Brimstone Angels (41 page)

There were moments when Mehen’s thoughts seemed to clear enough for the dragonborn to realize he was in a terrible predicament. No amount of effort would let him move his limbs—not even to take the healing potion clipped to his falchion’s harness and take care of the broken wrist that lay swollen and screaming across his lap. He could not respond to anything except direct questions. When Brin had stumbled into the room Rohini had left Mehen sitting in, he could do nothing but glare at the boy, willing him to notice the fact that Mehen would never have sat still while his daughters were missing and the fact that Mehen would have told him off instead of giving the boy the silent treatment.

Something is
wrong
, you
kosjor
, he fought to roar. But his throat didn’t so much as twitch for all the effort, and Brin had wandered off puzzled.

Fari and Havi were missing—broken planes, why didn’t the horror of that shake loose his paralysis? He had the vague memory, like a dream that he couldn’t quite shake, of Farideh watching him with a worried expression, of Havilar hugging him around the neck, but no more would come. Surely … surely … they’d just wandered off?

That didn’t soothe his nerves at all. How could he have let this happen?

The memory of Havilar throwing her arms around his neck thickened, and he heard her say, “… is a devil, and you’re the only one …”

A devil. Lorcan. Shattered realms, he thought, don’t let this be Lorcan’s doing. He knew he ought to have killed the bastard.

But then there was another memory that crackled and popped and seemed to fight against him: A red-haired woman, a group of orcs, Arjhani … Arjhani, all apologies and promises. Had he any control
he’d blush at the shame of still wanting Arjhani, after the way he’d left things. That had to be a dream.

The door banged open, and a young man Mehen had never seen before looked in. Whip thin, in dark armor stained with blood, the man looked at Mehen as if he were the last, lame horse left in the hostler’s string. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and stepped into the room.

“Listen,” he said, “I know you don’t like me, but forget that for a moment. Farideh’s in trouble.” When Mehen didn’t answer, he glanced down at himself and cursed. “It’s Lorcan. I’ll explain the look another time. Now, come help me.”

Mehen would have grabbed Lorcan by the throat and shaken him until he told Mehen what had happened, why Farideh was in danger, and what in the Hells Lorcan had done.

“Did you hear what I said?” Lorcan snapped. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting,” Mehen said automatically. He lifted his gaze to Lorcan’s, but did not stand. “Waiting for orders.” He frowned … the red-haired woman was Rohini … Rohini was the one giving orders …

“Orders?” Lorcan peered at Mehen a moment. “Beshaba, shit in my eyes—Rohini’s dominated you, hasn’t she?” Mehen said nothing, only glared at him. Why couldn’t Brin have been the one to figure that out?

Something lit Lorcan’s eyes, and a slow smile crept over face. “You’re allowed to answer questions, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But nothing else. That’s rather sloppy of her.” He stepped between Mehen and the lantern and stooped down to look the dragonborn in the eye. “Didn’t give you permission to take care of that arm either.” He reached down and plucked the healing potion from Mehen’s harness. “And, look, she forgot to allow you to defend yourself.” Lorcan shuddered as he drank the potion down.

“Why,” he said, drawing his sword, “you’re practically useless.”

The tip of the sword pricked against the softer scales of Mehen’s throat, but Lorcan seemed to be taking his time. If he thought he stirred fear up in Clanless Mehen, he was sorely mistaken: all the devil did was stoke the dragonborn’s rage.

“It’s not as if you wouldn’t do the same,” Lorcan said. “Rid your little girl of what might harm her, hmm?”

“I haven’t yet,” Mehen replied, not the torrent of threats he’d have liked to unleash at Lorcan’s accidental question, but the simple truth. Much as he’d like to unmake the brazen bastard, he hadn’t.

The sword point eased off.

“You hadn’t the chance,” Lorcan corrected. “I know as well as anyone I’m no one to trust.”

Mehen would have agreed heartily with that. But he still hadn’t ever tried to kill Lorcan. And while he’d never come upon Lorcan trapped in his own body in a dark and quiet room, he’d certainly let his soldier’s mind plan how to kill the cambion a hundred different ways.

