“Half-demon,” the dog said.
“All the same.”
The demon’s hand shot out and gripped my wrist tightly. His eyes didn’t open. A second later, his hold slackened, and his arm thudded against the wood with a dull, lifeless sound.
I let out a short-lived sigh of relief. With payment fully tendered, I needed to deliver. A slash or cut could be stitched like a normal wound. Bites, curses and other supernatural afflictions required special treatment.
I walked over to the bookshelf and ran my fingers along the coarse spines of the weathered volumes.
“Was he cut or bitten?” Just to confirm. I was new at this, after all.
“First-timer.” The dog’s response hung in the air, half-statement, half-question.
I licked my lips and peered closer at the volumes so that he wouldn’t see my nervousness. “What makes you say that?”
“You just confirmed it.” There was a pause. “A healing salve will do fine.”
I cursed softly under my breath, catching myself after a string that would’ve made my mother blush. Perhaps the demon was already working his black magic charms, corrupting me in ways I couldn’t see.
“I can fix your friend,” I said, finally locating the book I wanted. Hopefully. “How’d he get bit?”
“I told you all this when we came in.” A pause. “Weren’t you listening?”
“No.” My own honesty surprised me.
“Great. He’s bleeding out, you know.”
I propped the dusty volume open against the shelf. The handwritten script and diagrams were still legible, if a bit faded. An entire textbook on the treatment of werewolf-related injuries. Many of the chapters were dedicated to treating various kinds of bites.
I hadn’t read most of them. Admittedly, I had been far more engaged in a delightful manuscript I’d imported from England—a novel by an anonymous lady called Sense & Sensibility. Perks of being a print shop owner. Or at least I’d thought so at the time.
Not so much a perk, now, staring down the barrel of a gun, since I doubted very much that this dog or his demon master would accept “pleasure reading” as an excuse for failing to adequately discharge my duty.
The text’s medical terminology and instructions made little sense, even with my rudimentary base of knowledge. From the little I understood, bites involving the exchange of fluid were some of the hardest injuries to treat because of cross-contamination.
I looked up from the worn pages. “I really need to understand the nature of the conflict.”
“Kalos has something an old werewolf wants.”
“And how old is this wolf?”
“Over thirteen centuries,” Argos said.
I strained to contain my reaction. But inside, gears turned like the ironworks of the great press in the room next door. A thousand years! I couldn’t fathom living a tenth of that.
Although it dawned on me that the dog was likely even older. I threw a surreptitious glance over my shoulder. Argos stared back intently, like he was assessing my progress.
I returned my attention to the medical text, thumbing to the section on alpha wolves.
“Alphas?”
“Excuse me?” Argos said.
“Was it an alpha werewolf?”
“Albin is big and mean,” the dog replied. “Bigger and meaner than most.”
“Alpha it is,” I said, making an educated guess and running with it. Not that it was a particularly helpful bit of information, as far as a novice was concerned. If treating a standard bite was a high-level operation, tending to one from an old and powerful creature was even more complex.
Just as I contemplated hurling the book into the air and fleeing out the back door, there was a sharp knock at the front. Kalos shuddered on the table, but didn’t wake. Argos looked nervous and skittish, like he wanted to run too.
Exuding a calmness I didn’t feel at all, I smoothed out my ink-stained apron and took a deep breath.
“I’ll get it,” I said.
Argos didn’t answer as I walked out of the back room. The dying candle on the counter ejected puffs of smoke into the dim air. It was difficult to see, but I could make out at least three men pacing outside the blurry glass. Their uniforms suggested they were members of the local watch. I walked to the door, but didn’t open it.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but we’re closed for the evening.”
One of them—the leader—pressed his face against one of the small panes. He was taller, with an air of confidence that made my spine tingle. “It’s a matter of neighborhood safety, ma’am. If you’d just open up, I’ll be happy to explain.”
“I have an early day tomorrow,” I said. “You’ve woken me from bed.”
“Do you always go to bed covered in ink, Miss Callaway?”
I flushed around the ears. “How do you know my name?”
“If you’d just open the door.”
“I will do no such thing without proper cause.” His lips twisted into an almost human smile as he turned to confer with his men. Their talk lasted a moment that stretched onward like hours.
“Very well, Miss Callaway. But please do not be alarmed.” The man straightened to his full height and shook out his shoulders. “We’re wondering if you’ve seen this man.”
He unfolded a piece of crisp paper and pressed it against one of the panes. The letters were smeared together, suggesting it had been printed within the last hour. I bristled slightly, annoyed that I hadn’t been contracted for the job.
Then my heart dropped through the wooden slats when I saw the sketch on the front.
Kalos Aeon was wanted for theft.
Disruption of the peace.
And attempted murder.
3
I paused, fears running parallel to one another, each vying for attention. This man seemed strange, but perhaps that was my paranoia. After all, his features were human. What had the dog said about the conflict? I really should have listened better. Everything was a blur, but this fellow couldn’t be more than thirty. Certainly not 1,300 years old.
I hoped.
“Well, Miss Callaway?”
Squashing the last remaining doubt in my mind, I said, “You can come in.”
