by Adrian Cross
Clay nodded. “I know.”
She sighed, leaning back, eyes almost closing. A feeling of good humor filled her, and her lips twitched, before she squelched it. “Good. Don’t make that mistake again.”
He smiled. “Thank you,” he said, and she knew he was thanking her for forgiving him. But what choice did she have, given the circumstance?
She frowned. “Brock worries about me.”
“I know. I don’t think he’d have left me here, except he thought he’d make you sicker arguing instead of just doing what you asked.” His tone was light, as if he’d found firmer ground for their conversation. But it felt like the bottom had opened in her stomach, and the chills wrapped themselves around her again.
Her voice was quiet. “That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t kill me.”
“What?” Clay blinked, as if convinced he’d misheard her, and then rose to his feet. “You’re kidding. There’s no way.” He shook his head. “No, I’ve seen it. Brock would take on all of StoneDragon for you.”
She tried to smile. “I know. But that doesn’t change the truth. No one is more tied to his version of duty than Brock. It is his entire world. It is what makes his life so hard. But the truth is, if I Turn, he will cut me down as surely as he would a gutted sheep. Vampires are an abomination in his mind. If I Turn, I will no longer be human in his mind. There will be nothing left of me. I have no doubt he will kill me as soon as he is sure.”
Clay looked at the door, his hand on his pistol butt. His face was clouded, as if struggling with the branches of possibility ahead. His mouth opened, then closed, as if looking for reassurance, but finding none to give. He knew enough about the Family to know how rigid the true believers were.
“What can I do?” he asked softly.
A sudden wash of fear filled her. She felt cold and small and alone. She was sick, she could feel it, and she had been in a den of vampirism, even as twisted as it was. She’d been bitten many times by those little spiders. She wished she could believe she wasn’t infected, but it was hard. So hard.
What if she woke tomorrow with the blood hunger? Would she tear into flesh and blood as the vampires did, overwhelmed by that unnatural hunger? Would she feel a compulsion to obey Candiman or Mendonia? She didn’t know how that society worked. Would she feel compelled to attack Clay, if it suited her new master? Or was that compulsion exaggerated and obedience enforced in more mundane ways? She could simply end up dead and drained in an alley somewhere, cold and alone.
Tears filled her eyes. “I’m scared,” she whispered.
Clay’s face flushed. He knelt slowly beside her, the muscles of his shoulders taut. “Did any of the Spartans bite you?”
Warm tears slid down her cheeks. She wished she could keep up the image of a tough-as-nails warrior, trained in death and willing to accept the consequences of the life she’d chosen. But she was frightened, frightened of losing her family, of losing her strength, of dying alone. She hiccupped a breath.
“I don’t know. I don’t remember. But I don’t think so. The only bites I found were from spiders.” It was getting so cold. She pulled the blankets tighter. The room blurred again, and she couldn’t see Clay. “But I’m sick,” she whispered.
A warm hand touched her shoulder and then lifted away. It felt distant.
“I have an idea,” Clay said. But he didn’t sound happy. Instead, it sounded like the words had been torn out of him.
“What?”
A pause. “What did Doc say?”
She drew a long breath, trying to bring the room back to clarity. It was hard. “After hours of blood-letting and muttering?” Her voice sounded distant but colored with the bitterness she felt. “Nothing. It could be an infection or something else entirely. And if it was an infection, he couldn’t do much anyway. Apparently no one has ever found anything that worked. At which point Brock chased him out with an axe.” She managed a half laugh. “The doctor screamed like a little girl.”
“I’d been so sure getting a doctor would help. He couldn’t do anything?”
After a long silence, she blinked and saw Clay had turned, his form dark and angular, a warrior struggling in battle. Trying to find a way out of a dark spot and not liking the options given to him.
The room had a small window and was as much a cell as the space the Spartans had kept her in. The stones were old and stained, perhaps by some ancient battle. Bern could feel her teeth chatter. Whatever was eating her up, it was near the end. She wondered if she had much longer as the person she knew.
