Blackbird Broken (The Witch King's Crown Book 2)

by Keri Arthur

  I stopped again at the edge of the concrete pipe and brushed aside a slimy string of moss. There was absolutely nothing here.

  And yet …

  I flared my nostrils and drew in a deep breath. I wasn’t imagining it—the air now held a hint of acidity, and that meant there was at least one demon close by.

  But where?

  Other than this drain, there was no logical place for a creature that would be ashed by sunlight to hide, so why the hell couldn’t I see him?

  He couldn’t be using a purchased concealment spell, because I’d see the threads of it. Mo might not have been able to teach me to cast spells, thanks to the inner lack of all magic aside from shifting, but she had taught me to how to see and track them. There was no spell—purchased or created—here.

  Which left me with one other option—a hidden gateway.

  I took a cautious step into the drain, my body practically vibrating with tension. Nothing jumped out at me. The water continued to drip, and that wisp of acidity remained faint.

  Another step. Then another. Still nothing. I flexed my fingers and walked in deeper. The smell of rot and dampness now dominated the air; moss clung to the walls of the pipe, and it was a surprisingly lush forest of green. In fact, it was almost too lush—too thick and perfect. I frowned and lightly touched it. It felt like regular moss, though it was perhaps a bit more spongy than usual. I picked a bit off and examined it—and discovered it wasn’t moss but rather some sort of artificial material. I walked a bit further down and picked off another piece, with the same result. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to cover the inside of this pipe with this stuff.

  I did another quick scan, my heart beating so hard if felt like there was a mad drummer inside my chest. The fake moss covered the middle section of the pipe and faded out toward the ends, but there was nothing here that immediately screamed door, hidden or otherwise.

  I continued on, my fingers pressed lightly against the mossy wall. There was no seam in the artificial material, no break of any kind. If there was a gate on this side of the pipe it was very well hidden.

  I moved across to the other side and repeated the process. Just off the middle of the drain, my fingers slid across a thin crack. The minute they did, the moss shimmered and disappeared.

  Revealing a door into Darkside.

  I sucked in a deep breath and fought the urge to run. While the gateway was unlocked—in fact, there was nothing to indicate witch magic had ever been used to lock it down—the door itself was closed rather than open. That could change in a heartbeat, of course, but given the thing looked and felt like it was made out of concrete, I doubted it’d open with any sort of speed.

  And, of course, having thought that, the total opposite would now prove to be true.

  I sucked in another deep breath that did nothing to calm my racing heart and studied the gate. It was six feet high, but rather than the doorframe being made of the otherworldly blue-black stone used in every other one I’d come across, this used simple concrete. The images carved into it, however, were as grotesque as ever, depicting demons of all kinds and shapes both cavorting with and destroying human figures. I could almost hear the screaming of all those being fucked, tortured, and hacked …

  I blinked, suddenly realizing I wasn’t imagining it—there were people screaming.

  As I instinctively stepped back, a pulse of power flickered around the arch and the door began to open.

  I got the hell out of there.

  I’d barely made it to the nearest tree when a figure exited the pipe and scrambled up the drain’s grassy bank. It wasn’t Winter—not unless he could utterly alter both his shape and height, and that was unlikely. Most shape shifts involved magic, and halflings weren’t capable of it. Besides, there was no such thing as a witch who could alter their human shape, and surely if the ability ever existed, it would have been nurtured and used. Assassins might be rare these days, but hundreds of years ago it had been a profitable and much sought-after profession.

  This man was long and thin, with spindly arms and legs and a way of walking that was almost spiderlike.

  An Aranea. Whether it was the same one or not, I couldn’t say, but I guessed it was possible—it just depended on how efficient the transport links were between the gates in Darkside.

  He reached the top of the embankment and quickly looked around. Thankfully, he didn’t scan the trees, because the foliage in this one wasn’t particularly thick, and I had no doubt my white plumage would be visible.

  He strode across the road and climbed into Winter’s car. Which meant either the car was a universal one, used by all the halflings from this gateway, or he’d been sent on an errand by Winter.

  As the taillights flashed on, I dropped to the ground and rang Mo.

  She answered with a quick, “Where are you?”

  “On some country lane outside Ainslyn’s city limits. Winter went through a Darkside gateway, and I think it’s either a new one or one that’s never been registered.”

  She swore softly. “That’s not the sort of news we need right now.”

  There was something in her voice that had trepidation stirring anew. “Why? What’s happened?”

  “We didn’t find an Aranea nest under the house. We found another unregistered gateway.”

  A chill went through me. One unknown gateway might be brushed aside as an oversight, but two of them? In or around Ainslyn? That was highly unlikely.

  “Why would Winter leave one gateway and drive all the way to another?”

  “They don’t all enter the same area in Darkside, Gwen. It could also be that it’s easier to travel distances here rather than there.”

  Given how little anyone really knew about Darkside, that was more than possible. “It does sound like they’ve learned how to make new gateways.”

  “Or whatever caused the initial development of them has become active again. Either way, it is not a good sign.” I could almost see her scrubbing a hand across her eyes in frustration. “Has Winter come back out?”

