“Shit,” Ross muttered. “I really hope you’re wrong.”
“So do I,” Corran replied fervently, although a sinking suspicion in his gut made him doubt they could be so lucky.
Corran and Ross helped Trent onto his horse and dragged themselves onto their mounts with much cursing and difficulty. Polly and Aiden awaited them on the vineyard road. “Thanks,” Corran said. “It looked pretty bad, there for a moment.”
Polly grinned. “Why should you have all the fun?”
“What happened to the ghouls, there at the end? Was that your doing?” Ross asked.
Aiden nodded. “Yeah. Sorry, I didn’t think of it sooner, but I’m still getting used to using healing magic as a weapon.” He grimaced, making it clear that he remained conflicted about going against his vows. “I realized that whatever makes the ghouls able to move, it’s not life energy. So I wondered if I could disrupt it, and let the natural decay take over, even speed it up a little.”
“You’re brilliant,” Trent said, unable to hide how ragged his voice sounded.
“And if it eases your conscience,” Corran added, “think of how many injuries you prevent in the living by using your magic against the undead.”
Aiden nodded, although he did not look fully convinced. “I know. That’s what I tell myself, anyhow. But I’ve been known to lie.”
“Did you see them catch fire?” Polly’s grin lit up her face. “Doesn’t bother me at all to light those undead bastards up. They burn real pretty.”
Corran gave Polly a skeptical look. “Sometimes you scare me a little, Polly.”
Her grin widened. “Then I’m doing things right,” she retorted. “I’m the one you have to thank for the oil lamp bombs. Found some empty lamps around the monastery that would work.”
“How did you know to come after us?” Ross asked.
Aiden and Polly shared a look. “I had a vision,” Aiden confessed. “Elinor said she could handle Mir, and Rigan seemed to be doing better, so we grabbed what we could and followed you. Calfon stayed behind to protect them, just in case.”
“You saved our asses,” Corran replied. “Thanks.”
Aiden shrugged. “Happy to help.”
Ross glanced at Aiden. “When we’re all patched back together, is there any way for your magic to tell whether someone is still summoning monsters? We didn’t think that out here we’d run into more of the things we fought in the city. It’s one thing if they’re left over from what was done before. But if Blackholt wasn’t the only one—”
Aiden’s expression turned grim. “I’ve never tried to detect blood magic,” he replied. “Even thinking about it makes me feel like I need a bath.” He shivered. “I can see what the old books and manuscripts have to say. But yes—theoretically—it should be possible.” The set of his jaw made it clear to the others that Aiden did not relish the task.
They rode back in silence, worried that guards would come or others in response to the fire. When they put a good distance between them and the burning vineyard, thoughts turned to brigands or monsters lurking in the shadows, awaiting unwary travelers. Fortunately, the only travelers they saw were a small group of Wanderers with horses and wagons, and Corran wondered if the nomads were equally desperate as they were to escape attention.
They had seen little of the secretive group since they fled the city, fleeting glimpses now and again on the road, or of a camp in a field on the outskirts of town or down along the banks of the river. They chalked their sigils on trees and stone fences, and on the wooden posts that marked the distance to faraway villages. Corran had no way of knowing whether these Wanderers had also been among those driven out of Ravenwood City, or whether they hailed from other parts of the kingdom. Rigan still believed that the Wanderers had a part to play in defeating the monsters, but so far, Corran remained unconvinced of the strength of their magic, or their willingness to lend their aid.
Relief surged through Corran as they reached the monastery. But his satisfaction at having made it back in one piece faded when Elinor waited for them inside the hidden stairwell.
“Come quickly,” she urged. “It’s Rigan. He’s having nightmares, and I can’t get him to wake up.”
Aiden turned to Polly and Elinor. “They’re hurt,” he said, with a jerk of his head to indicate the hunters. “Why don’t you two do what you can to patch them up? I’ll see to Rigan.”
“I’m coming with you.” Corran knew he looked as bad as Trent and Ross. He felt dizzy with blood loss, his head pounded, and he had turned his ankle badly running through the vineyard. None of that mattered, not when he could hear Rigan’s strangled cries echoing down the corridor.
