Soulrazor (Blood Skies, Book 3)

by Steven Montano

  “How bad?” Kane asked.

  “Seriously bad,” Cross answered.

  “This power source can’t be the same as The White Mother’s,” Laros said slowly. “Divine power cannot be replicated.”

  “How many are there?” Cross asked, ignoring the mage.

  His thoughts weighed down with worry. Lucan, the doomed Black Scar prisoner, had held incredible power through his primal spirit, his connection to the lost avatar called The Woman in the Ice. Cross had seen that power, felt it, had even yielded it himself for a short time.

  “I saw dozens of these women in the Bonespire,” he repeated. “How many of these avatars have the Ebon Cities made?”

  “We’re not sure,” Laros answered. “We haven’t seen them in the field of battle yet. But if you’re right…”

  “Then we’re fucked,” Kane said matter-of-factly. He swiveled side to side in his chair with an elbow on his knee and his chin on his hand. “Swell.”

  Cross looked at the schematic again.

  “What else was in that cylinder?”

  “You worry about the task you’ve been given, Cross,” Pike said sternly. “Don’t overstep your bounds.”

  Cross wanted to argue, but he didn’t.

  “Fane has been somewhat cut off from the rest of the Southern Claw,” Pike went on. “They’re still on our side, but leadership in the wake of the Crucifix Point event has been somewhat erratic, and the disposition of the Hammer and Fist calls the city’s loyalties into question. For that reason, we need to send a clandestine unit to the excavation to find out what’s going on. We’ll give you the coordinates of the dig site, and all of the information we have on the city-state of Fane and its inhabitants, just in case you decide that you need to investigate the city, too.” He stood up. “Get down there. Find out what’s going on, and why the Ebon Cities is sending what looks like a new form of super-weapon into a secret digging operation out in the middle of nowhere.”

  Cross had expected Laros to make another argument why he shouldn’t be given the mission, or why he was too dangerously unstable to be trusted at all, but, surprisingly, he didn’t. Pike provided them with the coordinates they needed and gave them several files with the intelligence on Fane, and then both of the Southern Claw officers took their leave.

  It had been a while since the team had been sent on a long-distance mission. Fane was nearly 200 miles to the southeast, beyond The Reach and even past Wolfland, an inhospitable wasteland populated almost exclusively by Bloodwolves, the favored mounts of the Ebon Cities cavalry. The team had to make sure they brought enough supplies for the long voyage. Since Fane (or, at the very least, its leaders) might have been disloyal to the Southern Claw, there were no assurances they’d have the ability to restock their equipment if they found themselves running short.

  Maur and Ash ran diagnostics on the Darkhawk and prepped it for a lengthy flight. They’d had very little time to make repairs after the raid on the Bonespire, and Cross wasn’t surprised to learn the craft had suffered more than its share of minor damages. In the meantime, Kane and Grissom were on munitions detail, while Ronan handled the gathering of provisions and other supplies. Cross and Black went over the intelligence that Pike had given them on Fane.

  “This isn’t going to be any fun at all,” Black grumbled. They sat in her room and went over maps and reports. Black kept her quarters almost bare. Besides the bed and the dresser, which both looked like they’d never actually been used, she had a footlocker, a table stacked high with paranormal romance novels, and a weapons rack filled with knives, kukris, hatchets and swords.

  Cozy, Cross thought.

  “When was the last time we had any fun?” he said with a laugh. His strength was slowly returning, but he still felt like he’d been pelted with sticks.

  “We should try to stay out of Fane,” Black said, ignoring his comment. “Getting in would be easy, but we’d need to keep a low profile.” Black opened a folder, and compared a couple of dossiers side-by-side with one another. “A really low profile.”

  “What, is it really that bad?” Cross asked. “Even with the merchants in charge, aren’t there still Southern Claw regulars?”