Lorcan seemed to be thinking the same thing. He lowered the sword and glowered at Mehen. “She thinks you haven’t made her break the pact because you don’t like priests. But I can’t imagine there’s a body out there you hate that much more than me. So why haven’t you?”

Mehen listened for his own voice—it was a good question. How many nights had he made up his mind to march her straight to the nearest cleric, well-rehearsed in the best ways to feel out a church’s stance on tieflings, unbelievers, and accidental warlocks? As many times as he’d thought of beating Lorcan senseless. And yet, every morning, he seemed to push those decisions aside, to wait for another time, another worry.

“Because,” he heard himself say, after a long moment, “if she doesn’t decide for herself, then it means nothing.”

Lorcan’s lip curled. “And I’ll ruin things sooner or later.” He glared off at a spot on the ground, then cursed. “She’s smart. Smarter than you or I give her credit for. If I killed you, she’d figure out what happened, and as much as I’d like to think she’d see the merit in being free of your meddling, it’s far more likely she’d spit in my face.” He sheathed the sword. “I still need her. And I’m fairly certain—with Rohini after her—I’m of a use to her as well.”

Mehen felt sure he would never get so near to respecting Lorcan again.

“Where is Rohini?” Lorcan asked.

“Away from here,” Mehen replied.

“Is she in the Hells?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long has she been gone?”

“I don’t know.”

Lorcan sighed. “I suppose you’ll have to find out what Rohini intends to do with you after all. I don’t doubt Farideh will insist we come back for you. But you can respect that I’ll get her out if I can.”

“And Havilar,” Mehen said.

Lorcan startled. “You … the domination’s wearing, isn’t it? Can you move?”

“Yes, and no.” There, the words came as before—a reply shaped only by the need of the question. He had no control over questions. But the spells binding his tongue were certainly loosening a bit.

Lorcan cursed. “Not fast enough. How long has—” He broke off in a sharp gasp as something struck him across the back, and he hit the floor. Brin stood over the cambion, holding Havilar’s glaive in an awkward grip.

The corner of Mehen’s mouth twitched upward. He might be forced to reconsider his opinion of Brin as well.

Lorcan reached back and cast a bolt of foul magic at the boy. Brin darted aside, but his feet caught on the length of the glaive and he tripped. Well, Mehen amended, not too much.

The energy started to swell in Lorcan’s hands again, but spotting Brin, he seemed to rein himself in. He regarded Brin with the same distaste and uncertainty he’d favored Mehen with, and ultimately sighed and shifted to his feet.

“The not-quite paladin. Good. Get your holy self in here and wipe the domination from Mehen. Then I need you to get Farideh out of a church.”

Brin blinked owlishly at him. “I’m … sorry? Where’s Farideh?”

“What is so hard about this? She’s holed up in a church on the other side of the city,” Lorcan said, his temper rising. “I obviously can’t go in. I need someone to go in and convince her to come out. Mehen, preferably. So hurry up.”

“Who …” Brin squinted at him in the dim light. “Lorcan?”

Lorcan scowled. “Who else? Hurry up, before she does something foolish.”

“Why does she need to leave a church?” Brin said. He came to his feet, a little unsteadily, but managed to scoop up Havilar’s glaive at the same time. “And what did you do to Mehen?” He squinted at Lorcan again. “And why would you think I’d help you?”

“You’re not helping me,” Lorcan said, steering him over to the dragonborn. “You’re helping Mehen. He’s under a domination which I had nothing to do with, I’ll thank you to notice; that is Rohini’s doing. And he’s probably beaten to the Ninth Layer and back. That arm doesn’t look good.”

Brin kneeled in front of Mehen, looking at his injuries and waving a hand in front of Mehen’s eyes. “Why can’t he talk?”

“Part of the spell,” Mehen snapped.

“Just do your magic,” Lorcan said, “and fix it.” He glanced back at the doorway. “Where’s Havilar?”

