Shadow's Son

by Jon Sprunk

  He glanced at the wall over her head. He hesitated before saying, “It all comes back to your father. I didn't kill him, but someone wanted him dead. You must know someone who wished him ill, someone jealous of his success.”

  “No.”

  “A business partner? Some lady's husband?”

  “No!” she shouted, and then sat still, frightened by her own anger. “He had no enemies. No lovers. Just me. He was a good and decent man.”

  “Decent men have plenty of enemies. I know.” He started to pace back and forth past the table. “What was your father's position?”

  “He was the exarch of Navarre when I was a girl. Afterward, he received the Golden Sword for his service and retired to a life of ease here in Othir. He was a great man. Infinitely better than a lowborn killer.”

  If the comment stung, he gave no indication. “Yes. That could be. It almost makes sense.”

  “What does?”

  “Never mind. Was your father involved in any overseas ventures? Did he belong to a social club?”

  Josey remembered the nightmare of the people in funny robes meeting in the basement of their house, but shunted the memory aside.

  “I don't know. I don't think so. He spent most of his time in the study, writing letters to old friends. Nothing to do with me.”

  Caim didn't seem to be listening, so she stopped talking and studied him. Now that she had a better look at him, he didn't appear like she imagined a killer would. He was strong, but not overly big or brutish. In fact, his features were rather refined. He might have even been fetching if put into proper clothes. When he turned to look at her, she quickly glanced away, a shudder racing through her insides. He had a gaze like a corpse.

  “No,” he said to the air over her head.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  The man was clearly deranged. What would he do next? One thing was sure. If she remained here much longer, she would never leave this dingy apartment alive. There was a window behind her, but it was shuttered and locked like the one in the bedroom. Josey glanced at the door across the room. It had to be the way out. There was a slide-lock holding it shut, but if she could distract him long enough to work the bolt…

  “Do you want more tea?” he asked.

  “Yes. Have you anything to eat? I'm famished.”

  He nodded with his back to her. “I might have some victuals about if you're not too particular.”

  While he rummaged through a pinewood pantry painted with faded flowers, Josey slid off her slippers. They were soft lamb's wool, but she would move faster and more quietly in bare feet. As she watched his back, something stirred in the shadows above his head. She froze as a long, sinuous shape emerged from the corner of the ceiling. Without a sound, it glided down the wall. A violent shiver ran through Josey. It was the most revolting thing she had ever seen, a serpent of pure blackness, and it was headed straight for Caim. She almost called out a warning, but clamped her lips shut.

  No, I won't help him.

  Watching the awful creature slither toward her father's killer, Josey rose from the chair. She tiptoed across the room. A single sound would betray her. She reached the door without alerting her captor. The bolt was a thick affair of iron. She grasped it with both hands and pulled. The slide shot back with a loud click. Without looking back, she yanked open the door and dashed out into the dark hallway beyond.

  Her naked feet slapped on the floorboards. Fear lent speed to her steps. She reached a narrow stairwell at the end of the hall and raced down the steps, and gasped with relief as she spied a large doorway at the bottom. With a grunt, she shoved open the door and ran out into the night.

  Caim suppressed a sigh as he peered into the pantry. This conversation was going nowhere. The girl, Josephine, obviously didn't trust him enough to give him straight answers. And why should she? In any case, he was beginning to doubt she knew anything pertinent. She was just a pampered socialite without any cares beyond the lacy confines of her perfect world. Kit was right again. Bringing the girl here had been a mistake.

  He was pushing aside a sack of old flour to see what might be lurking behind it when the weird sensation returned, stronger than before. Fear was a thing he had learned to live with. It was part of his life and his livelihood. Every time he faced a drawn weapon or crept into a strange location for a job, it perched on his shoulder. He had learned to control it, to harness its energy to do what had to be done. This feeling was different. It refused to be repressed or ignored, but roiled in the pit of his stomach like a bad meat pie.