  “No. But another Aranea has, and he’s just jumped into Winter’s car. Do you want me to follow him, or stay and watch the dark gate?”

  “It’s pointless staying—aside from the fact you can’t in any way close it, you’re weaponless. Follow the other halfling, but stay vigilant and keep me updated.”

  “I will.”

  I shoved my phone away and then flew after the Mercedes. He didn’t, as I half expected, head back into Ainslyn, but instead drove around it and continued on to Leeds. Thankfully, he didn’t appear to be in a hurry, so I was able to keep him in sight quite easily. He turned off before he reached the city, however, driving past a shopping center and down several residential streets before pulling into a lane lined with small, red-brick terraces.

  He stopped in the driveway of the last house in the row but didn’t immediately get out. The lace curtains covering the one ground floor window twitched, and a pale face briefly appeared. It was a child—a little girl—not an adult.

  That sense of trepidation grew. Why the hell would a halfling be sent to a house with a kid inside? Was the little girl also a halfling? Or was something stranger going on?

  I flew on to the park at the end of the lane and, after a quick circle around to ensure no one was near, shifted shape and took up a position behind a tree so I could watch the house without being too obvious.

  The spiderlike halfling still hadn’t gotten out of his car, but he was looking down at something in his lap. If he was sending a text, then it gave me a chance to call Mo.

  “Where have you ended up?”

  “I’m just outside Leeds.” I glanced at the nearby street sign. “Primrose Lane, just near the park there.”

  “And the Aranea?”

  “He’s sitting in the car outside a small terrace.” I paused. “I know there’s a kid inside, but I’m not sure who else is.”

  “The kid can’t be his—halflings are usually sterile.”

  “
Usually means there is some leeway.”

  “Well, yes, because we haven’t examined all halflings.” Her voice sounded a little exasperated, though I suspected it wasn’t aimed at me.

  “Have you and Barney sealed the gateway under the funeral place?”

  “Yes, and a damn hard task it was too.”

  I frowned. “None of them are particularly easy to seal, so what made this one different?”

  “There was a spell woven into the fabric of its construction that repelled other magics. It had to be unpicked first.”

  “Was it dark elf in origin?”

  “Yes, and from a hierarchical level. If the nobility is now getting involved, they must be very certain the main gate will soon be opened.”

  My frown deepened. “If they know how to create gates, why would they need the main gate opened? Why wouldn’t they just create another big one and attack en masse?”

  “Because the existing gateways weren’t created by either their magic or ours, but rather a major force of some kind that briefly had the two planes intersecting. As a result, multiple coplanar points—or gateways—formed.”

  Which was the first time I’d actually heard it fully explained like that. For the most part these days, the gateways were simply shrugged off and accepted.

  “Which doesn’t address the point of them simply creating new ones.”

  “If they’d been able to create gateways in any sort of numbers, they would have done so by now. Remember, the coplanar points have existed for almost as long as recorded history.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “The gateway under the funeral director’s was sourced from the magic of at least three high-ranking elves,” she continued. “The threads of said magic were entwined in a way I’ve not seen before, and contained the stink of death. I suspect the elves responsible for it may have died.”

  “The elves wouldn’t care—not from the little we know of them, anyway.”

  “That may be true of the warriors, but the hierarchy is a different matter. They are more dangerous than the warriors and yet far fewer in number.”

  “Do you think the gateway I found under the drain is another fresh one? Its construction is certainly different to the one we found in Ainslyn.”

  “Possibly, although it could also be a previously unknown entrance that’s been rebuilt in recent times. The existence of gateways has been known to fluctuate over the centuries—it’s almost as if the connection between our worlds stretches and snaps, and then is slowly mended again.”

  “Huh.” I glanced toward the house as the curtains twitched again. The pale face that appeared this time was a woman’s. That the kid wasn’t alone didn’t in any way ease the tension within. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Keep an eye on the place and see what the Aranea does. I might ask Luc to head over to help you out.”

  “The Aranea could move again before he’s even halfway here, and we both know it. Stop meddling, Mo.”

  She chuckled. “I’ve spent my entire life meddling—why on earth would I stop it now?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’ll give you a call if the situation changes.”

  “If you do happen to lose him, I’ll meet you back home.”

  “Okay.”

  I shoved my phone away and then crossed my arms and leaned against the tree. The Aranea hadn’t moved; if not for the faint glow of his phone’s screen highlighting his thin features, it would have been easy to believe he’d fallen asleep.

  The rain swept in again and big fat drops fell around me. I shivered. My coat was waterproof, but it wasn’t exactly warm, and the day was getting colder. Or maybe it just seemed that way thanks to the fact the lower part of my body was utterly drenched.

  Once again, time ticked slowly by. I couldn’t help but wonder if the unmoving presence in the driveway at all worried the woman inside the house. If it’d been me, I’d have called the cops … or grabbed my knives and gone out there to confront him.

