Corran made his way across the garbage-strewn floor, chains clanking as he walked. Aiden looked up as he reached him, taking in the manacles as if noticing them for the first time. He placed a hand on each of Corran’s wrists, and the cuffs fell away.
“Help me get them out,” Aiden said.
Corran dropped to his knees, lifting away the stone, plaster, and wood. Aiden brought the lantern closer, and in its light, Corran could see a crimson rivulet snaking beneath the rubble. He caught his breath, fighting down panic, and kept digging.
Two beams and a large chunk of masonry trapped the bodies beneath them. “On three,” Aiden said to Corran, who squatted to grab a corner of the stone. They worked together to tip it off and away; once it was gone, moving the beams was easy enough. “Oh, gods.” Corran groaned, now that they could see the damage.
Damian’s body lay on top. Charred clothing stuck to the skin on his arms. Most of his hair had burned away, and the skull was misshapen where a heavy stone had smashed in the back of his head.
Corran shoved Damian’s body aside to get to Rigan. He reached for his brother’s wrist, fingers pressing into the skin to find a pulse, steady but slow. Blood streaked Rigan’s face and a shard of wood embedded itself like a dagger in his left arm. Blisters on Rigan’s hands testified to holding off his burning attacker, but although his clothing was singed and blackened in places, it was clear Damian had not set them both afire.
“He’s hurt, but he’s alive,” Aiden said after a rough triage. “Damian and Alton?”
Aiden shook his head.
Corran looked back toward the wall where Mir lay slumped and still. “Mir’s lost a lot of blood.”
“I know. I could feel it when I neared the building. I’ll do what I can for him, but I don’t know if it will be enough.” He rose stiffly, and gave Corran a hand up. “Come on. We need to get them back to the house.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
“I ’M GLAD YOU’RE on our side.” Rigan looked up at Aiden as he entered the room they had turned into a makeshift library. “A little foresight is wonderful thing.”
Aiden snorted. “Especially when it keeps you from running into a fight and getting blindsided.”
Rigan shrugged and looked away. “That bastard took Corran and Mir. He had it coming.” He paused. “Speaking of which—”
“You think you’re up to this?” Aiden glanced at Rigan’s hands, newly healed from the burns he had gained in his fight with the witch. Aiden had helped temper the headache from being thrown into a wall, but the rest of Rigan’s body was bruised and aching from head to toe.
“I don’t think we can afford to waste any time,” Rigan said, “ready or not. Someone sent assassins after the hunters. Not guards—assassins. And Damian didn’t betray the witches over a personal argument; he sold them out to someone important. The same someone wants us. I don’t think he’ll take ‘no’ for an answer.”
“We could leave Below, go outside the walls,” Aiden suggested. “We don’t have to fight this battle.”
“Or we could get our answers from the source, and know what we’re really up against.”
Aiden’s skeptical glance spoke volumes. “Don’t you think you should heal a little longer?”
“Do I have a choice?”
The healer closed the manuscript he had been reading. “Have you talked to Corran about what you want to do?”
Rigan’s jaw tightened. He turned away, a cold fury settling over him. “No. And I’m not going to.”
“He’ll be seriously annoyed about it.”
“Let him. It’ll be over by the time he wakes up.” Rigan took a deep breath and released the power that had begun to build as his anger rose. Aiden said nothing, but his raised eyebrow let Rigan know the healer had noticed the surge. “That son of a bitch betrayed our friends, tried to kill Corran, and intended to hand me over to his patron—” Rigan shook his head. “No. I’m doing this. You don’t have to.”
Aiden rolled his eyes. “I’m angry, too. I was there when Damian killed the others, remember? They were my friends for longer than you knew them.” He sighed. “I just wish you wouldn’t push it so soon after the fight.”
“The assassins will come again,” Rigan replied, barely recognizing the cold steel in his voice. “More of them, stronger. We need to root our enemy out, and his witch—stop the monsters, for good.”
