“Grab one of their swords,” I said.
“I’m not a concierge.” But his tag wagged stiffly, and I suspected he was happy to be of use. I checked the pouch, noting that all the bullets remained present. In the time it took Argos to free the blade from its scabbard, I had packed both barrels of the gun with powder and loaded a silver bullet in each.
I wouldn’t be caught off guard again.
The dog nudged me with the blade’s hilt, and I took it from his jowls.
“What should we do next?”
I tested the tip of the sword with my fingertip.
“What else?” I said, looking at the thin slices of moonlight. If my options had been poor at dawn, they had dwindled even further as I stood bitten on the precipice of a full moon. “We go after the bastard.” I allowed the words to fade before adding, “Smarter this time.”
Because otherwise we’d die.
I touched the bite on my neck, which continued to hum with a dark energy.
Or worse.
11
I didn’t have a mirror, but I thought my retrofitted dress rated as somewhat stylish. Even if the garment now finished far enough above the knee for my dead mother to have a conniption, its sinfulness was outweighed by the gain in utility.
I could move. And, with the excess fabric, I’d crafted a sort of waist sash, in which I’d managed to tuck the dead watchmen’s scabbard—and tied the pouch of remaining bullets. The shoes remained suboptimal, but then Ruby Callaway, wolf huntress was still a work in progress.
Clearly, judging from the way the bite on my neck stung. Seeing the full moon hover up above seemed to make it hurt worse. But that could’ve just been my imagination.
We tried the general store, but the candles were out and Pearl either was refusing to make an appearance, or had gone elsewhere for the night. The forest behind us erupted with activity while we descended the stairs—Albin’s men returning for their newly minted pack member.
I wondered what had distracted them enough to leave us behind, unattended. Instead of protesting this stroke of minor luck, Argos and I took the scenic route back to Kalos. At least this road seemed to be in good repair. Soon, the location of my near-death lay behind, faded into memory—and with it the rest of my life.
By the time we reached the decrepit barn, its white flaking paint shimmering in the ghostly moonlight, the past seemed little more than a dream.
Liberty Printworks. Gone, erupted into flame.
My family’s legacy. Vanished.
The person Rebecca Callaway had been only a night before. Forever changed.
I tried to balance life’s ledger as I had the shop’s books. A strange, tenuous excitement pumped through my veins, imperceptible from fear. Progress and regression always arrived as a pair, right?
Argos growled.
The bite stung as I strained my neck to see what had him alarmed.
“He’s gone.”
The moon hung overhead, looming like a specter. Not yet at its apex, but certainly far too close for comfort.
We were at least three hundred yards from the barn, still waist-high in summer grass, but I trusted the animal’s nose. The demon was no longer here. I drew the double-barreled flintlock pistol, checking to make sure it remained loaded. Its heft made me feel confident as I approached the crumbling structure.
I swung the gun toward the stall where we had left Kalos asleep and half-dead. Blood stained the yellow strands of straw within, but there was little sign of him aside from a faint trail that quickly disappeared into the tall grass.
In the opposite stall, I spotted the emergency kit, its contents strewn across the ground.
One of the bottles lay apart from the others, its cork missing. I picked it up.
“Essence?”
“Kal, you dumb bastard.” Argos emerged from the field, shaking his black-and-white head.
I recalled that essence was simply magical energy in its purest form. “Would this even get him upright?”
“Oh, it would get him upright,” Argos said. “But it’s like coffee after three nights of no rest.”
“Delaying the inevitable?”
“And making the end result worse,” Argos said. “After the crash…”
His tone told me all I needed to know. The bite burned, reminding me of my own predicament. I sifted through the jumble of herbs and potions. Although the kit was filled apothecarial staples, I barely recognized most of the labels.
Temples pounding in rhythmic unison, I slumped into the corner. The rotten wood creaked, protesting the sudden impact.
Hours. We had hours.
Clinking glass caught my attention. The dog nudged the bottles over, reading them beneath his breath. I watched him work, his eyes narrowed in diligent focus.
Finally I said, “What are you looking for?”
He looked up. “Start a fire.”
“What for?” I wondered when the dog had become an expert in medicinal potions. “We have no time.”
“Then we will make time.”
He padded across the center of the barn to the opposite stall and lunged at the hay with his teeth. I thought he’d snapped, gone insane, but then he trotted over with a mouthful of bloody straw and dropped it next to the supplies.
“You know what you’re doing?”
“Far better than you, I’m afraid.” He exited the barn and chewed off some stalks of grass at the forefront, sniffing the felled strands carefully. Returning with them in tow he added, “Alas, a lack of thumbs and a nomad’s life have conspired to condemn me to more theoretical studies.”
“So you haven’t actually made this…what is it we’re making?”
“The fire, if you would.”
The rickety structure resembled a tinderbox, but with summer in full bloom outside, there was little other place to build a fire. I set to work finding a suitable fire starter in the barn’s crevices. While I didn’t locate any flint, I did stumble upon a rusty horseshoe that seemed minorly promising.