She heard a rasp of steel on leather, and a blue glow filled the room. Bern narrowed her eyes against the sudden light.
“What are you doing?”
“This Token has shown two powers. To kill vampires and to heal.”
Bern’s breath caught. “You think it could heal me?”
“If you’re infected. Maybe. Or… it could hurt you.” It sounded like he was pushing a boulder uphill, his breath coming in short gasps.
Bern remembered the Spartan they’d killed on re-entering StoneDragon. The way it had blazed and screamed in agony. The flash of hope faltered, replaced by a different type of fear. She had been focused on the possibility of becoming a monster. She faced the possibility of death in its absolute form. In pain. She struggled to draw breath. It was like jumping after she tripped, hoping to cross the chasm. Was it worth the risk?
“Could it work?”
“It’s possible. I don’t know.” Clay rasped out a breath. “What do you want to do?”
Fear and hope warred in Bern’s chest. She could be cured, or… She swallowed. “Brock will kill me if I Turn,” she said softly.
“You might not.”
Bern tightened her arms around herself. It was cold. Despite her efforts, the memories of that night returned. “Did you see that giant spider?”
Silence.
“It was infected, wasn’t it?”
He didn’t have to answer.
“What are the odds the smaller spiders weren’t as well?” A tremor racked her body. She knew what the decision was. She didn’t want to be a monster. She’d spent her life preparing to defend life, not to be one of the creatures that stole around its edges, trying to take it. As hard as the thought was, it was better not to live than to face that. Cold enveloped her. It was so hard to get the words out. But she did.
“Do it.”
Clay didn’t move. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but she could feel his resistance, despite it being his idea.
Anger flared. She lashed out, feeling the blankets lurch up. She clawed at the neck of her shirt. It was so hot. She bared too much skin; she could feel it in the wash of cool air. But this was beyond minor points of modestly. She could feel herself being overwhelmed by whatever disease had her in its grip.
“Do it!” she choked.
Clay’s shape came closer; the glow of the blue dagger intensified. His face was knotted in conflicted decision, and he held the blue dagger above her exposed skin, its blade burning hotly blue. “I’m sorry,” he said, and then he pressed the blade down.
The heat of the blade touched her collarbone. The light of it was a brilliant afterimage against her eyes, a glowing blue-white cross. Her body locked in spasmic anticipation, waiting for the pain.
For long seconds, it didn’t come.
Bern’s gaze met Clay’s. She could see his shoulders slowly relax, even as a mix of disappointment and relief washed through her. It hadn’t…
Blue flame exploded from the blade. Agony convulsed Bern’s body, heat and pain.
She screamed.
43
Clay Loses His Mind
When he first lay the dagger on Bern’s chest, it was cool and pale. Clay’s gaze met Bern’s. A sense of relief filled him, and his lips pulled apart in a smile.
Then blue fire exploded under his hand.
The heat and shock slammed Clay back into a wall. His vision swam, but he could still make out the horrific blue blaze on the bed. Bern reared up, blue
flame wrapped around her body. Metal rang on stone as the dagger bounced. Its once smooth beauty had turned into a black and twisted chunk of metal. Bern screamed.
The door crashed inward. Dwarves spilled into the room. Something hit Clay, spinning him back into the wall.
He dropped to his knees. He tried to struggle up, but his balance slipped away, and he fell, stone bruising his cheek.
Powerful hands closed around his neck, dragged him up from the floor. Brock’s face distorted with rage.
“I’ll kill you for this!”
The dwarf slammed Clay into the stone wall. Pain blossomed in the back of Clay’s head. The room flared white, then grey, before black dots burst in front of his eyes. Clay couldn’t breathe because of the pressure around his neck. He couldn’t see because of the blue flames roaring around the bed. But he could hear, as the flame-wrapped shape on the bed screamed again.
The grip on his neck disappeared. Clay suck air into his lungs, and he slumped to the floor, wheezing. Someone seized his bicep and jerked him upright, someone strong.
“Get back!”