“Come on then,” Aiden snapped, clearly unhappy but not willing to fight about it. He took off at a run for Rigan’s room, with Corran limping behind as quickly as he could push his battered body.
By the time Corran reached the room, Aiden was already kneeling beside Rigan’s bed. A sheen of sweat covered Rigan’s forehead, and his damp shirt clung to his body. His face looked pale, and his eyes tracked frantically beneath closed lids.
“Come on Rigan, wake up!” Aiden urged, taking one of Rigan’s wrists to feel for his pulse. “His heart is practically beating out of his chest,” he muttered. “Feels like he ran a mile at full speed.”
Rigan’s arms flailed, tearing loose from Aiden’s grip, and he arched up, crying out in distress. His eyes snapped open, wide, frantic, and unseeing.
“Is it a curse?” Corran asked. He clung to the doorframe to keep himself on his feet.
Aiden shook his head. “No; at least, I don’t think so. The monasteries were warded against dark magic, and from everything we could find, the protections still hold.”
“Then what’s going on and how do we stop it, dammit?”
Rigan’s whole body went rigid, straining so hard against an unseen threat that the cords stood out on his neck and his hands clawed at the bedding. A low moan rose to a full-throated scream, reverberating in the small stone room. The sound coupled with a splitting headache nearly drove Corran to his knees.
“Something’s hurting him. How do we stop it?” Corran grated.
Aiden chanted quietly as he traced invisible sigils on Rigan’s skin. At first, nothing changed, but after a few minutes, Rigan collapsed onto the bed, panting for breath, eyes closed. Not long after that, he drew a deep breath, and his whole body went limp. His head lolled to one side, and the hands that had drawn up fistfuls of blanket relaxed.
“What’s wrong?” Corran staggered across the room and fell more than knelt next to the bed. He wrapped his fingers around Rigan’s wrist, reassured when he felt the steady beat of his brother’s heart.
“He’s through it now. I imagine he’ll sleep for quite a while. I suspect that may have started as a nightmare, but it became something else. A vision—perhaps even a sending.” Aiden reached for the pulse point in Rigan’s neck, and a satisfied smile touched his lips.
“Sending?”
Aiden gave him a look. “Don’t ask me—you two are the ones who are on speaking terms with an Elder God.”
Corran caught his breath. “You think that might have been Eshtamon giving him a message?”
Aiden shrugged. “We’ll have to wait for Rigan to wake up and tell us. But it’s possible. That would explain why we couldn’t wake him. I don’t imagine gods like to be interrupted.”
When their brother Kell was murdered by guards and monsters, Rigan and Corran had prayed to Eshtamon, an Elder God, the patron of vengeance. Eshtamon appeared to them and agreed to help them avenge Kell, and in return, they were to be his champions. He made them stronger, harder to kill. Only later did they discover that most who prayed to the Elder Gods were not addressed by name and given a quest. Corran and Rigan got their vengeance the night Machison and Blackholt died, but it appeared that Eshtamon had further use of their services.
Corran sat hard on the stone floor, feeling the crash after the adrenaline of the night’s activities. �
��I’ll sit with him.”
Aiden glared. “He’s out cold. Probably will stay that way until morning—or longer. You need food, healing, and some whiskey—not necessarily in that order.”
Corran cast a worried glance at Rigan and then nodded. “All right,” he agreed reluctantly. “But I’m coming back once we’re done.”
“I’ll send Elinor back when I take over with the others,” Aiden said.
“I’m too tired to argue with you,” Corran replied.
Aiden stood and offered Corran a hand up. Corran winced as he got to his feet, painfully aware of how much he needed Aiden’s help.
“Let’s see to you, so you’re not passed out when Rigan comes around,” the healer said.
Two candlemarks later, Corran returned to Rigan’s room. Elinor had set out a pallet and blankets on the floor beside Rigan’s bed. She sat on the side of Rigan’s cot and twined her fingers with his.