  “Caim!” Kit yelled. Her shout made him jerk upright, almost banging his head on the roof of the cupboard.

  He extricated himself and turned in time to see his captive dart out the doorway into the hall. With a curse, he took two steps after her and halted in his tracks as a bitter chill descended over him like an avalanche of snow. Kit stared up at the ceiling. Caim dove to the ground and rolled. A sharp pain pierced his right ankle, cutting through his boot. He kicked and spun around.

  A great serpent reared above him. Its inky scales gleamed in the lamplight like diamonds of polished jet. The tail end disappeared into the shadows of the ceiling. The wedge-shaped head hovered before him, jaws wide enough to swallow a dog splayed open to display rows of glistening fangs.

  Caim slid one of his knives free of its sheath. The serpent watched his movements with cold, cerulean eyes. Its head swayed from side to side.

  “Are you all right?” Kit's gaze remained on the black creature as it floated nearer.

  “What in the hell is that thing?”

  “Something very dangerous,” she whispered, and dropped her voice even further when the serpent's head swung toward her. “I could distract it while you run.”

  “It can see you?” He gathered his feet under him and bit his bottom lip as a bolt of agony shot up his right leg. But it supported his weight. “No, go after the girl.”

  “But—”

  “Go! We can't afford to lose her.”

  With a last glance at the serpent, Kit vanished into the floor. Caim crouched and backed away as more of the creature's body emerged from the ceiling. All the while it moved closer, its great eyes stalking him. Caim studied its movement. Like him, the serpent was a predator. It would keep maneuvering closer until it pushed him into a corner. Then, in a sudden rush, it would lunge.

  He retreated step by step. His ankle was throbbing. He drew his other suete and waved the knives back and forth to draw the serpent's attention, but its gaze never left his face. Caim got the uncomfortable feeling the creature wasn't a dumb brute, but possessed some semblance of intelligence. He remembered the invisible beast that had torn apart the Blue Vine. Was this it? Had this thing somehow come from him?

  As he backpedaled onto the cushion of the woven-reed exercise mat, a pulling sensation stirred behind his breastbone. A familiar tingle of energy ran down his spine. He didn't need to seek out his fear; it ran through him in terse, nauseating waves. The shadows wanted to come out and play, but he pushed them away, back down into the dark recesses of his mind from whence they came. He couldn't afford the risk. If he had inadvertently summoned this creature, calling upon his powers again might make matters worse. What if more appeared?

  The room shortened as the inky serpent backed him toward a corner. Caim ran through his options. The only window was shuttered and locked, but the front door hung open. He could make a break for it. The beast was large. He might be able to outrun it. As if sensing his thoughts, the serpent looped around to block his path. Caim's shoulder brushed against a target bag suspended from the ceiling. He didn't have much time left. A few more steps would bring him to the wall and nowhere else to go. He eyed the scaly hide and wondered if cold steel could even harm it. There was only one way to find out.

  He lashed out with his left hand and set the target bag to swinging. The serpent kept coming for him, lowering its head to stay out of the arc of the swaying bag. Caim took a quick step to his r
ight and punched another bag. As it swung toward the creature, he crept sideways toward the window. When the serpent reversed course to cut off his escape, he attacked. He lunged with his right-hand knife extended, the point aimed at the serpent's blunt snout. As the creature reared back, Caim threw himself forward onto his knees. He slid underneath its bulk and thrust upward with his left-hand knife. Its point skittered along the monster's belly, unable to pierce the tough scales.

  Caim gasped as the pressure in his chest returned, twice as strong as before. Unprepared for the sudden onslaught, he almost lost control. Every muscle in his body tensed as he fought his powers. They clawed against the walls of his mind like a pack of sewer rats trying to escape the rising tide. Above him, the serpent reared.