The words were accompanied by a wash of hissing. Clay realized who was helping him, who was ordering the dwarves back and saving him from further punishment. Snake. Milton held the blade of his scythe at Brock’s throat, blood beading its edge. Brock glared at Clay, his face contorted with hate.
“I’ll kill you, if it’s the last thing I do!”
Clay blinked, trying to make his senses orient. But it still didn’t make any sense. Why were Snake and Milton helping him? Then he remembered Bern, and reality wavered around him again. He’d burned her. His limbs felt weak and helpless. He didn’t even blame Brock.
Spittle bubbled from Brock’s lips, and he trembled, as is only barely restraining himself from leaping forward, even if it meant Milton’s blade would tear open his throat.
The hand on Clay’s arm jerked him sideways, off balance, and toward the door.
“Move.”
The other dwarves glared hate at Clay as he was dragged away, but they had more urgent things to worry about. Bern thrashed about, still screaming, as if in unbearable pain. They tried to restrain and soothe her.
Clay was dragged into the hallway. His body ached from the many punches Brock had landed. But what hurt more than any blow he’d experienced was the sound from the other side of the door.
Bern had fallen silent. As if the flame had finished her.
Something broke inside Clay’s chest.
“Keep moving,” Snake snarled. “They’ll kill you if they can.”
Clay didn’t react, either to help or hinder as he was pulled down the hallway. Everything seemed far away and brittle, as if he were walled with ice. That ice thickened by the second, as if his mind knew it was necessary to protect him. Protect him from the flame that roared up from his gut, threatening to consume him, dissolve him in raging sheets of pain and guilt. A conflagration that threatened to leave nothing in its wake, except ash. Ash. He could still smell it, from the remains of what had once been a home. When he had lost his first love.
He had failed Sarah. Then Karen. And then Bern. Ending in flame, always flame. It was going to eat him up too, once the ice cracked.
Beneath him, his feet moved stiffly, one step after another, as if they belonged to someone else.
Milton’s face swam into focus, watching him intently. He’d never seen Milton look that interested in anything, unless it related to a glimpse of the world beyond. Which he supposed this did. Dear God. Bern…
“Wake up!” Snake barked.
They were in a room. A white room. He didn’t recognize it.
He swayed. Milton was behind him, Snake to his right, a small sneer on his face.
The lack of color in the room was all encompassing and disconcerting, its curved walls, roof, and ceiling melding together in a way that made Clay feel like he was floating in the sky, unsupported. He felt dizzy and sick. The only piece of furniture was a single dark table, made of rough-hewn stone, which drew the eye. A group of familiar figures stood around it.
“Clay,” Rhino rumbled. The huge Boss leaned forward, massive fists planted on the table, shoulders hunched as if to charge.
“Clay,” Rose repeated, to his left, more quietly. She was dressed for war: a compact crossbow at each hip, blades on her thighs, and a large long-range crossbow across her back. She leaned forward, weight on the balls of her feet, as if ready to launch into battle at a moment’s notice. She looked sideways at Rhino.
“Dead Dragon,” Evan chirped cheerfully. He had one hip on the table, a colorful contrast to its darkness. His coat was red and yellow, and a purple armband wrapped around one bicep. His finger drifted along the handle of his bandolier of silver-edged throwing knives. He smiled blithely at Clay.
The last Fist, the one Clay hadn’t seen in months, said nothing. Buckland was not a talkative man. He simply looked at the newcomers over his folded hands, which rested on the shaft of his war hammer, its head pushing against the floor. The crude weapon was heavier than most men could lift, made of a simple pebbled iron. Many weapons in StoneDragon were mixed with silver, to help against vampires, but Buckland took the grimly practical attitude that if he hammered something flat enough, it wouldn’t get back up. He’d had enough practice to be sure.
According to the stories, the heavy-set warrior had shown up at Rhino’s gates and refused to move. After repulsing a line of lesser warriors, Buckland had finally faced Milton. The dark-cloaked killer and hammer-wielding newcomer had stared at one another in silence, neither showing any sign of fear. When Milton stepped forward, Rhino had called him off, inviting Buckland to talk privately.
