Tangled Webs bj-6

by Anne Bishop

“Mother Night,” he whispered.

  He rushed to the back hallway and stopped at the opening when he saw four children clustered around a closed door that Kester was trying to force open by slamming against it with his shoulder.

  No sound. No warning of trouble. The girls had their mouths open and were probably yelling or screaming. The front hallway wasn’t that big. He should have heard Kester trying to break down the door.

  As soon as he crossed the threshold, he heard the screams.

  Hell’s fire.

  “Get back!” Rainier shouted. He kept moving, building momentum with every stride. Kester saw him at the last moment and dove out of the way as Rainier turned the last stride into a leap and kick.

  The door crashed open, revealing a room emptied of furnishings…but not empty.

  For a moment, he froze at the sight of the burns and scars on the stranger’s young body. An illusion spell must have hidden those injuries, just as it had hidden her ripped, dirty clothes. He felt sickened by what he saw—and even more sickened by what the girl had done.

  The stranger wore openwork metal gauntlets, a kind of lethal jewelry witches sometimes wore. The fingers ended in razor-sharp talons. The ones on the girl’s hands dripped with blood.

  Her mouth was smeared with blood. It ran down her chin like juice at some kind of primal feast.

  She was cildru dyathe now. A demon-dead child—and a deadly predator.

  Ginger lay on her back on the dirty wood floor, her neck, chest, and arms ripped to shreds by the talons.

  No sound from her.

  No hope for her.

  The cildru dyathe sprang to her feet and ran toward the back of the room.

  Rainier sprang after her.

  She fumbled at the wall, the talons on the metal gauntlets tearing the old wallpaper as she searched for something.

  In the moment before he reached her, he was nothing but a Warlord Prince on a battlefield and she was nothing but an enemy. When he swung the poker at her back, it carried all his strength and fury in the blow.

  He heard bone break.

  She fell, no longer able to use her legs. Sufficiently Blood to become cildru dyathe, she didn’t have the skill in Craft to use what power she had in order to get up.

  He stood over her, looking at wounds that indicated torture. Looking at the madness and hatred in the girl’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “You’re just like him,” she said, her voice harshened by her hatred. “You’re just like him.”

  “Who?”

  She laughed. “I’ll tell you once you’re dead. I’ll hook my pretty claws into your chest, and you’ll have to carry me. Be my legs since you took mine. Hook my pretty claws into your eyes too. Just for fun.”

  Was that madness talking, or was that a reflection of who the girl had been?

  He took a step back. Took another. Then he turned and walked back to Ginger.

  So much blood, he thought as he knelt beside the dying girl. Too much damage. There were not enough moments left in her to even try a healing. There was not enough he could do for her with the basic skills he had to make a difference.

  Her eyes stared at him but didn’t see him.

  Did landens have some place like Hell? They didn’t become demon-dead. When their bodies died, they were gone. But did their spirits have a place where they spent some time before they were truly gone?

  He didn’t know, had never asked. And right now, he really didn’t want to know.

  “Her name was Anax,” Kester said. “She lived at the orphans’ home. She ran away a couple weeks ago.”

  Had she run away or had the people in charge of the orphans’ home assumed that because Anax had disappeared? Someone had tortured the girl and killed her, leaving her in here to become one of the predators who hunted the “guests” trapped in this house.

  “Did anyone else run away from the orphans’ home recently?” Rainier asked, looking up at the other children.

  “Three or four others,” Kester replied, shrugging as if the loss made no difference.

  Rainier choked back the urge to roar at the boy for being so cold and unfeeling. In order for Anax to become cildru dyathe, she had to be Blood. Which meant one of the Blood had been cold and unfeeling toward the girl long before Kester and his friends were.

  No life in Ginger’s eyes. No breath when he held a hand above her mouth and nose.

  “She’s dead,” he said, getting to his feet.

  “What…” Kester swallowed hard. “What do we do with her?”