At least there existed plenty of kindling—and accelerant, too, courtesy of the gunpowder. I put only a pinch within the center of some dried hay, then stood above, hacking at the iron with the edge of the sword. When that failed to do anything but annoy the dog, I tossed the horseshoe into the center of the pile and went for the backup plan.
After adding a pinch more gunpowder to the tinder pile I drew the pistol, squeezed one eye shut and took aim at the corroded iron.
“Just one spark, right?”
I pulled the trigger and the ground erupted in an orange flash, blowing me backward. Argos barked as the barn shook, its termite-ridden timbers straining to remain standing. My ears hummed like I had been inside a church bell that had just been rung.
Waving my free hand to clear away the smoke, I did see one thing that made my heart leap.
Fire.
Yelling with joy, even though I couldn’t even hear words, hope surged through my veins.
I wouldn’t become a werewolf.
No, not tonight.
The dog snaked around the fire, emerging from the smoke like a wraith.
His voice was tinny in my ears as he said, “There are two potions.”
“Two?”
“One to track Kal,” Argos said, his brown eyes staring at me with an unblinking gaze. “And one for you.”
“For me.” Half a question, half in wonder that this was what my life had become. “But why?”
“Why else,” he answered grimly, disappearing back into the swirling smoke. “To kill the wolf. Hopefully the Seer wasn’t wrong.”
Anything seemed possible in the haze. Potential wafted through the ether: power, speed. Immortality.
But then, that could have just been the full moon beckoning, whispering to give in to the impending darkness.
12
(Kalos)
The cellar was dark, smelling of must and spoiled wine. The faint sound of wagon wheels grinding against cobbles indicated that the wolf had taken me back to the city. It hadn’t been much of a fight, essence boost or not.
My chest thrummed in rhythm with the moon and the tide. Although the cellar contained no window, I knew the time was near, my fate measured in a span of minutes, now, rather than hours.
The wolf glared at me with cold sapphire eyes.
“You will take me as your master, Kalos.” He massaged his bloody shoulder, his expression inscrutable. “And then you will take me to Isabella and Marrack.”
“I think I’ll just take a rain check,” I said.
Albin twisted the crank attached to the stretching rack, pulling my arms further beyond their natural limits. The rusty chains croaked as my tendons extended. Thus far, I’d done a good job of biting my lip, but the extra quarter-inch got to me.
I let loose a long, ragged scream, seeing the pleasure flash in Albin’s feral eyes. The full moon would soon be upon us and his strength would grow beyond my control. Which was of secondary and distant concern to a more pressing matter.
My own strength and nature would grow beyond my control.
“You could have left me alone, demon.”
“Where would be the fun in that?” I spit on the ground, the light too dim to see the color. But I knew it was dark red from the taste. Enough blood trickled down my throat to believe that I’d never get the taste from my mouth.
Someone creaked down the steps of the unfinished cellar, merely a shadow. Albin gave me a sardonic wink, as if to say don’t go anywhere. He followed the shade up the stairs, leaving me alone in the cellar. As weak as I was, it was difficult to tell if the visitor had been supernatural or not. Normally I could sense the disturbance in aura.
But this situation wasn’t normal, even for a salvage retrieval specialist.
I took a deep, rickety breath and felt one of my shoulder tendons snap. A daring escape wouldn’t be imminent. I tried to twist into a semi-comfortable position, but that was little more than a dream. My feet dangled so that my toes just scraped against the floor. Enough to keep me from asphyxiating, but not enough for relief.
Had I been at full strength, perhaps I could have snapped the chains with an inspired bit of demonic magic. Given my current state of health, however, it would be lucky if I could even rattle the heavy iron chains in a feeble display of defiance.
Why had I pursued Albin and flung Ruby Callaway into the center of this mess? An explanation seemed as simple as my half-demon nature: while rational, I was prone to highly irrational flights of fancy. I had been ridding the world of Isabella Kronos’ friends and accomplices, one by one, over the last nine centuries.
I had to admit, vengeance felt good.
But it could have also been paranoia. Albin wanted Woden’s Spear; he wanted to see the return of his masters, Marrack and Isabella. And thus, it was better to get the jump on him and lay the situation to rest beforehand.
Or so I’d thought.
The cellar steps creaked again. Albin returned alone, his lean, muscular form straightening as he smelled blood. A werewolf’s reflex. Every supernatural creature had them—those ingrained traits that couldn’t be overridden.
I was beginning to feel the pull, too.
Albin snarled, as if to confirm what I was thinking. His large hands grabbed the wheel, ready to rip my arms from my body.
“You will pledge fealty to me, demon.”
“Who was your friend?”
“That is none of your concern.”
“Maybe I’ll trade you.” I felt immense relief when his shoulders slackened, even if his hands remained on the wheel. “Eternal loyalty for an answer.”
“He is just a man in my employ.” He raised his eyebrow. “So I doubt that very much.”
“Look at that,” I said with a weak laugh. “You gave up all your leverage.”
He snarled. “Enough talk, demon.”