  “Let’s just say that the Hammer and Fist have outsourced a bit,” Black said, and she read from one of the dossiers. “Wulf Ganz. Former Hunter, Rake Squad. Served near the Ebonsand. Discharged for improper conduct.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard of that guy,” Cross groaned. “He was using civilians as bait for the vampires…”

  “Yeah,” Black said. “Sounds like a charmer.”

  “I heard he was an asshole.”

  “It gets better,” she said, and she pulled up the second file. “Ever heard of the Raza?”

  Cross shuddered. The Raza was an all-female order of militant monks. They were witches, assassins, and cold-blooded killers who usually worked on the side of the Ebon Cities. Normally they only held control in armistice cities – city-states that had surrendered to the vampires in exchange for being allowed to live.

  “I’m familiar with them,” he said glumly. “That doesn’t bode well. No wonder Pike and Laros are suspicious about Fane.”

  “Oh, wait,” Black said, looking at yet a third dossier. “There’s more!” she laughed bitterly.

  “What?”

  “Troj.”

  “Ouch. Shit.”

  Troj were engineered giants, illegal bio-arcanic cross-breeds between Doj and Gorgoloth, eight-feet of scaly red flesh and mindless brutality rolled into a hulking package whose brains were artificially infused with the latest in military tactics and weapons training, and whose bodies were capable of rapidly regenerating almost any wounds they suffered. They were usually armed with heavy weapons and swords big enough to crush vehicles, and they were sold at an inordinate fee for use as mercenaries and enforcers. Because of their cost, Troj were hard to come by on the main continent. The insane warlocks who’d created the “trolls” bred them on a distant and remote island, and most of them were sold to pirates and self-proclaimed warlords in the Ebonsand Sea.

  “I don’t suppose it says how many of them there are?” Cross asked.

  “It doesn’t,” she said. “Only that they’ve been sighted in the area.”

  “Well…there’s a good chance we won’t need to go to Fane at all. So at least there’s that.”

  “I’d say the decision has been made for us,” she said. “Even if we’re on fire, possessed, and bleeding from both eyes, we should still stick to the dig site and stay the hell away from Fane.”

  Danica dropped all of the papers on the bed, leaned back, and stretched. Cross hated that he couldn’t look away, and he was just grateful that she didn’t catch him staring at her body as her dark shirt pulled tight against her chest.

  God, I need to get a life.

  “This is going to suck, Cross,” she said.

  “Probably,” he said after a moment. “And it’s probably a death trap. But we said that about breaking into the Bonespire…and here we are.”

  “Here we are,” she smiled. Her smile was intoxicating. Wisps of her dark red hair fell over her eyes. Cross felt something inside of him stir, and the way that she looked at him just then…

  “I need to get some sleep,” he blurted, not really sure why he said it.

  Black watched him for a moment.

  “Are you ok?” she asked. “Listen, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about…” She hesitated. “About that business with your spirit at the hospital…”

  “I’m fine,” he said, and he stood up. He was suddenly dizzy, and his spirit circled round him fast, which just added to his sense of vertigo. Her touch was freezing cold. “I’ll…be fine,” he corrected.

  “Cross,” Black said, and she stood up and put her hands on his arms to steady him. He sensed their spirits back away from one another, untrusting, not daring to touch. “Are you sure?” she said sternly. “No bullshit. If you don’t think you’re up to this…”

  “I’m fine,”
he insisted. “I just need to get some rest. That’s all.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she studied him.

  You don’t believe me, he thought. And well you shouldn’t. God, what the hell am I doing?

  “We can finish prepping the ship,” she said. “You get some sleep. Do you want me to get Rikeman?”

  “Actually…I’ll go and see him,” Cross said after he thought about it for a moment.

  “I’ll take you there,” Black said.

  “No,” Cross said. “No, I’m good. Just be sure to have everything ready. We need to take off by 0600 tomorrow. It’s going to be a long trip, and the sooner we get going, the better.”

  Black watched him with worry and suspicion, but after a moment she nodded.

  “Okay,” she said quietly. Her demeanor was cold again. “You’re the boss.”

  God damn it, he thought as he left her room and started down the stairs.

