There were two ways to become a Godseeker assassin. The first was by reputation. The second, recruitment.
And recruits were better trained.
Blade guessed this assassin had maybe eighteen winters behind him. He’d probably earned a reputation around his hometown, made a lucky kill, and decided to turn it into a profession.
Well, they all had to start somewhere. Blade had been about fourteen, and his first kill was an uncle who beat him. He’d practiced with knives for months beforehand because that had been one big, mean son of a bitch, and he knew there would be no second chances.
He polished shot glasses with his apron and listened to the Godseekers talk. They had not come to trade, and if their trip was not for profit, then it had something to do with the fall of the goddesses’ mountain.
The Godseekers were not the only ones celebrating in the saloon this evening. A wagon train, very large and filled with traders, had been spotted crossing the desert. Since demons hunted alone, they tended to avoid the larger trains as not worth the effort. For a frontier like Freetown, isolated as it was, the arrival of traders was crucial. It took careful planning to move a wagon train the size of the one that had been reported, which meant it would not be leaving Freetown any time soon either. The saloon would be busy in the coming weeks.
A glass smashed on the floor, and one of the women moved to clean it up. Blade watched her work. The six Godseekers who were drunk weren’t being discreet this evening. There was going to be trouble, and Blade hated trouble. One of them hoisted his glass in the air. “To the goddess.”
A chorus of “To the goddess,” rang out in response.
Blade limped to the table. He made his voice friendly. “Perhaps you should keep it down. The head priestess can become a little ill-tempered when she’s reminded of the goddesses, and public places have eyes and ears.”
One man spat on the floor in contempt. “We’ve crossed the desert to greet the goddess born on the mountain, and to join her in her fight to drive the demons from this world.”
Blade’s fingers itched for his knives. “You’d be better advised to help her avoid them instead. A single goddess does not stand a chance against them. They are too many.”
“She will lead us. She will lend us her strength. We’ll be her army.” They all nodded in drunken agreement.
“Then I hope there are more of you coming with that wagon train.” Blade had lived too long in the desert to expect fanatics to see reason. He turned away.
“She will have the Demon Slayer with her,” someone said. “Once he has joined her, other men will follow.”
Blade turned back to the men at the table. “If that’s your plan, then you need to rethink it. Driving the demons from this world is not the Slayer’s goal. He wants them all dead. And he works alone.”
He didn’t bother to wish them luck in making converts for their army in Freetown. He doubted if they would have many. People here had lived too long in fear, both of the demons and of Mamna. They were broken.
So was he. He returned to his position behind the bar.
One of the women who worked in the saloon picked up a tray filled with drinks from the counter. Worry touched her eyes as she looked from Blade to the table filled with fools.
“You don’t like those men, do you?” she said.
He shrugged. “Liking them or not is a waste of my time. They’re dead men if they continue on as they are.”
She bit her lip. A pretty blonde, she drew the attention of a number of prospects in the room.
The saloon had grown more crowded.
“Stay away from the boy sitting alone,” Blade advised her. He had never interfered with her clients before, and he could tell it surprised her.
Her eyes widened in curiosity. “Why?”
“Because,” he said, “he doesn’t know shit about the world beyond the north. And he’s not going to be satisfied with a half hour of your time.”
She turned her head and met the boy’s eyes. He smiled at her, and Blade knew he had wasted his breath trying to warn her.
“He’s handsome,” she said, and the undercurrent of wistfulness he heard in her tone made him wish he’d said nothing.
Who was he to keep her from spending time with someone her own age, pretending to be something she should have been but was not?
“I’ve misspoken.” He filled a row of shot glasses with practiced efficiency while the girl loaded them one by one onto a tray. “What you do is your own business.”
A short while later he watched her go upstairs, hand in hand with the boy.
He wished the evening was over, but it seemed to be just getting started. People came and went, the opening and closing of the door drawing in wafts of air still fresh and cool from the earlier rain. The steady stream of customers told him the winds did not blow from the west. If they had, the streets would be empty, and so would the saloon.
Soon, he was too busy to worry about things over which he had no control.
A disturbance broke out at the front of the saloon. The door flew open and several people gathered around it, pointing at the night sky.
Patrons spilled onto the steps, then into the dusty street. Blade followed more slowly than the rest, partly because of his limp and more because he wanted to keep an eye on the drunkest and meanest in the crowd.
Out in the street the drunks, however, were not what caused him the greatest concern. Against the backdrop of the city’s wooden palisades and the deep cobalt night sky, bright orange fingers of flame lit up the heavens.
From out of the flames swept a demon.
…
“It’s a wooden city,” Hunter said. His thoughts had leaped immediately to Blade and the women. “A fire will spread fast. I have to go.”
Airie touched his arm, her fingers light. Her face was tense and pale in the flickering light of the lamp overhead. “What can I do to help?”
“Nothing.” He started to shake her off, to go inside for his sword and his weapons, but then he stopped. He was no longer alone. He had the safety of both Airie and Scratch to consider. What of them?