“He hasn’t stirred,” she told Corran, looking up. “But it seems to help if I talk to him. He didn’t wake up, but he stilled like he could hear what I was saying, even if he couldn’t respond.” She reached over to press a kiss to Rigan’s forehead. “You’re probably exhausted,” she added, looking up at Corran as she gathered her skirts and stood. “I’ll let you get some rest.”
Corran eased himself down to kneel, and pushed Rigan’s hair out of his face, feeling for a fever out of old habit, like he had when his brother was younger. To his relief, Rigan’s skin felt cool, and he looked peaceful, breath regular and heartbeat strong.
“Don’t scare me like that,” Corran murmured. “I can fight monsters, but magic…” He let his voice trail off. He knew how to protect his brother against physical threats, but aside from the grave magic that came with being an undertaker, he possessed no special powers of his own. When Rigan first struggled to control his magic, he had worried Corran would fear him. It had taken Corran some time to make Rigan believe that while he might be afraid for his brother, not fully understanding the burden that magic placed on him, he was never afraid of him.
Assured that Rigan slept peacefully, Corran let himself down gingerly onto his pallet, wincing at every movement. He had accepted Aiden’s help with the gashes inflicted by the ghouls; those would have gone sour. Food and whiskey eased his headache, while sleep and time would take care of his aching muscles. Corran stretched out, gathered the blankets around him, and slept.
When he woke, the candle in the lantern by Rigan’s bedside had burned out, leaving the room dark. Corran lit the wick from the banked embers in the fireplace. He passed a hand over his face, uncertain how long he had slept. The hidden underground rooms beneath the monastery were safe but lightless. Corran glanced at the fireplace. From the amount of ash in the embers, he guessed he had slept several candlemarks, possibly through until morning. With a weary sigh, he put a log on the fire and blew on the embers until flames danced, licking at the wood.
Flames. Fire. Unbidden, memories of the fight at the vineyard came back to Corran, and he rocked onto his heels, remembering the narrow escape. In the next breath, he recalled Rigan’s nightmares, and turned, lifting the lantern to get a better look at his brother.
Rigan lay tangled in the bedclothes, sound asleep. He turned on his side and made a quiet snuffle, reassuring Corran that all was well. Corran let out a sigh of relief and startled when his stomach growled. With a backward glance at Rigan, Corran left the room and went in search of breakfast.
He found the others in the small room they used as their kitchen. None of them looked very awake, as they waited for the pot of coffee to boil in the fireplace. Bread, smoked meat, and hard boiled eggs lay on the table for them, along with some fresh fruit harvested from the trees behind the monastery. Corran was hungry enough to consider it a feast.
“Feeling better?” Polly asked, arching a brow at Corran as he sat.
“Much,” Corran replied, surprised to realize that was actually true.
“How’s Rigan?” Elinor asked. She looked tired, still in her nightdress with a thin robe pulled around herself, hair askew.
“Still sleeping,” Corran reported. “But he didn’t wake me last night, so no more nightmares, or whatever they were.”
Aiden looked up, blearily-eyed. “Good. Very good. Mir slept as well. With luck, they’ll both be up and around soon.”
“Trent said you think we might not have seen the end of conjured monsters.” Calfon sat at the end of the table, annoyingly awake.
Polly brought over the pot of coffee and Corran reached for it, earning him a slap on the wrist. “Don’t rush me,” she reproved, but her expression softened her tone. She set the pot in the middle of the table. “Leave some for the others. I’ve got another brewing. Figured it was a two-pot morning.” She dusted off her hands on her apron and sat down beside Aiden.
“Ghouls,” Corran said in reply to Calfon and recounted what had taken place at the vineyard since neither Trent nor Ross had come to breakfast. When he finished, Calfon rocked back in his chair, his expression thoughtful.
“It would make sense if there were more,” he said slowly, thinking about his response. “Not only ones that might have gotten out of the city by accident, but others conjured here, to keep the villagers cooperative,” he added, distaste clear in his voice. “And maybe we were fooling ourselves, but why would Machison be the only one with a pet witch who could summon and control monsters? I mean, the Lord Mayor has power, but there are a lot of others with plenty of money to hire a witch to do their bidding. The Crown Prince, the nobles—even the king himself.”