The look on Aiden’s face told Rigan the healer knew he really could not argue with the logic, much as he wantd to do so. “All right, then. Where?”
“You’ve warded the house, and we’ve both put all the sigils and protections in place we can. We’ll be best protected if we do it here.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Then let’s do it.”
Much as Rigan hated to admit it, Aiden was right to question the wisdom of doing the rituals now. They were both tired from the fight. Rigan’s injuries hurt worse than he let on, though he doubted he could fool the healer. Worry over Mir and Corran’s injuries gnawed at Rigan, part of what drove him to seek answers sooner rather than later. And despite everything, Rigan had insisted on properly preparing Dilin’s body for burial. He was exhausted, heartsick and sore, but anger had kept him moving thus far, and he was counting on it to see him through this crucial task.
The rest of the house was quiet. Half of the hunters kept watch, while the others slept. Only Elinor and Polly looked up as they headed for the cellar.
“Surprised you’re still awake,” Elinor said. Her brows furrowed as she took in the rucksack Rigan carried. “And you’re up to something.”
“We’re going to the cellar for a while,” Rigan said, not eager to get into the details. “Can you make sure no one disturbs us?”
Elinor gave him a pointed look. “In other words, if Corran wants to know where you’ve gone, you want me to lie to him?”
Rigan winced. “Not lie. Just don’t volunteer anything.”
Elinor regarded him, eyes narrowing as if she could read his thoughts. “All right. But be careful. I’ll strengthen the wardings, just in case.”
Rigan gave her a tired, grateful smile. “Thanks.” The only good thing to come out of their time Below, other than that he and Corran were still breathing, was his relationship with Elinor. Not that I’m in any position to make any plans—or that I’ve got much of a chance of staying alive long enough to keep any promises. He pushed those thoughts away as Aiden lit a lantern and led the way to the cellar.
Rigan hung lanterns, illuminating the low, dark space. “Here,” he said, gesturing to the center of the room. “This will do nicely.”
“I’ve never seen you work this kind of magic,” Aiden said, unpacking their equipment.
“Until recently, I didn’t even think of it as magic.”
Rigan took the salt-aconite-amanita mixture and the pigments, and knelt in the middle of the floor. He drew in a deep breath and released it, grounding his power and stilling his thoughts. This work felt almost comforting in its familiarity. Banishing angry, restless spirits had been a regular part of their role as undertakers. For a moment, marking the sigils and connecting the salt lines felt so routine, so normal, that Rigan could almost fool himself into thinking that they were still Above, that Kell would be waiting for them with dinner at the end of the day. He closed his eyes, willing away the pain of loss, finding cold purpose as he finished the last of the lines and lit the candles.
Outside the circle lay a clipping of Damian’s singed hair. It would help them in calling to his spirit. Rigan had questions that needed to be answered.
He chanted the invocation and sat back on his heels, waiting. Aiden stood in a small salt circle of his own, over in the corner, holding an iron sword.
I should have known you wouldn’t let me rest.
Rigan looked up and saw Damian standing at the edge of the circle. He looked as he had before the attack, not the charred, unrecognizable corpse they had left in the abandoned building. Once, not long ago, Rigan had
almost trusted this man. Now, the desire for vengeance burned so hot that his fists clenched, and he wished he could kill the traitor all over again.
“Who’s your patron?” Rigan asked.
Why should I tell you? Even dead, Damian still sounded smug.
“Because grave magic is something I never needed your help to master. Because I can send your soul to the Dark Ones. You can either give me your confession willingly, or I can rip it from you word by word.”
Damian’s spirit glowered. It no longer matters to me, and it won’t help you, but I’ll tell you. The Lord Mayor’s blood witch sent me, Damian said. He was grateful when I took out the other witches, although they were a nuisance more than a threat to someone with his power. But you and the healer interested him. He leered. An undertaker with a powerful gift—that caught his fancy. He wanted you alive.
