mind your head! The drool is like acid!” I shouted. The hole drilled through and through, then hissed as it hit the cushion just beside Mary. She blinked at me through the opening, covering her mouth with both hands.
“You’ve got an audience, Khent! And one chance at this!”
He thrust the spear over his right shoulder a few times, preparing, the loose edges of his coat flapping behind him like a cloak. His legs were shaking from the force of staying upright, and I pressed down harder, leaning into him, my last breath catching in my throat as he gave a huge grunt of effort and used our one chance, letting the javelin fly.
Chapter Fourteen
I heard the spear strike its mark before I saw it. The beast’s deafening howl might be heard all the way back to London. That, more than the way it floundered—its shaggy, brown head tossing, its short, thick legs caving in—pierced me to my core. The Tarasque gave two last faltering leaps, fur and scales slick with mud, before it dove f
orward, jowls shoveling stone and muck, carving a ditch into the road. Khent had struck it in the left eye, but the javelin had traveled deep, only a stub of an end protruding from the bloody ruin of its socket.
Fathom slowed the horses with a cheer, and I lifted my head enough to see Niles and Dalton circle back, bringing their carriage up next to ours from the opposite direction. I pressed one hand to my heart, checking to see if indeed I still breathed. It felt as if pure lightning skittered across my skin. Then I was airborne, lifted clean off the roof and spun, Khent dancing me up and down before he threw his head back and gave his own howl of relief.
“Aha! You see that? I could have beaten the god-king any day I pleased! Any day! I hope he is watching from the Land of Two Fields!”
“It was a very fine toss,” I admitted wryly, loathe to puff him up any further, laughing at his chest-pounding display. He quickly sat down, all but collapsing, resting his forehead on his knees as he drew in deep, noisy breaths.
“We made it,” I murmured. The rain had matted my hair to my face, and I pushed at it uselessly. “That was very lucky.”
“And that,” he whipped his head up, purple eyes dancing, two of his fingers mimicking legs climbing a wall, “was courageous.”
“Or foolhardy,” I chuckled. “Though I suppose one can rarely tell the difference.”
The door below us cracked open, and Mary leaned out, trying to find our faces. “How extraordinary! Did you see, Louisa? The spittle went all the way through! Down to the ground!”
Dalton jumped from his carriage and leaned back against it, running both hands through his gingery hair. “God, but we’re fortunate to be alive. This isn’t a good sign, Louisa. If the shepherd is desperate enough to pull the Tarasque from Nerluc, then I fear he is capable of anything.”
“More retaliation for Sparrow, I suppose.”
Khent leaned over the edge of the carriage and spat. “Ha. Roeh will just have to try harder. We are proving difficult to kill.”
“I wouldn’t encourage him,” Dalton shot back with a grimace. “Because try harder he will.” He glanced toward the Tarasque and shuddered. The thing was breathing its last, groaning as it flattened against the earth and heaved, rolling, slain, onto its scaly side. “We should press on. I don’t relish the thought of being on the roads at nightfall and—what the devil?”
Mother had, without our noticing, emerged silently from the carriage and begun marching toward the Tarasque. She pulled the black veil over her eyes, taking slow, somber steps until she had climbed the mound of stone and mud heaped against the creature’s face. I heard her humming something quiet and baleful, a song of mourning. Kneeling, she placed both dark purple hands on the furred snout.
“Louisa, we really should—”
“Shhh.” I cut Dalton off, raising my hand, watching as the immense creature, matted and bloodied and still, gradually began to break apart, shimmering into thousands of rose-colored butterflies. I thought I heard the Tarasque give a rumbling groan as it disappeared, as if it merely dozed, and had turned over in its peaceful rest.
The butterflies scattered upward, blending almost perfectly into the hints of pink at the edges of the horizon. The rain began to abate, leaving behind the fresh wetness of the long grasses and shrubs, wildflowers bobbing their rain-laden heads along the hedge. Mother returned to us with her chin held high.
“Every creature deserves mercy,” she murmured, passing between us. Before stepping into the carriage, she handed me something. A blunt, bloodied supper knife. Then she took her seat, rigid, as regal as a queen. Her eyes found mine, and hers were glistening with unspent tears. “Every creature. Even those that would hunt us.”
My heart grew weighty with dread as we crested the last hill before Coldthistle House. I remembered my first visit to the place so sharply, I could almost smell the bird droppings and the cook-fire soot still clinging to Mrs. Haylam’s clothes. And Lee. Lee had been there. I had thought of him frequently when summer began and I was new to London, but then city life consumed me, the months disappeared while preparing the house, and before I could even appreciate the warmer months, autumn arrived. The dizzying chaos of the past fortnight had driven him from my thoughts altogether. I wondered how I would find him, and if he would greet me warmly or as a forgotten friend. There would be no urge to blame him; I should have written. I should have kept him fondly in my thoughts more. I should have done a lot of things better.