The room fell silent as the implications of Calfon’s statement sank in. They looked at each other in horror.
“Do you really think that they might all have blood witches of their own?” Corran managed when he could find his voice.
Calfon shrugged. “Why not? We weren’t used to worrying about anyone higher up than the Lord Mayor—or maybe the Merchant Princes—back in the city. But I’ve been thinking about it, and it would make sense. They all want the upper hand. And they’re accustomed to getting what they want.”
Corran felt numb. “Where does it all end, then? Machison and Blackholt—they were within our reach. But if this goes higher, how can we possibly stop it?”
“Is it ours to stop?” Calfon countered. “We wanted justice for the people we lost to the guards and monsters, and we got that. We’re tradesmen. Maybe it’s not our fight.”
“No, we’re outlaws, and we’re monster hunters,” Elinor replied, raising her head. Resolve glinted in her eyes. “And the people out here who are dying have families, too.”
“We can’t save everyone,” Aiden said quietly. “Though, gods know, I wish it were otherwise.”
“No, but we can kick the arses of the monsters we can find, and kill the sons of bitches that sent them,” Polly declared, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s not like we can settle down and go about our business. We’re wanted criminals,” she added with pride, lifting her chin.
“We don’t have to do it alone,” Corran mused aloud. “If it turns out to be true, then we can recruit from the villages, train their people to hunt. We might not be able to save everyone, but if we teach others—then maybe together we can stop the slaughter.”
Calfon regarded him for a second before speaking. “Sounds reasonable. I’m in.”
“Me too,” Polly said with a grin.
Aiden and Elinor nodded assent. Corran felt a twist in the pit of his stomach. Gods above and below, for all we know this could set us against the king himself. It’s suicidal. But how can we do otherwise?
Corran cleared his throat. “I’d better go check on Rigan,” he said, finding an excuse to make his exit. He hurried to put together a plate of food for his brother and grabbed a cup of coffee, and then gratefully left the others to their discussion.
“Are you awake?” Corran asked quietly when Rigan stirred as he entered the room
Rigan groaned, then nodded, not bothering to op
en his eyes. “Yeah. What day is it?”
Corran chuckled, opening the shutters on the lamp to provide more light. He got a good look at Rigan and breathed a sigh of relief. Sleep had done wonders. The dark shadows beneath Rigan’s eyes were fading, and he looked less haggard. “Not sure. I slept hard, too. Damned difficult to tell day from night down here.”
Rigan chuckled at that. Corran sat on the edge of his bed, and handed over the plate of food, putting the cup of coffee on the nightstand. Rigan tore into the breakfast like a starving man. Corran watched him eat, hoping that a healthy appetite was a good sign.
“How did the hunt go?” Rigan asked with a mouthful of bread.
“Not as well as we hoped,” Corran said with a sigh. “Ghouls.”
Rigan wrinkled his nose. “Ugh.”
Corran shrugged. “We did all right, killing the ones inside the winery. But we all got beaten up pretty badly, and then there were more ghouls waiting outside.”
Rigan’s eyes widened as Corran recounted the rest of the adventure. “And then I came home to see you thrashing and wailing,” he added, passing a hand over his face and running it through his hair. “Honestly, some days, there isn’t enough whiskey in the world to cope with what we have to put up with.”
Rigan finished his breakfast and laid his plate aside. He still looked pale, but his eyes were clear.
“Tell me about the dreams,” Corran urged. “Nightmares. Visions. Whatever they were, they really knocked your feet out from under you.”
Rigan sighed and closed his eyes. “It started out as a nightmare. I was back in Ravenwood, the night everything went to shit. Bringing Kell back from the warehouse. Cleaning him up for burial.” His voice caught, and he swallowed hard. “Seeing the shop burn. But in the nightmare, the guards were right on our heels, and then when we got Below, Damian was standing in the witches’ house in the middle of all the bodies, he’d just killed them, and—”
“What?” Corran prompted.
Vengeance Page 12