  Caim leapt away, evading its curved fangs by inches, but the creature looped around and pulled him close. So quick, it flowed like a rushing stream. Pain blossomed around his rib cage as the rippling, muscular body wrapped around his middle. His legs strained under the enormous weight. The knife fell from his left hand and he stabbed at the beast over and over with the right, but it had no effect. Every breath was a struggle. Black spots appeared before his eyes. His muscles slackened. And still, his powers fought for release. Caim clamped down on them with every scrap of resolve he could muster. This battle had become more than a struggle for release. Either he would control his abilities, or they would control him. His lips stretched back in a grimace as he strained.

  Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the pressure vanished.

  Its abrupt departure left a hole in Caim's chest, a void that bothered him almost as much as the pressure had, but he had more urgent concerns. The serpent had looped another layer of coils around his midsection. Its crushing embrace threatened to squeeze him in two. He reached up with his free hand. The giant wedge of the creature's head swayed above him, just out of reach. His fingers found purchase at the back of the neck. Smiling through the pain, he struck.

  The serpent shuddered as the knife pierced its eye. Caim tried to hang on, but the writhing coils flung him about like an infant. A mighty convulsion threw him across the room. Battered, he lay prone on the floorboards. His lungs burned as fresh air hit them. The serpent thrashed in the center of the floor, his knife still stuck in its eye socket until its violent throes hurtled the weapon free.

  Caim crawled to his knees, but the creature had given up the fight. Black ichor dripped from its ruined eyeball as it undulated into the far corner of the room. Draped in shadows, it vanished like the remnants of a dream, and the eerie sensation with it.

  Caim climbed to his feet. He ached from neck to toe, but he had survived. He tore his gaze away from the corner and hobbled to the door, down the hallway. The girl had a good lead on him, too damned good by half and him with an injured foot, but how well did she know Low Town? Not at all, most likely. He glanced through a grimy skylight as he passed under it. Night had settled over the city. That worked to his advantage. The darkness would make her flight more difficult. She might wander the Gutters for hours before finding her way to a landmark she could recognize. If Kit was doing her job, he would find Josephine in plenty of time, unless someone else found her first. An image of the girl, cornered in an alley by a Low Town street gang, blasted through his mind as he reached the stairwell. He leapt down the steps three at a time, heedless of the burning pain in his ankle. Down the stairs and across the foyer. He shoved open the heavy door.

  Knives bared and ready for anything, he limped out into the night.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Fog swirled around Josey's ankles as she dashed across the slick cobblestones. The night's cold went right through her nightgown. She had to find help. But who would aid her? She didn't even know where she was. Shabby buildings leaned over the street like drunken titans. Where were the streetlights? Impenetrable darkness swathed everything.

  She went to the nearest door and found it locked tight. The windows were dark. She pounded on the thick timbers, but didn't wait for an answer. The killer would be right behind her. She dared not glance over her shoulder. If she saw him, chasing behind her like the shadow of Death incarnate, the fear would paralyze her.

  A faint clink of metal echoed in the fog somewhere ahead. Josey couldn't identify the sound in the dark, but she was past caring. Anything was better than falling back into the clutches of her father's murderer.

  She ran toward the noise. Her breath came in short gasps. A nimbus of spectral light illuminated an intersection of three streets. At their nexus stood a man holding a lantern, the point of a pike glittering above his head.

  “Who's that?” he called out.

  Tears sprang to Josey's eyes as she made out the black coat of the night watchman's uniform.

  “Help me, please!” she cried.

  The watchman raised a hand to his lips. A whistle's shrill call cut through the gloom and fog. More watchmen appeared behind him. Josey staggered toward them. Leather-clad arms caught her as she swooned. Piercing eyes stabbed at her from behind steely faceplates.

  “She ain't no Gutters wench,” said one. “Think she's the one we was told about?”

  “What's your name, girl?” asked another, rolling his r’s with a thick western accent.

  Josey drew in a deep breath. Her heart bounced hard against the inside of her ribs. “I am Josephine…of the House Frenig. Please, help me.”

  The westerner nodded. The stripes sewn onto his sleeve marked him as a higher rank than the others. “We've been looking for you, m'lady. Your disappearance has caused quite a stir.”