  Rainier waited a beat. “We have to leave her.”

  They looked at him.

  “We can’t just leave her,” Sage said.

  “You’re welcome to carry her,” he replied, retrieving the oil lamp. “I won’t.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Kester asked.

  Rainier tipped his head toward the wall. “Anax was searching for something. I’m going to find it.”

  There was water. Not as rusty as she’d expected, which maybe wasn’t a good sign, since it meant someone had been using this bathroom on a regular basis recently. Of course, the Black Widows would have needed it before someone helped them into the first stage of being dead.

  Surreal frowned at the toilet. Did the demon-dead need to pee? When they drank yarbarah, was there anything wasted, or did they absorb it all to sustain the dead flesh and their power?

  Too bad she’d never thought to ask when she’d known some of them.

  And what about Guardians like Uncle Saetan? He used to eat meals with the family, at least some of the time. So did he…?

  “No,” she told herself firmly. If the High Lord of Hell did something so mundane as park his ass on a toilet, she did not want to know about it.

  Besides, she had more immediate things to think about.

  She turned sideways, her back to the bathtub, and studied the bathroom door. Should she close it and turn the lock to avoid a surprise attack from the hallway, or leave it open to give herself a fast way to escape?

  “Don’t close yourself in a box,” she muttered, sucking in a breath as she removed her jacket. The shirt came next. She dropped both on the closed toilet seat. Then she braced the front of her thighs against the sink and stood on tiptoes to see her torso in the mirror.

  Hell’s fire. The blood was running between her skin and the shield, so she couldn’t actually see the extent of the damage—and couldn’t tell if the bleeding would stop on its own or if the wounds were something she needed to tend.

  «Rainier?» she called as she lowered her feet.

  No answer.

  Dropping the shield would be one use of Craft. Restoring it, another. Calling in her kit of healing supplies, a third. Then another choice: vanish the kit and, therefore, close another exit, or leave it behind and hope she wouldn’t need it again.

  She couldn’t reach Rainier. Would he hear the gong that signaled she’d used Craft? How many exits had they closed? How many were left?

  If there had been any to start with.

  It was ingenious, really. If this had been a story, she would have been intrigued, would have appreciated the struggle to avoid using Craft. Would have argued with Rainier about how and when Craft should have been used.

  Since it wasn’t a story, she was going to find the bastard who created this place and skin him, using nothing but a dull paring knife. Then she would crush all his bones into pebbles, leaving the spine and skull for last to be sure he got the benefit of all the pain. And that would be before Uncle Saetan got hold of him.

  “Nice thought, sugar,” she told her reflection, “but you have a few things to do first.”

  She called in the kit of healing supplies, swearing silently when she heard the gong. Taking the small pair of scissors from the kit, she cut off both sleeves of her shirt, then cut one sleeve in half. The jacket and shirt were hung on the bathroom doorknob. The healing kit was placed on the toilet lid.

  She turned on the wate
r in the sink and soaked one piece of cloth. No hot water, and she wasn’t going to use Craft for an indulgence, so she gritted her teeth against the shock of cold water on her skin as she dropped the protective shield and washed off the blood.

  Up on tiptoes again to see the wounds as she cleaned that area.

  Not too bad, she decided after a moment. A double swipe along her ribs from the bitch’s nails. Deep enough that the wounds did need to be cleaned and sealed, but…

  Dropping down again, Surreal frowned at her reflection. Why a double swipe? Why didn’t the Black Widow hit her with all four nails, especially the ring finger that had the snake tooth and the venom sac under the normal nail?

  “Not there,” Surreal whispered, pressing the wet cloth against the wounds.

  Last year, when Hekatah had captured Saetan and held him hostage, she had cut off the little finger of his left hand and sent it to Jaenelle.

  Funny how the eyes stopped seeing the loss. Saetan no longer wore the Steward’s ring on his left hand, so there was nothing to call attention to the missing finger. If someone asked anyone in the family about it, she’d bet they’d have to think for a minute to remember it was gone.