  The afternoon had worn long, and the sun dropped to a golden haze that shone through the muted silver clouds. Cross shivered, and he stopped to grab his HK and his armored coat before he moved through the front doors and into the crisp autumn air. A volley of leaves swept across his path as he passed through the main gates.

  I hate lying to you, Danica, he thought. But the fewer people that I have close to me tonight, the better.

  Cross wasn’t going to see Phil Rikeman. He had to see someone else that he hoped could help him. Someone much more dangerous.

  SEVEN

  MIDNIGHT

  Cross walked into the dead heart of the city. Shadows loomed, and the sound of his footsteps carried like cannon fire in the brittle air. Thick moonlight refracted off thickly-paned windows held behind iron grills. Frost dust covered the streets.

  There weren’t many people out at that time of night, and those few that were kept buried beneath dark cloaks or heavy winter coats. Walking through the maze of tall buildings was like navigating a canyon of steel and stone.

  Cross checked his HK and his blade, which he wore upside down with the tip of the scabbard at his shoulder so he could draw it underhanded from behind his back. He wore a dark cloak that masked his identity, and moved swiftly to stay out of plain sight. By now Black and the others were doubtlessly wondering where he was, especially if Danica had decided to go and find him at the hospital, but he didn’t want to head back to the manor until he had all of the information that he needed. And only one person could help him with that.

  Warfield wasn’t to be found at her hiding hole, but her nameless servant – an enormous man with midnight-dark skin and silver runes that made him look like his flesh was covered in metal webs – assured Cross he’d arrange a meeting. After an hour spent wandering around the outskirts of The Dregs, Cross returned to the man and was told that he could meet Warfield at the Grey Angel at midnight.

  Figures, he thought bitterly. The one time I’m not interested in getting into her pants, and she wants to meet me at a brothel.

  The Grey Angel was located at the top of a short hill near the center of the city, where it stood amidst a network of dark-stone buildings connected by thin bridges, steel wires and communication tubes. Each of the thirty-foot towers was rickety and ancient, and the stone used to construct the cluster of buildings was so black that on a dark night they were almost impossible to see. The entire district was a haven for illegal activity in Thornn, and the only reason that the entire zone hadn’t been firebombed years ago was because the black marketers, arms dealers and other shadier citizens of the city so often provided under-the-table assistance to the Southern Claw.

  As he approached the cluster of buildings – The Teeth, as they were sometimes known – Cross felt like he’d walked up to the gates of some fairy-tale castle.

  Castles filled with prostitutes, drug dealers and hoodlums. Oh, my!

  His spirit reconnoitered the area ahead. She was reluctant to do so, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Ever since the incident at the hospital she’d acted either timid or downright angry, and try as he did Cross couldn’t bring her down to a stable emotional state. She just stayed angry and on edge, and that was a uniquely dangerous position for both of them to be in. Cross wasn’t sure if he even wanted to trust her with the task of checking for enemy sentries.

  Luckily for him, she was able to perform her duties just fine, and while Cross stood freezing in the dark alcove of a half-ruined structure his spirit moved away in a swirl of dissonant steam and wound her way up the sides of the towers like a spectral snake.

  Her vaporous essence moved around every living thing that she detected, and she made contact just long enough to verify any given creature’s existence and type. Any being that she touched would, at best, feel a slight chill at her passing.

  She returned to him just a few seconds later, charged with adrenaline and excitement, and she imparted to him the fact that a trio of armed men stood high in the tower and watched for unwanted guests. He was able to keep them in sight when he stepped out into the street and approached the tower that housed the Grey Angel.

  A dank moat filled with metal refuse and filthy rainwater surrounded that tower, and the only way to access the building was to use a rickety bridge made from tin plates strung together with chains. Cross watched the windowless face of the tower as he slowly made his way across. The bridge was incredibly unstable, and he held his breath the entire time. The darkness beneath him wasn’t as deep as it looked, but that wouldn’t matter with all of the shrapnel and razor-edged debris that waited at the bottom.