  Josey allowed herself to nestle in his arms. She wanted to cry. It was over. She was safe. Then she remembered what the killer had done to the men in her father's bedchamber.

  “There's a man after me!” she said. “He's dangerous. He killed my father.”

  “You're safe now, m'lady. Can you walk?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  She leaned on the watchman's strong arm and let him escort her down the street. The lantern-holder led the way. She glanced over her shoulder, but there were only fleeing shadows. She let out a cleansing breath. He's gone. He can't get me now. But I'll see him hanged, for Father's sake.

  Caim. That was his name, the name of a dead man. She tried to convince herself it was over as the watchmen fell in around her, but the memories of her trials buzzed inside her head like a swarm of cicadas.

  There was no sign of the girl at the intersection of Winder and Silverpike Row.

  A night fog had rolled in from the bay to blanket the cobblestones. Two shapes slouched in the alley across the way. He couldn't tell if they were drunk or dead, but both were decidedly male and not his girl. He'd heard footsteps running in this direction, but the fog caused weird echoes, making noises difficult to pinpoint. He wished Kit would return with some good news. He was a blind man searching for a hare in a field of willowtails.

  His foot burned where he'd been bitten. His toes squished with every step as his boot filled with blood. Was it envenomed? Probably not. A snake that big would pump out enough poison to kill a herd of warhorses. He tried not to think about it.

  A glowing shape appeared from a nearby alley.

  “Did you find her?” he asked.

  Kit shook out her silver hair. “She's not in Buckwald Den or Dyer's Lane. I doubt she could have gotten farther than that before me.”

  Caim shifted his weight to his good leg. The pain was moving up his calf.

  “Is it bad?” Kit glanced down.

  “Not bad enough to stop me. We have to get her back. We can't have her wandering into the wrong hands.”

  Kit rested her fists on her slim hips. “She's probably already facedown in some alleyway. The ragpickers will find her body tomorrow. You need to forget about her and get back inside so I can take a look at that foot.”

  Caim squinted down each street and tried to pierce the darkness for any clue that might lead him in the right direction. The events of the past twenty-four hours had ripped him from his
comfortable life and sent him veering into unknown territory. He didn't like the feelings of unease and doubt knocking around in his gut.

  “Kit, what was that thing back at the apartment? Did it come from me? My gift…powers…whatever they are, they've been acting strange lately.”

  Kit floated a few inches off the ground, her outline blurring with the fog. Her eyes turned dark and unfathomable, the way they did when she didn't want to pursue a subject. She could be downright obstinate when she chose to be. He stared back until she finally relented.

  “It's called a queticoux,” she said. “And no, it didn't come from you. At least, I don't think so. They're rare. I'd never actually seen one up close before. They live Beyond.”

  “Beyond?”

  “Beyond the barrier separating this world from the Shadowlands.”

  Caim gripped his knives tighter. She was talking faerie realm nonsense again—ghouls and goblins, bogeymen who abducted children and left changelings in their place. Ridiculous. But you've seen the shadows yourself, haven't you? He ground his teeth together. His thoughts were scattered in a hundred different directions tonight. Shadows. Mathias. Spoiled rich girls out alone in the dark. He had to focus.

  “Okay. So how could such a thing cross over?”

  “It couldn't.” She twirled a finger through her hair. “Not on its own. It would need help to cross the Veil.”

  He pretended to know what she was talking about. “You mean like sorcery?”

  “I suppose.”

  “How could a High Town lord's daughter do that? She didn't strike me as a witch. Hell, if she knew magic, why didn't she use it to escape?”

  Kit shrugged. At the same instant, a keening whistle cut through the night like a siren's wail. It sounded like it came from Three Corners. Caim started running. Kit didn't need to be told; she skittered ahead of him like a shiny pebble across a smooth, black pond. A filament of concern threaded its way into Caim's chest, winding tighter around his insides with every painful stride as the whistle led him farther away from the Processional and High Town.