“Just wait.” Anything to keep this conversation going. My shoulder blades already howled in pain, torn to shreds. I didn’t want the remaining ligaments to suffer the same fate. “I’ll make a deal.”
“I cannot trust you.”
“Sure you can.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because it hurts up here.” I winced, the skin around my eyes bunching up until I couldn’t see. I didn’t have to try very hard to sell the effect. It was really a matter of giving into the pain.
“I know.” Instead of taking the offer, Albin twisted the wheel a semi-turn. A searing spasm shot through both arms, like molten lead rushing through a blacksmith’s forge. Images raced through the empty air, curses springing from my dry lips.
Albin released the wheel, the chains slackening. The pain dialed down from a ten to a nine-five.
It was like heaven.
Sweating and still mumbling curses, I didn’t see Albin approach. Werewolves were always smooth, anyway. Up close, I could smell the wolf in him, that animal musk suggesting a wild streak. Different morals. A willingness to do things men would not.
Although, come to think of it, I think it was man who created this method of torture.
“You didn’t even hear the deal,” I said, forcing each word out with the last of my energy.
I could feel his gaze trace over the wounds on my chest. Blood seeped down the long gashes, dripping to the floor.
It was difficult to distinguish my heartbeat from the call of the moon. The werewolf lust wrapped itself around the beat like a snake twisting about its prey.
“This is your final chance, demon.”
“I’ll pledge loyalty,” I said. “If you agree to stay away from the dog. And the woman.”
A carnivorous grin came across his features. “The girl will join you at midnight.”
I roared, shaking the chains and ignoring the pain. “Son of a—”
He punched me in the cheek, anger quickly replaced by unfathomable pain. “Kneel, Kalos.”
“You need a lesson in leverage, Albin.” I spit in his face. “I’ll never answer to you.”
That wasn’t true.
Unless I pissed him off enough to kill me in the next few minutes.
With an unnerving cool, he withdrew a handkerchief from his britches and wiped his face. Not the reaction I’d expect from a werewolf. They were more like dogs than humans, driven by whims and instinct rather than logic.
He should’ve been at my throat. Had he not been snarling and throwing himself at the territorial barrier in Liberty Printworks, more animal than man?
But, like me, he seemed capable—on occasion—of subverting some of his more…maladaptive urges. After returning the cloth to his back pocket and loosening his shoulders, Albin stared at me.
Then he unleashed a bone-crushing punch into my gut. All the air in the room disappeared, leaving me gasping for oxygen. Another blow landed, then another, the assault continuing until I thought my insides would be turned to the consistency of bone meal.
So much for subverting one’s nature.
Albin landed a final blow, the hair on his arms bristling like stiff, gray fur. Blood sprayed from my open mouth, landing across his face. He gave me a wicked smile, not bothering to clean it off this time. His fingers clenched and unclenched, the veins wriggling like eels snapping through a brisk current.
“That’s all?” I could only moan the words and give the weakest of laughs.
“That is only the start, demon.” He unbuttoned his cotton shirt, tossing it into a corner of the dirty cellar. An empty cask rustled as the fabric fluttered on top of it. “Unless you do as I ask.”
“Firus ignitus,” I said, drawing energy from the room. A sad spark—not even a flame—clicked through the air, like when someone used flint but didn’t understand h
ow to strike it correctly.
Albin laughed, the noxious sound reverberating across the tight space. Under normal circumstances I would be angered, but I was too tired, too injured to be upset. In the end, Isabella Kronos would get me—by proxy. Nonetheless, it felt like a win for her and Marrack.
“Your resilience is impressive, demon. For a man.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“That is why she left you,” Albin said. “You are a half-blood. Too mortal to survive our many realms.”
“Come here and say that a little closer.”
He put his face up to mine. I could see the changes already occurring, the skin altering in shade, the muscles rippling. A voice in my head whispered master. Despite my protestations, I would pledge fealty without question once the transformation was complete. This was all merely a display of power.
His breath was hot as he said, “You are a—”
I jerked forward, every muscle in my body screaming for me to be still. Despite the searing pain, I got my teeth around his ear, biting down hard. I tore at the weak flesh, swinging back with a mouthful of foul blood.
This time, I spit the chunk at his face, and he howled. His hands were at my throat before I could react, the strong fingers crushing my windpipe.
There was no semblance of a man left in his eyes. Gray hair sprung from the backs of his palms, fangs from between his lips. He growled, his grip tightening as a werewolf’s strength grew within him. Soon he would snap my neck like a feeble branch.
My death came in slow motion, his hands twisting my neck like a corkscrew in a bottle of fine wine. I wondered if I would hear the pop, the life force cracking under the weight of an immovable force.
But I heard a bark. Smaller, less throaty—wimpy, really, in comparison to the monstrous growl vibrating through Albin’s entire being. It was like the voice of an angel, though. Or a single black-and-white border collie, tumbling down the stairs in a blur.
Argos leapt at the alpha werewolf. Albin reached back and smacked him from the air with a well-timed blow, sending the dog careening against the wooden wheel. The chains tightened, and I screamed. The wheel continued to creak along.
Bone Realm Page 5