  Cross flashed some currency so the grey-clad bouncer on the other side of the steel-plated door would let him through. The door was three-inches thick, and the metal hall beyond was covered in scratches and acid burns.

  These guys seriously need to consider redecorating.

  It had been some time since Cross had visited the Grey Angel. He’d been a frequent customer a few years back, when he and Graves came to visit lovely ladies like Isis, Miranda, Cassiope and Julei. But as time wore on and he started to see the weariness of the profession suck those girl’s souls away, Cross grew less and less inclined to promote a business that slowly killed its workers. Getting laid, he’d decided, wasn’t worth the damage done to his conscience.

  One could never guess the posh nature of the Grey Angel from its gritty industrial shell. As soon as Cross exited the outer hall and entered the main chamber he was assaulted with the smell of rosemary and cinnamon, vanilla and hyacinth, and a variety of exotic eastern perfumes. The air was filled with powder and sweat. The acrid taste of tobacco and hashish was strong enough that Cross got a buzz just walking into the place.

  The main chamber of the Grey Angel was an enormous circular dance room filled with a dozen small tables and one massive central staging area that, so far as Cross knew, had never actually been used. Scantily clad women of all shapes, sizes, hair color and age wandered through the room, and they rubbed up close against the equally varied patrons of the Grey Angel, an establishment that catered to soldiers, ruffians, mercenaries and street merchants, men of means but not necessarily with a great deal of panache or class.

  Armed sentries and a pair of gargoyle bouncers ensured that the Grey Angel’s patrons behaved, and it was common knowledge that anyone who acted violently towards one of the girls would suffer serious consequences. The fact that the Grey Angel was reputedly controlled by a former soldier with ties to the powerful smuggling ring called The Shard lent some credence to those rumors, as did the level of security on display.

  Hard music pounded through the air, heavy tribal drums and liquid beats, guttural chants and garbled and distorted vocals. Cross smelled wine and musk. The air was so thick it slid down his throat like tainted honey. His eyes stung and his head throbbed.

  A barred chamber at the back of the main room held a cashier aided by a pair of large men with shotguns. Customers paid for “tokens”, which were then redeemed for company with a young lady in any of the smaller rooms located in the labyrinth beneath
the tower. The upper floors were reserved for security posts and administrative offices, and access could only be gained via an archaic freight elevator with a sliding iron grille and massive handles that looked like tank controls.

  Cross recognized Payne, a dark-skinned man with bladed flame tattoos on his neck and arms who dressed in a flak vest and camouflage pants but wore no shirt. Cross could never figure out why he wore sunglasses in the darkness of the club. Payne also wore a Glock 17 in a shoulder holster rig and a pair of large silver daggers in wrist scabbards.

  “Howdy, Payne,” Cross said.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “Good, good,” Cross said with a smile. “Glad to hear it. Up, please.”

  Cross tried to step into the elevator, but Payne put a hand on his chest.

  “Nah,” Payne grinned.

  “Uh…yeah. Warfield is expecting me.”

  “Warfield is busy.”

  “Payne,” Cross said. His spirit coalesced around his fingers, invisible but warm, like a fiery gel. Cross took in a ragged breath. She was growing stronger. “You need to take me up there,” he said with a slow and controlled tone. “Please.”

  “Turn around,” Payne said with his gleaming white smile. “And piss off.”

  Cross didn’t need his spirit to take Payne by the wrist, spin him around and force him to his knees. Payne reached for his gun, but Cross had his own out first, and he pushed the HK against Payne’s temple and pulled him into the elevator.

  “I did say ‘Please’, right?” he said. “Take me to her. Now.”

  Payne quietly did as he was told. The elevator lurched to life and groaned upwards past two more floors filled with dancing and lewd behavior. Images flashed through the grilled elevator door: naked flesh and open wine barrels, clouds of hashish and discarded clothes and armor.

  He took his gun off of Payne. His spirit was coiled and ready to strike, and her effect on the air was so poisonous he was certain even a non-mage could detect the volatility of her power and presence.