He could not leave them unprotected. Not with a demon pursuing her. Neither could he take them across the desert at night. Torn, and wasting time his friends might not have, he shot another look at the burning sky over Freetown.
It was too late for him to help them. The town would burn to the ground long before he arrived.
A thick gray mass rolled over the horizon, blocking the flames from view and obliterating the stars, again plunging the night into darkness. Hunter recognized the changing texture of the sky, and what it meant, even under the blanket of the night.
“Is that rain?” he said out loud, incredulous. “Twice in one day?”
It was unheard of in the desert.
Airie stood motionless beside him, murmuring words under her breath he could not understand and would rather not know. He suspected they were connected to the demon side of her.
A howl of rage split the night sky, echoing across the desert sands and shaking the earth.
The flame in the rocking lantern swelled, growing too large for the chimney to contain and cracking its glass. Fire licked the dry timbers of the verandah post, threatening the roof, and with a curse, Hunter tore off his shirt to beat at it.
“Get Scratch!” he said sharply to Airie.
She roused at his command. She stepped up beside him and raised her cupped hand, holding it to the spreading flames. The fire blazed brighter, then, reversing its course, skipped from the smoldering wood to the tips of her fingers and into her waiting palm.
She curled her fingers closed and the fire vanished.
Hunter had thought there was little left in the world that could render him speechless. She had a talent for both fire and healing.
Darkness, and a faint whiff of smoke, embraced them. Another roar filled the air.
“What is that noise?” Airie asked, covering her ears, tension rippling around her. She edged c
loser to Hunter, and he slipped an arm around her shoulders.
“That,” he said grimly, “is the battle cry of a demon.”
…
The Demon Lord swooped from the fire-seared sky over Freetown, flames shooting from his eyes and the horned tips of his wings.
The first strokes of demon fire scorched the tops of the city’s palisades. A building burst into crackling flames.
Mamna would be taught a lesson. He had placed her where she was. Had given her position and power. He couldn’t harm her directly, not yet, but he could take everything away that he had given her, and she needed to be reminded of that.
This was the last time she held things from him.
The sight of mortals spilling into the streets to stare up at him, slack-jawed and uncomprehending, enraged him further. Bells rang at the walls and more people swarmed outside to see what was happening.
The goddesses had favored these creatures. That alone was enough to make him hate them. That one goddess in particular had found them to her liking was more than he could bear. He had once loved her more than his own life and arrogantly assumed he had been loved in return.
A part of him had hoped she would return to him. That she would confess her role in her sisters’ deception and beg for his forgiveness. But if the spawn were his, and had survived all these years in the care of a priestess on the goddesses’ mountain, where demons were unwelcome, Mamna was undoubtedly correct. The spawn was a weapon to be used against him and his kind. He would turn his anger on those Allia had loved in his stead. Mamna, too, would learn he was not to be defied.
He plunged downward, his attention on those mortals foolish enough to remain in his path. They scattered before him, scrambling over one another and screaming in terror.
A spray of bullets from a shotgun bounced harmlessly off the Demon Lord’s bone-plated body, ricocheting into the crowd. It did not slow him, but the boldness of the act had him seek out the shooter.
The man lifted the shotgun again, but the weapon jammed in his hands. His eyes widened when he saw the demon’s attention on him. He tossed the shotgun aside and turned to run.
The Demon Lord’s claws grazed his shoulder, tearing a chunk of flesh and muscle from bone and knocking him to the ground, shrieking in pain and terror.
The scent of fresh blood drove the Demon Lord on. He banked to the left, coming around for another kill as two men, more brave than wise, stopped to help their downed companion. The Demon Lord tore the head off one and grabbed the other in his talons to carry him high, then dropped him, screaming, to the earth.
Fire had caught the roof of a second building by now, and licked up the side of a third. The Demon Lord plunged through the flames to emerge in a display of splendor. He would show the world what they faced if they disregarded his presence. It had been too long since they’d last seen what he was capable of.
Are you watching, Mamna? Do you see what happens when you conspire against me?
The first sheets of rain struck, fierce and unexpected, pocking his thick hide like drops of acid. Smoke and steam sizzled in the air as the fires of the burning buildings died beneath the onslaught.
He tumbled backward, his wings beating the sky, and forgot the mortals bleeding to death in the street.
Goddess rain.
The Demon Lord shot above the roiling clouds and the downpour, and circled the city. Goddess rain had been called against him.
Him.
Whoever had done so would die. Demon numbers might be small, no more than a hundred all told, but they would still be enough to destroy this entire world again if he chose. Not even the boundaries would stop him.
The battle cry he let loose shook the heavens.
First one, then another, and eventually a score of demons responded to the Demon Lord’s summons, filling the night sky above Freetown. They took turns darting under the clouds in an attempt to ravage the city, but each was forced back by the rain.
Frustration filled the Demon Lord. He had once brought this world to its knees. Even now, the goddesses protected it.
Once his initial anger was spent and reason returned, he called the demons back. As long as the rain fell they were unable to take action, but it could not linger forever.