Rigan’s eyes widened, and Damian chuckled. Did you think I’d been sent to kill you? He shook his head. Now your brother, that was a different matter. No use for him other than leverage against you. You’ve attracted the notice of people in high places. It didn’t have to play out like this. If you had come willingly, done what they asked of you, they would have made it worth your while.
Rigan’s mouth tightened. “You mean, if I’d turned my back on Corran, forgotten that the guards and their monsters killed my brother, my mother, my father... if I’d abandoned my friends? What could they possibly give me to make any of that worth my while?”
Damian stared at him, as if he were a slow child. Power. Influence. Wealth. Leverage with the men who run the city-state and the League itself—even the Crown Prince.
“That’s why you did it? That’s what they promised you?”
“Men have been bought and sold for a lot less,” Aiden said, his voice cold, his disdain for Damian clear.
“Is the Lord Mayor the one using the monsters, or is it his witch?” Rigan asked.
Damian shrugged. I don’t know—he didn’t lay out his plans for me.
“What else?” Rigan’s patience was growing thin. “Tell me.”
Damian paused as if wondering whether Rigan would make good on his threat. The monsters are a tool. They keep the residents scared, make them accept the guards as a necessity. Can’t go getting any ideas about conspiring against the Lord Mayor or the Guild Masters if they’re always watching their backs. They keep the Balance.
“The Guild Masters don’t object, even when it’s their own members dying?”
Damian shrugged. Who cares what the Guild Masters think? “What’s the Balance?” Aiden asked.
The source of the dark magic needs to feed on fear and blood, said
Damian . It’s all about balancing the energy going in and the magic being worked. I’m not sure what exactly happens if the Balance isn’t kept, but I don’t think we want to know.
“How do we stop the Mayor’s blood witch?”
Blackholt? You can’t. He’s a lot stronger than you are, even than I was. And you lost your chance to come out ahead in this when you killed me. So now you get to die like the rest of them.
Rigan met Damian’s eyes. “Maybe. But I can send you into the Darkness before I go.” Rigan gestured, holding Damian’s spirit in place as he began to chant. Damian’s expression shifted from surprise to derision and then finally to panic. By then, it was too late. Rigan chanted loudly, ignoring Damian’s promises and imprecations.
He kept on chanting as the temperature of the cellar plummeted, sending chills through his body, misting his breath, raising a sheen of frost on the stone walls. Intent on his purpose, Rigan barely noticed Aiden raise his hands in a gesture of warding and protection, eyes wide. Damian shrank back when one wall of the cellar vanished, opening into a limitless void from which no soul or light returned.
Rigan’s chant rose in a crescendo. He thrust both his hands forward and Damian’s spirit stumbled backward. The spirit cried out, struggled to free itself, and then tendrils of the darkness lashed at him, snaring him by the arms and legs, drawing him into the void. With a roar and a rush of wind, the darkness vanished, leaving behind it an ordinary cellar wall.
Rigan’s head drooped forward and his arms fell to his sides. Damian was gone.
“Rigan?” Aiden’s voice was steady, though the expression on his face told Rigan that the healer had not been fully prepared for what happened.
“I’m fine.” Not quite true, but true enough.
“You don’t have to finish this tonight.”
“It won’t be easier any other night. We might as well find out what we’re really up against.”
“Corran will have my ass if you get hurt.”
Rigan snorted. “It’ll be a while before he’s up to thrashing you. I’ll recover by then.”
Rigan broke the circle and felt the wardings dissipate. He burned the lock of Damian’s hair, feeling the last connection to his spirit wink out. He put a uniform button in the place where the hair had been, and completed the salt line once more. Protective energy sprang up anew from the markings.
“This shouldn’t take long,” Rigan said. Once again, he chanted the summoning spell. This time, the ghost outside the salt line was one of the assassins that had nearly killed Corran and Mir.
Where am I?
“You’re a ghost. I’m an undertaker. Before I send your sorry soul into the After, I want to know who in the name of the gods sent you and your friend to kill us.”
The ghost considered his words for a moment. I was sworn to secrecy.