I hurriedly undid the latch and peeked my head out. There were actually four of them—another man lurked off to the side, puffing a tobacco pipe with a detached nonchalance. His clothes didn’t quite fit, being at least two sizes too small. When he stood, he moved with an unnatural quickness.
He was also apparently the true leader. The flyer-carrier melted into the background, allowing this man to assume control.
Removing a cap to reveal a thick head of brown hair, he offered a perfunctory bow and gestured toward the counter.
“If we could talk inside, Miss Callaway.” He gave me a nod that wasn’t reassuring. “It’s okay. I’m a constable. We just have a few questions.”
“I’m still not sure how you know my name,” I said, backing up as he advanced. His men followed, the last one shutting the door behind him.
As frightened as I’d been before, it seemed like nothing compared to the nervous dread now wracking my body. I tripped on the hem of my dress, almost pitching into the counter. The coins in my apron pouch jingled.
“Be careful, Miss Callaway.” The man’s smooth voice was eerily terrifying. “A pretty young woman’s marriage prospects could be easily damaged from falling the wrong way.”
A cold realization settled upon my shoulders: I’d made the wrong damn choice.
“I’m fine.” I straightened my posture and headed behind the counter without further incident. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“You have a certain reputation, Miss Callaway.” The man pressed his long fingers against his ill-fitting uniform. Even in the dim light, I saw blood beneath the cuticles.
“I wasn’t aware of that.”
“I meant your shop,” the man said with a joyless smile. “Liberty Printworks.”
“It was
my grandfather’s.”
“Legacy is sacred,” the man said, voice growing wistful, as if discussing another matter entirely. His hand rose and passed idly through the dying candle, pausing right in the flame.
He held it there until the skin started to smoke.
Or should have.
But nothing happened. With a knowing look, he removed his hand and shoved it back in his pocket. “An old trick, from childhood. My mother always said I was a show-off.”
“If you just could tell me what this is about. I have an early day—”
“Yes, your bedtime awaits.” His eyes flashed. There was no way he could have heard the conversation between myself and the other watchman. Could he? Unless…my stomach tightened.
I opened my mouth, finding I had little to say.
He watched me and finally said, “You saw the flyer?”
“Subpar work,” I said. “Off-skew typing, poor print reproduction.”
He laughed sharply, almost blowing the candle out. “I know he’s here, Miss Callaway.”
My blood turned to ice, and the next word, to my eternal chagrin, popped out like a squeak. “What?”
I tried to look around his broad form, at the other watchmen, but he seemed to take up the entire shop. Taking a step back, I tried to glare, but couldn’t summon the necessary anger. All my emotional energy was distilled into the purest fear.
“I can smell your terror.” He nodded, as if this was a common problem. “Worry not. I only want Mr. Aeon.”
Feeling the vein in my neck throb in and out, I said, “I’m—I’m not afraid.”
The shaking words didn’t do me many favors.
“Not as frightened as most,” the man said, with what I thought might even be respect. “The half-demon. It will be as if neither he nor I were ever here.”
“And the dog?” I asked, before I could help myself. Oh, well. He already knew Kalos was here. His posture and eyes told me that much.
“Keep the worthless thing,” the man replied with an eye roll. “A perpetual whiner and coward.”
“You’re—Albin.” The name came to me with a start. Thirteen centuries. He looked only a few years older than me.
“Guilty as charged, ma’am.” He flashed his teeth. Even though his form was human, they glimmered like fangs. I imagined them tearing at the flesh of my neck and I shuddered. “I’d ask that you don’t get in my way.”
“Why ask at all?” Surely this was how I died. My fingers reached out behind me, finding nothing but solid wood columns and spent paper. Besides, from what I’d read, they’d be of little use against a werewolf.
Especially one over thirteen centuries old.
My fear began melting away in the face of inevitability. If I were to die, it wouldn’t be as a coward, a damsel weeping in the corner.
“I ask because, unlike Mr. Aeon, I’m a gentleman.”
“He asks,” came a voice from the other room, through the thin door, “because he needs your permission to enter your territory. Otherwise you could beat his sad ass back outside with a broom handle.”
Albin bristled, his shoulders stiffening. His thick brown hair seemed to stand on end, resembling fur more than something human.
“Kalos.” The name came out as little more than a feral growl. His eyes changed colors to a deep, cold shade of sapphire. “I do not need permission for anything.”
He attempted to step around the counter, but an invisible force rebuffed him. Unleashing a pained snarl, he leapt across the wood, straight over the candle. But his head bounced off the air, thrown to the ground as if he’d encountered a wall of iron.
Tentatively, I stood on tiptoe and craned my neck over the counter. No unseen force assaulted me. But Albin lay on the ground, bleeding and cursing, spittle frothing at the corner of his mouth. His companions huddled nearby, trying to help their leader.
He looked ready to tear them apart at any moment.
“Back here,” Kalos said, his voice strained.
I followed the instruction without question. My experience with demons and magical dogs had, thus far, been vastly superior to the one with werewolves. Granted, neither had been great, but I was in a bad spot. Beggars waiting for better options wound up dead.