He had his demons circle the city for the remainder of the night. Then, when the moon slipped away, the morning sun dissipated the darkness, and the rainfall eased to a gentle mist, the Demon Lord sent them home.
Night would return. When it did, so would the demons. And in greater numbers.
He was not ready to destroy what was left of this world, he decided. Not until he had the truth about the spawn from the mountain.
…
With the first light of day, Hunter had everything packed and ready to leave. The problem then became Airie.
She would attract far too much attention in Freetown.
His feelings toward her remained mixed. He had already decided to tell Mamna that he had not found any thief, and that she had undoubtedly perished when the mountain collapsed. He would return the gold that made him feel unclean.
But Airie’s demon blood could not be ignored. She attracted their attention as well. Taking her to Freetown meant exposing everyone to even greater danger.
However, he could think of no other option. He needed to get her into Freetown unobserved. Though he had his doubts about it, she had said she could pass for a boy. They had no choice but to try.
He handed her some of his clothes. “Here,” he said, “wear these.”
When she was dressed, he had to admit that she was tall and lean enough, and the clothes suitably bulky, for her to fool the unobservant. His boots, however, proved too large, so they stuffed socks in the toes. He tried not to smile. She walked like she’d spent too many hours in a saddle.
Her hair posed another problem.
“We could cut it,” she suggested with such enthusiasm his smile escaped. He suspected she had proposed it before, more than once, and her mother had refused to allow it.
Cutting it would make things far simpler. However, when he looked at the gleaming black masses of curls, he could not bring himself to do so. Once the weight was removed those curls would become ringlets, and he would have to cut it too short to compensate.
He was glad she had not shaved her head, as the priestesses did. He liked it as it was.
“Your braid will work better,” he said. “We can tuck it inside your shirt and tie a kerchief around your neck. Lots of men wear braids, although not quite as long and thick as this.”
He helped her tie her hair. The smooth tresses slid like silk over his palms, and he could not resist pressing a light kiss to the gentle curve of her neck when he was finished. A flash of sunlight lit her eyes as his reward.
He would have liked to kiss her with more thoroughness. Last night it had been very difficult for him to stop. The next time it would be twice as difficult, if not impossible, and he believed she would not protest, but because she did not understand the repercussions.
He was not certain he did either.
Instead, he found her an old hat he’d intended to throw away, and the disguise was complete.
He inspected her. Since he already knew her, he would never be fooled. But unless someone looked closely, for all intents and purposes, she could indeed pass for a boy.
A very effeminate one.
There was little to be done about that. His options were to escort a strikingly beautiful woman into town, or a strikingly beautiful boy. He was less likely to have to kill someone over a boy. He hoped. “Let’s go.”
The trek into the desert was unbearably hot although neither Airie nor Scratch seemed to mind. Hunter and Airie took turns carrying the little boy on the sand swift’s back since it would look strange for two men to ride tandem.
Occasionally, Scratch squirmed to be let down so he could walk too, most often when Airie was on foot. She held his small hand and sang to him, swinging his arm as they trudged along the wind-bared trai
l.
Other, less-traveled trails converged with the main one they followed at several points. Around midday, Hunter spotted a telltale cloud of dust in the air ahead of them that signaled a wagon train of significant size.
A new plan occurred to him. If the wagon train was reputable, he could inquire about having Airie and Scratch join it so he could ride ahead into Freetown. If he gave her detailed instructions, she could meet him after dark at a predetermined location inside the city gates.
The plan had merit. He had been worried about bringing danger to Blade’s home. The former assassin would have no difficulty in defending himself, but his crippled leg made protecting the women under his roof more complex, and Hunter disliked abusing their friendship.
A quiet entry into the city would be best for everyone.
As they drew close enough to see the wagons at the tail end of the train, Hunter, who was walking, caught the bit with his fingers and drew Sally to a stop. The sand swift shook its flat snout, leathery sides heaving, displeased at the delay when it scented both food and water so close.
“Wait here,” he said to Airie. He lifted Scratch from the saddle. “I want to see what’s ahead.”
She dismounted too, her long legs sliding elegantly to the ground, and he groaned out loud. She looked at him with puzzlement in her dark eyes, his reaction arresting her movements. “What’s wrong?”
He set Scratch on his feet. “You move like a woman.”
Airie thought about it. “I do,” she admitted. “I’ll try to remember not to do so in the future.”
His lips slid into a slow grin. “Only when you’re dressed like a man. Otherwise, having you move like a woman is preferable by far.” He nudged the boy toward the shelter of nearby rocks where he could escape the worst of the midday heat. “I won’t be long.”
By the time Hunter reached the lead wagon, the entire train was within sight of Freetown’s gates. He saw at once that its wares included a brace of slaves and almost turned back. The term slave was somewhat misleading. They were almost always women, intended for trade in the mining towns where life was hard and pleasure scarce. Hunter never dealt with such traders, although his reluctance at the moment stemmed more from uncertainty as to how Airie might react than from any personal preference.
Demon's Daughter (Demon Outlaws) Page 17