Spoon had become knife. I tumbled that around in my head, uncomfortable with the symbolism, uneasy with the knowledge that the monster in my spirit could rage out of control at any moment and make me its unwilling tool of destruction.
I had expected to feel more conflicted about our return, but now—wet, tired, and troubled—I was eager for a hot meal and a roof over my head. What hospitality awaited us, however, remained a mystery.
Chapter Fifteen
1248, Constantinople
I had never thought to pity a demon, particularly not one as ancient and powerful as Focalor, yet the creature all but demanded my sympathy. He cowered against his cathedral of candles, brown wings half wrapped around his body as he held his wounded hands close to his middle.
“You can understand my impatience,” Henry told him—a bit harshly, I thought. “We have come a very long way, and you are not being altogether cooperative.”
The demon crouched, staring up at Henry and showing his teeth. “Look at me, Dark One. Look at what happened to me in the salt.”
“The salt?” Henry rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath. “What is he talking about?”
“Be kind, Henry. He’s half-mad,” I said.
“No,” Ara said. “The salt. There’s a lake of salt, massive, to the east. Tuz Gölü.”
The demon hissed at that. “Go not near the salt. You will return not at all or in pieces.”
Henry loosened the pack on his back and pulled out the chestnut-colored pup inside, holding it out toward Focalor, who regarded it with shifting, narrowed eyes.
“Is she right? Did you learn more of the books at Tuz Gölü?”
Shrinking, the demon wrapped its wings completely around itself, hiding. “N-No. No, there is nothing there but desolation. Desolation and pain. There are no answers. There is nothing. It is all nothing. All meaningless.”
His voice was muffled but easy enough to hear.
Henry put his mouth close to the puppy’s ear, murmuring, “Is he lying? Is there deceit in his heart?”
The dog, small as it was, gave a low growl and then snapped. Henry patted it on the head fondly and then tucked it under his arm, sighing.
“I know you do not want to serve me or anyone, Focalor, but make this easy on yourself. Tell us the whole truth. Tell me what you found at Tuz Gölü. Tell me.”
His patience was running thin. It was rare for his temper to emerge, as most things in life, even its tribulations, were a lark to him. I had seen him laugh off the deepest insults, the most cutting criticisms, failures, mistakes, and on and on. But a red flush crept across his cheeks now, pinpricks of silver standing out in his eyes, his anger such that the charm he used to conceal his true nature wavered, his feet contorted and backward facing. I reached for the pup, taking it from him, afraid that he would squeeze the poor thing to death in his rage.
“You wouldn’t want to make me beg,” Henry added in a soft, almost sad whisper. “I know you wouldn’t want that.”
He gestured to Ara, who turned and presented her heavy embroidered bag to him, the one containing the Black Elbion. The demon’s wings began to tremble, but it otherwise managed nothing coherent, muttering over and over again about the dangers of the salt.
“White sands in my wounds, white sands in my wounds, white sands . . .”
“Perhaps if we gave him more time,” I suggested, watching Henry remove the black book and run a tender hand over the symbol on the cover. “Or perhaps we should heed his warning. I like my fingers quite where they are.”
&
nbsp; “I hate to agree with the Upworlder,” Ara whispered, “but here we are. I told you not to go poking around the books. Look what it did to this pitiful wretch.”
“Your opinions are noted and discarded,” Henry replied, brow furrowed. He cradled the book in one arm and opened it. To me, it appeared as if the choice of page was random, but I knew him better than that. His fingers drifted over rows of text, words that I could not and could never decipher. It was not a language meant for me. I held the dog close to my chest, trying to soothe its fussing and whimpering.
“I compel you,” Henry stated, holding out his other hand to the demon. His fingers were steady, his arm locked, his eyes suddenly completely black. “Wayward one, reluctant servant, I compel you now: you will give me your truth, and you will serve as my guide.”
The tawny wings enfolding the demon shook and shook, his babbling breaking off as Henry’s voice boomed through the hollow cave. The flames of the candles danced on their wicks, threatening to extinguish. Ara closed her eyes and pressed her thin lips together, hard. A faint whisper began from the demon, but Henry ignored it, repeating his demands, each repetition growing louder and more furious.
Then, as quickly as a rope snapping under tension, the wings flew wide and the demon emerged, only he changed, rapidly, in front of our eyes. The cracks in his skin widened, no longer glowing gold but billowing black smoke. He became a thing of shadows and red eyes, still winged, but expanding until his newly horned head brushed the ceiling. The puppy shivered and shrieked, flailing until I shielded it. Henry did not waver, but the demon of smoke and eyes rolled toward us, the smell of brimstone unmistakable.
“You will give me your truth and you will serve as my guide!” Henry thundered. But the demon had broken; it had become pure defiance.
“Ai akkani, ḫalāqu. Napāṣu-akka.”
“Henry. Henry. Maskim xul . . .” I had never heard Aralu Ilusha afraid before, but the tremor in her voice was clear as she warned Henry, and I slowly backed away. The creature could not be less interested in me. It had eyes only for Henry.
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