  The Black Widow had been missing the little finger and ring finger on her right hand. That was why there was only the double stripe and no venom.

  A lucky break for her, but she wondered if the loss had come before or after the Widow had worked on this house.

  Surreal opened the jar of cleansing cream and dabbed the cream on the wounds. That would take care of ordinary infections until a Healer could take a look at the wounds. Then she took out a thin package the size of her palm and carefully peeled back one layer of paper. The spider-silk gauze was used by Healers in Kaeleer when they needed to close a small wound and didn’t have time for a full healing or there was a reason to let the wound heal at its own pace. The silk was woven into a small web, and the strands helped keep the wound closed.

  She pressed the spider silk against her side and didn’t peel off the other piece of paper, using it as a bandage to absorb some of the blood.

  Having done what she could, she closed up the healing kit, then reconsidered. She took out the scissors and slipped them into her trouser pocket. Even a small weapon was better than no weapon.

  She was just about to create the protective shield when she looked at the toilet—and swore.

  “Do whatever you can before you shield,” she muttered. Sure, Lucivar had shown her a “shield with access,” but it worked a lot better for someone who peed out of a pipe.

  Not that she’d mentioned that to Lucivar.

  She used the poker to lift the lid and seat. No nasty surprises, thank the Darkness, other than the kind that would give a hearth witch bad dreams.

  But as she squatted over the toilet bowl, she thought she heard a sound coming from the bathtub drain. A funny sound. Like fingernail clippings being shaken inside a metal pipe.

  It didn’t take long to find the secret door. In fact, finding it seemed a little too easy.

  Rainier lengthened the wick on the oil lamp to give himself better light.

  Maybe it wasn’t meant to be a secret door, just one that was supposed to blend in with the room. All he could see was a short hallway that ended in another door, and shelving on the right-hand side.

  Folded blankets. Decorated paperboard boxes that women used to store hats and gloves or other small items that were used occasionally. Linens. Probably a mutual storage area for the bedrooms on either side.

  He didn’t see anything sinister, didn’t hear anything suspect. Of course, if the whole house was riddled with aural shields that kept people from hearing one another, not hearing anything wasn’t actually comforting.

  Linens.

  He set the poker aside. Planting his right foot in the room they were in, he set his left foot in the storage room.

  Something creaked. Might have been the floorboard under his foot. Might have been the door. But something creaked.

  Rainier stepped back and studied the door.

  Traps and games and illusions. The last time a storage room door was opened, a boy died.

  “Kester,” Rainier said. “You and the other two boys brace yourself against this door and hold it open.”

  While he waited for them to follow orders, he created a tight shield around himself, barely a finger width above his skin. Three openings in the shield—one for taking in sustenance, the other two for eliminating waste. Lucivar had taught him and the other boyos that particular trick, and they’d all gotten bruised enough times from Lucivar’s surprise attacks to have learned that lesson very well.

  Normally a tight shield was a subtle protection, since no one could know for certain it was there unless a person touched you. But…

  Somewhere in the house, a gong sounded.

  In this damn house, there was nothing subtle about using Craft.

  He glanced at the boys and nodded, satisfied that he’d have plenty of warning if the door tried to shut. Then he stepped into the storage room, raising the lamp high.

  Pillowcases.

  “Girls,” he called. “Come to the doorway.”

  He handed Sage the pillowcases, then gave Dayle a box of tapered candles and a globed candleholder. The candleholder would be easier to carry and shield the flame.

  Stepping back into the room where the children waited, he set the lamp down near the poker. Taking the pillowcases from Sage, he shook them out to be sure there weren’t any surprises hidden in them. Then he stripped the metal gauntlets off Anax’s hands and took a good look at them before he dropped them into one of the pillowcases. Too small for his hand, but they weren’t made for a child, so they would probably fit Surreal or Kester.