I pushed the creaky door open, finding Kalos hunched on the floor, blood staining the tile nearby. Argos rubbed his snout across the demon’s chest, imperfectly smearing herbs over the wound. My father’s collection of medicinal ointments and tonics was scattered across the room, like a small zephyr had descended upon the print shop.
“What the hell did you do?”
“Careful,” Kalos said with a mischievous smile. “You could get in trouble, talking like that.”
“Everything’s ruined!”
“Sorry, no thumbs.” Argos looked up and sneezed. “And you disappeared to let in a goddamn wolf.”
In the front room, I heard Albin snarl an order.
“They came for you,” I said, jabbing my finger at the demon’s nose. He stared at it coolly, wincing as he breathed in and out.
“And I paid for a healer and got an amateur,” Kalos said. “We don’t always get what we want.”
“You should’ve been a philosopher instead of an asshole.”
“Guess we both missed our calling.” He tried to stand, but his leg buckled. Blood and crushed herbs dripped from the messy gash. “They’re coming.”
“But the werewolf—”
“Will find a way through, with enough grit and pain.” He planted his knuckles against the stone and pushed. “Or he’ll just get someone human to do the job.”
As if to drive the point home, the door flung open, one of the watchmen standing in the threshold, framed by candlelight. His flintlock pistol was already drawn, leveled straight at my head.
I’d heard the things were inaccurate, but at a distance of about three yards, it still made me nervous.
“You made a mistake, little lady,” the man said. He looked short, insubstantial in comparison to Albin or the flyer-carrier. Clearly human. I heard the wolves continue their struggle against the invisible barrier.
“Should’ve just handed me over, right?” Kalos casually reached for the herbs from the dog’s mouth and, with a grimace, stuffed them into his own jaw. The pungent aroma of pine needles and moldy linens filled the surrounding air. “Yeah, it wasn’t like you guys would’ve killed her anyway.”
“We woulda let her die quick, at least,” he said with a short laugh. The man moved the flintlock pistol’s sights over to the demon and cocked the hammer. “Woden’s Spear, ya dumb son of a bitch. Where is it?”
“Quick sounds good to me.” The words were muffled by the herbs. Then, in a whisper, Kalos said, “Firus ignitus.”
And I watched, in horror, as the man’s body burst into a towering pyre of flame. The orange tendrils spread to the wooden structure as he ran about, waving his hands.
I felt an arm grasp mine, roughly pulling me toward the exit. “Unless you want to burn, Rebecca Callaway, I suggest you come with me.”
My hands passed over an emergency kit, one of the few supply caches left untouched by the dog, and the volume on werewolf bites. I tucked them snugly beneath my arm, clinging to them like a favorite stuffed toy.
And then I stumbled out the back, into the fresh, cool air of the alley, running behind a wounded demon and his loyal talking dog as the only life I knew was devoured by flame.
4
The demon—half-demon, I had to continually remind myself—possessed a longer stride than my own, being at least six foot two, and so it took considerable effort for me to match his pace. Judging from the way he now moved, neither he nor his irritating dog had required my services in the least.
Coins jangled happily in my apron as I ran, reminding me of my idiocy. No demons, Rebecca. I heard the admonishment with every step, even as I tried to outrun the horror. The smell of singed hair and burnt flesh clung to the insides of my nostrils, no matter how much I blew my nose on the sleeve o
f my dress. It was unbecoming, yes, but rude manners were preferable to the stench.
As we rounded the corner of the cobblestone street, Kalos turned, his eyes flaring.
“Stop that.”
I clutched the book I’d saved from the flames like a shield.
There were about a thousand things I could’ve done or said in that moment. Liberty Printworks, more than five decades old, was now reduced to ash. The extent of my criminality had once been limited to scolding but impermanent reprimands from my schoolteachers; now I was wanted by the town watchmen.
Yes, I could’ve done a lot. But I settled for something simple.
I launched a hard kick right at his shin, connecting with full force. To his credit, Kalos didn’t scream or yell. But he did crumple to one knee, panting heavily.
“As far as I’m concerned, I have a free pass with you from now until eternity.”
“I saved your life,” he said through gritted teeth.
“The only reason my life was in danger was because of you.”
“I’m surprised your family lasted this long,” Kalos said, spitting a spray of blood into the gray stones. I felt bad for a moment, but then I remembered that my entire life had been destroyed in the span of thirty minutes. It took all my self-control not to knee him in the face.
“Probably because we never worked with demons. Until tonight.” Father had explained the rules for a reason. Mistakes had been made in the past so that I wouldn’t repeat them.
But instead, I’d thrown everything away, disrespected my birthright.
“You think you’re the only supernatural apothecary in this city?” Kalos pressed his hand against the uneven cobbles and pushed himself to his feet.
“I—yes?”
“You’re the first one that let me in the door,” Kalos said. “But you were about the tenth stop on the list.”
I furrowed my brow and glared. “You’re saying what, exactly?”
“I’m saying your old man was a hack.” Kalos caught my hand deftly, and held it there without hurting me. “The testimonials weren’t exactly golden.”
Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection Page 57