  My fingers twitched, and I couldn’t help wishing I’d brought them with me. Something odd was happening, and I really hated not having their comforting weight strapped to my thighs or feeling the inner pulse of their power.

  As if in response to that thought, my fingers tingled and burned—a ghostly echo of the force that usually ran through the daggers. I frowned down at my hands, but the sound of a door slamming had me quickly looking up again.

  The Aranea had left the car and now strode toward the house. He didn’t ring the bell. He simply grabbed the handle, threw his weight against the door, and forced it open.

  Voices followed. Raised voices. Angry voices.

  Then the screaming began.

  I didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. I pushed away from the tree and bolted across the road, leaping over the small wooden fence then racing for the still-open front door.

  The screaming was coming from upstairs … but I was barely inside when it stopped. The silence that followed was ominous.

  I grabbed the banister and ran up. Saw, at the last minute, a shadow move. Ducked low and felt the brush of metal across the top of my head. The bar that would have smashed my head open destroyed several balusters instead, sending thick splinters spinning thorough the air.

  I thrust up and launched at the shadowy figure, hit him hard and sent him sprawling backwards. He wrapped long, scrawny hands around my throat, his fingernails cutting into my skin as he squeezed tight. The bastard was strong—really strong. I swore—a sound that came out a wheeze—pushed partially up, and thrust a knee into his groin. He grunted, and pain flashed across his thin features, but he didn’t let go.

  Blood flowed freely down my neck now, and his grip was like a vise. If I didn’t get free soon, I wouldn’t.

  I clenched my fist and hit him hard, again and again and again. Blood and snot flew as his nose shattered and his thin lips split, but he simply chuckled. Even worse, he was getting off on killing me.

  Panic surged, and with it came something else. Something fierce, electric, and born of storms. It burned through me, down my arms and into my hands, and then split into multiple forks of lightning that crackled across the Aranea’s body. The force was such that he was ashed in an instant and the treads underneath were left smoking.

  For several seconds, I didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Every bit of me burned and twitched, the inner heat so fierce that the sweat breaking out across my skin dried in a heartbeat. All I wanted to do was collapse and sleep for a hundred years, but I was in a stranger’s house, and there was a woman and a little girl here somewhere. They could be alive, they could be dead, but either way, I had to find out.

  I could worry about what had just happened afterward.

  I pushed upright, then gripped the broken handrail as everything spun around me. Moisture dribbled down my neck and over my eyelashes, the latter briefly blurring my vision. Breathing remained difficult, though I had a feeling it had nothing to do with almost having my windpipe crushed and was more a result of the thunderstorm that had swept through me.

  I stomped on a still-smoldering bit of stair tread, then dragged myself up the rest of them. My heart beat so heavily that by the time I reached the landing, I had to stop again and suck in great gulps of air. Everything—absolutely everything—continued to shake. Whatever that storm was—wherever it had come from—it had absolutely drained me.

  I forced myself to move on. Two of the three doors off the central landing were open—one was a bathroom, the other a kid’s room. The third door no doubt led into the master bedroom. Dreading the possible horror I was about to walk into, I pushed away from the handrail and continued on. I paused again at the door, drawing in a deep breath, trying to fortify myself against whatever lay beyond.

  One thing was certain—death waited beyond this door. I could smell it—smell the blood. The only question that needed answering was—was there one body or two?

  I turned the handle and pushed the door open. It revealed a freestanding wardrobe and a double
bed, but there was no immediate sign of the death and blood that permeated the air. The body—or bodies—had to lie to my right, behind the door.

  I stepped in and turned that way.

  A woman lay in a crumpled heap near the top end of the bed, her body battered and bruised. Her face … Dear god, it didn’t even resemble something that belonged to a human anymore. It was just a mess of pulped skin, bone, and hair. The Aranea had obviously used the metal bar he’d attacked me with on her; if not for luck and the storm that had surged through me, I might well have ended up in the same bloody mess as this poor woman.

  The little girl lay in a crumbled heap behind the woman—a position that suggested the older woman had tried her best to protect the child. There was a red welt across her cheek, and blood dribbled from her nose and lip. She wasn’t moving, and I couldn’t immediately see any sign of breathing.

  I carefully walked over, doing my best to avoid the splatters of blood and bone and brain matter, and pressed my fingers against the child’s neck. Her pulse was light and erratic, but at least it existed. Relief hit, and tears stung my eyes. I sucked in air, trying to control my emotions, knowing the situation might yet change and that I needed to get help here fast.

  I dragged my phone out and called Luc.

  “Everything okay?” Though his voice was clear, the roar of his motorbike was evident in the background.

  “No. I need you to call Jason and ask him to get his medics and a team here ASAP.”

  The Preternatural Investigations Team not only had their own team of medics who specialized in treating demon- and elf-related injuries, but also owned several high-security private hospitals—though I wasn’t entirely sure they’d be the best option for this little girl. The high-security nature of the one Henry had been in certainly hadn’t hindered Darkside in any way. Their attack on the place had been swift and violent, though just how they’d known he was there was a question that had yet to be answered. It did mean the girl might be no safer there than at any regular hospital.