  At this point, any weapon they could carry was a good weapon.

  He fitted one candle into the holder and created a steady flame of witchfire to burn on the wick—and tried not to wince when the gong sounded.

  “Bring that other candle over here,” he said.

  “It’s almost gone,” Henn said, handing him the candle in the cup.

  Rainier stared at the candle. Almost gone. The bottom of the cup was filled with softened wax.

  How long since they’d left the kitchen? Not long enough for a candle to burn down that much.

  “Mother Night,” he muttered. “Line up.” He moved his hand to indicate a line in front of him.

  When the children were lined up, he created a tight shield around each of them, leaving the openings for sustenance and waste.

  “What did you do?” Kester asked.

  “Created a shield around each of you,” Rainier replied, trying to ignore the sound of the gong echoing in his mind. He lit a candle from the old one, then replaced the old one with the new.

  “It won’t stop something from taking you, but it will keep you from being wounded or killed.”

  “Why didn’t you do that before?” Kester demanded.

  He put the box of candles and the second pillowcase in the one he was using for a sack. After closing his left fist around the top of the case, he hooked his finger into the loop on the candleholder. “Sage, you carry that other candle. Kester and Henn, you take the lamps.”

  He walked back to the storage room door and picked up the poker in his right hand.

  “Hey!” Kester shouted. “I’m asking you!”

  “It takes Craft to create those shields. One use of Craft for each shield. And every time Craft is used, a way out of this place is closed off.”

  The boy didn’t understand—or didn’t want to understand.

  “Why didn’t you make these shields before Trist and Ginger got killed?” Kester said.

  Because I thought we had a chance of getting out.

  Rainier didn’t answer. He just walked into the storage room.

  Daemon sat at a round table in Sylvia’s family parlor and stared at the piece of paper in front of him. He made hatch marks on the paper just to give himself time to…Not think, exactly.
Just time to assure himself that he was maintaining the correct understanding-but-disapproving expression. Then he looked at Mikal, who sat opposite him. He didn’t dare look at Sylvia, who was standing a full step back and to the right of her son’s chair. He. Did not. Dare.

  “Are these all the suggestions you can remember giving Tersa?” Daemon asked. These were bad enough. Skeleton mice that would scurry across a room, their little bones tippy-tapping on the floor. Big spiders that might drop from the ceiling or be hiding in a drawer. And the mousie in the glass.

  “There was the eyeballs in the grapes,” Mikal said hesitantly.

  “The—” A quick glance at Sylvia. Oh, he should have insisted on talking to the boy alone. This was probably a lot more than a mother wanted to know about the workings of her male offspring’s mind.

  “The spell isn’t triggered until someone starts eating the grapes.” Mikal’s voice held an excited enthusiasm. Apparently, since he couldn’t see her, he’d forgotten about his mother being in the room. “Then some of the grape skins split and the illusion spell makes it look like there are eyes, all bloodshot and oozy.”

  Boyo, you may have just ruined your chances of ever seeing another grape in this house, Daemon thought.

  “Did you see the mouse in the glass?” Mikal asked. “That one was—”

  A growl, the voice barely recognizable as female.

  Mikal hunched his shoulders and wisely offered no opinion about the mousie in the glass.

  “I think I have everything I need,” Daemon said. “Thank you, Mikal.”

  Mikal slid off his chair. Then he hesitated, leaned across the table, and said in a loud whisper, “Did Tersa tell you about the beetles?”

  Surreal held her hands under the water running from the faucet, cleaning them as well as she could. Then she cupped her hands to fill them with water and took a cautious sip. No obvious foulness. Of course, if the water supply had poison or drugs dumped into it, she may have already done enough damage to kill herself.

  That being the case, she drank another mouthful of water before turning off the taps.

  She rubbed her wet hands over her face, trying to shake off the fatigue.

  Shouldn’t be this tired, she thought as she dried her face and hands on her shirt. Shouldn’t be this tired.