If Rhino had a gift for one thing, it was recruiting talent. No one knew what Rhino said to Buckland, but when they returned, Buckland was a Fist and had been so ever since.
Clay stared at Buckland with disinterest, feeling only scorched emptiness where curiosity or fear should be.
The Fist looked away.
Evan chuckled. “You definitely are interesting to have around, Halloway. When I write my biography, I might even give you a mention.” A pause. “No comeback, no threats? You could offer to ventilate me with bullet holes, you know. That’s actually a novel threat in StoneDragon.” He sighed. “Okay, this is disappointing. I might have to take my comment about you being interesting back.”
“Shut up, Evan,” Rose said.
Clay stared at his hands. Bern was dead. What was he doing still living?
“They burned my castle.” Rhino growled. He touched a sword on the table before him. It was made of black diamond and had two handles, one traditional and the other extending out of the blade, more like a saw than sword. The weapon must have weighed as much as Rose did. “Years of stockpiling. What did I ever do to them?”
Clay stared at the sword numbly. The icy wall around his mind dampened all emotion, including curiosity, as well as the maelstrom of grief and anger. It wasn’t healthy. But it was the only thing keeping him sane.
Snake stepped forward, holding a polished object in his hands.
The Golden Rib.
A jolt of emotion stabbed through the ice. Fear. Guilt. Rage.
Reflexively, Clay’s hand slapped down, hitting empty leather.
Milton stepped away from Clay. “Looking for this?” In Milton’s hand was the black pistol. Snake and Milton must have stripped Clay of weapon and Rib when he was being dragged away.
Clay let out a gurgled sound of rage. He drew in a shuddering breath, trying to rebuild the icy walls. He couldn’t feel. Couldn’t feel.
Rhino lifted the Rib out of Snake’s hand, forehead furrowing. “This is what caused all of our problems?” He shook his head and pushed it into his belt. “It’s nothing but a bone.”
“You have what they want now, Rhino,” Snake said, his eyes bright. “All of it. The rib, Clay, the girl. If you give them over, there’s no reason for the Earth gods to keep attacking.”
Rhino frowned at Sna
ke, then looked at Clay, as if waiting for his response.
Clay said nothing. They were going to give up Karen as well. Jonathan was right. The blows didn’t stop coming. He could feel the cracks spreading through the ice of his mind, its walls trembling. He couldn’t bear it. He closed his eyes.
“The girl is missing,” Rose said.
The words jolted Clay. Karen was free?
“What?” Snake’s head snapped around. “You were supposed to guard her!”
Rose looked at him coolly. “I set a guard. Someone knocked him out and stole her. He didn’t see who, but we know she didn’t leave the Tower’s gate; our front line would have seen her. So she’s still here somewhere.” She shrugged. “You’re welcome to search the upper levels, Snake. Then you could tell us what happened to the other soldiers we sent up there, huh? I look forward to your report.”
He glared hatred at her but kept his mouth shut. Apparently even he was reluctant to test the secrets of the Broken Tower.
“Hardly gentlemanly to hand a lady over anyway, is it?” Evan mused. He glanced at Clay. “Sorry, big guy, but different rules from cats to hats.”
The trembling in Clay’s mind steadied, even though the walls remained dangerously thin. Karen had escaped. Jonathan must have rescued her. Maybe her death wouldn’t be on Clay’s conscience.
“Well, they could still take the Rib and cowboy without her,” Snake said.
“No,” Rose said.
Snake looked confused. “How do you know what they’ll do?”
“We won’t be doing that.”
Understanding slid through Clay like a knife. “No,” he echoed. But Rose didn’t hear him. She stepped forward, her face cold and determined.
“It’s crossing the line. Clay is one of us.”
She turned in a slow circle, hands on her crossbows.
“I won’t allow it.”
Despite the bold words, her cheeks were flushed. She knew what she was doing. As tough as she was, she was surrounded by a ring of deadly warriors, all watching her with the intensity of predators. And the greatest of them all leaned on the table, a black diamond sword under his hand.