“And now you’re dead. You’ve done your duty.”
Why should I tell you?
“Because I can send you on, trap you here, or redirect you to somewhere you really don’t want to go.”
All right. You want to know who sent me? Jorgeson, the Lord Mayor’s head of security.
“Does he make a habit of sending assassins Below?”
The spirit barked a laugh. Hardly. Most of the time, my comrades and I moved among the top levels of the League. This job was... unprecedented.
“So why us?”
We were sent to kill the hunters.
“Why?”
The assassin shrugged. I don’t ask, and they don’t tell. They give me a mark, I hit it. Best that way all around.
“Are there other assassins after hunters who are still Above?”
The ghost frowned. I think so. That’s why I figured Jorgeson was using us instead of just having the guards do the job. The monsters have made the city folk restless. Half of them seem to think the hunters protect them, and the others think they’re just another type of monster. Our orders were to take you out quietly, no fuss, no witnesses.
Rigan was stunned. “How many assassins?”
Don’t know. They don’t give us the big plan, just our piece of it. If you mean, how many assassins are there in Ravenwood, in the League? He shook his head. Dozens in the city. Hundreds, in the League. The higher-ups keep us busy. We’re the soldiers in their private little wars. If we do our job, little problems don’t get bigger.
Rigan’s lip curled in disgust. “Yeah, you’re a real public servant.” This time, he tired more quickly when he read the banishing spell and opened the gateway, but he felt nothing as the ghost gave a final scream and disappeared into the void.
Rigan panted with the exertion, and a sheen of sweat covered his forehead even though the air in the cellar was cold enough he could see his breath. His arm felt leaden as he reached out to smudge the salt line, and it took the last of his reserves as he canceled out the sigils and extinguished the candles. Only then did he give in to the weariness, slumping onto his hands and knees as Aiden broke his own wardings and rushed to catch him.
“Did you hear?” Rigan asked as Aiden checked his pulse and looked him over for any injuries.
“I heard.” Aiden’s voice was even. Rigan dared a glance at the healer, expecting to see judgment in his gaze. He was surprised by the flat, practical expression.
“I know we guessed that the Lord Ma
yor and his mages were behind the monsters, but I needed more than intuition,” Rigan said. “I can’t lead the hunters against the Lord Mayor on just a hunch.” He looked up to meet Aiden’s gaze. “Taking the next step, it’s huge. We’re talking insurrection, treason. I had to be sure. This—this is real proof, right from the source.”
Rigan dropped his gaze. “You’re a healer. I figured you might have a problem with what I did,” he said, so tired his words almost slurred. “Might think I misused my magic.”
Aiden helped him lie down and went to fetch an elixir from his bag. “Drink this.” He held a cup to Rigan’s lips. “It’ll replenish you.”
He sat on his haunches. “As for misusing your magic, how do you think I took Alton down? I stopped his heart, before he even realized I was in the doorway. And then I put a knife through his chest, just in case.”
Rigan must not have hid his surprise, because Aiden gave a rueful chuckle. “Technically, healers aren’t supposed to do that. I imagine it’s a stain on my soul. But Alton and Damian killed my friends, and I wasn’t sure I could take Alton if it came to an all-out magic fight.”
“Practical,” Rigan said, arching an eyebrow.
“I could say the same about you.” Aiden helped Rigan to his feet. “When you’ve gotten some sleep, I’d like to hear more about these ‘soul confessions.’ But right now, I’d best get you up to bed or your brother will have something to say about it.”
Rigan thought about making a sarcastic retort, but he was too bone weary to come up with anything, and far too aware of how much help he needed just to climb the stairs. Corran’s temper became one more thing on his list to face in the morning, right after killer witches and assassins.
“YOU’RE REALLY STRUGGLING with this tonight.” Elinor looked up as Rigan gave a disgusted sigh and turned his back on a shattered vase, a melted and charred candle, and an overflowing pitcher brimming with water that spread out across the floor in a large, growing puddle.
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