“I don’t know,” Brin said, pulling a silvery medallion from his pocket. “I was hoping she was with Farideh.” Lorcan said nothing, but Mehen didn’t miss the sudden tightness of the cambion’s expression.

“Afraid?” Mehen managed.

“Never, if I can help it,” Lorcan retorted. “Do the damned prayer.”

Brin took a deep breath. “Loyal Fury, aid this servant of your justice.”

Nothing happened.

Lorcan covered his face with his hands. “Have you actually managed to fall in the last two days?”

“No!” Brin laid his hand again on Mehen’s battered arm. “It just … It doesn’t always work. I’m not a paladin. Loyal Fury,” he intoned, “aid this servant of your justice.”

This time there was a weak ringing sound, and a flash of light from the medallion spread over Mehen’s broken arm. The bones knitted with a
crack
and a pain that made Mehen wish he could cry out. It was still swollen, still tender, but the worst was fixed.

Lorcan peered down at Mehen. “You’re still dominated, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Mehen said irritably.

“Do it again.”

Brin began to speak the words of the prayer yet again, when Mehen felt the magic of the domination slowly begin to surge.
Rohini was returning. He fought to speak, but his tongue wouldn’t move. He fought to stand, to push the young men aside, but his legs refused. He fought to shake his head, to signal them to stop, but only managed to twitch to one side.

A burst of light exploded out of Brin’s hands and over Mehen’s skin, and for a moment, the dragonborn couldn’t breathe, there were so many ghosts and promises choking off his heart. When the light cleared, he saw Brin standing unsteadily, one hand pressed to his forehead.

“That … I shouldn’t …”

The part of the spell that bound Mehen’s voice snapped, weakened by Brin’s magic or perhaps just Mehen’s determination. The power of Rohini’s magic pressed against him like a wave, ready to overtake him.

“Flee, damn it!” Mehen roared. “She’s coming!” The domination swelled again, silencing him and forcing his mind down under Rohini’s.

Coalescing into herself, the disembodied fragments of Rohini’s awareness realized first that she had no sense of how much time had passed; second, that her head ached as if it were ready to split.

The room came next, and the hand she pressed to her temple. The darkness. She sat up from the cot she lay on and made her form flow into the shape of the kind-faced hospitaler once again. The rain spattering the windows.

She remembered the rain starting. She couldn’t have lost too much time.

Rohini rolled her shoulders and stood. Killing the Ashmadai had probably not been exactly what Invadiah had planned—but that was Invadiah’s fault for not being clearer. Along with a hundred other slights. When Glasya had ordered her to serve under Invadiah, Rohini had—of course—not voiced her horror, but there had not been a second that she hadn’t suspected the arrangement was some sort of punishment for one or both of them.

She ought to be rewarded for waiting this long to lash out, she thought. If anyone got angry, she could just point to Lorcan. Simple and clean.

Almost. She was still furious with herself for picking the wrong twin. She’d held the rod, but she should have been certain. She should have been careful. She swept into the disused cell where she’d left the dragonborn, silent and waiting.

“How are you feeling?” she asked Mehen.

“Numb,” he said. She chuckled.

“Tell me, did Lorcan come by yet?”

The dragonborn gave her a jaundiced look. The domination was wearing thin. “I saw a young man,” he said. “A human, wearing black armor. I saw another who—”

“Enough,” Rohini said. “I don’t need to hear about your day.” Lorcan would come looking soon enough, and she’d be very happy to report she’d left his warlock standing outside an Ashmadai safe-house, holding Invadiah’s precious implement, and waiting for the alarm spells to call more Asmodean cultists to the dead Ashmadai’s aid. Delightful.

Mostly. There had been the embarrassing moment where she’d pointed the rod and the body hadn’t reacted. She knew how to cast from another’s body, but nothing worked. Not even the simplest spells were in her grasp at first. Because, she realized when Farideh’s spell had blasted past her and into an Ashmadai cultist, she had taken the wrong damned twin.

The body she’d taken
had
known how to defend itself, how to turn the rod into a bludgeon, how to twist weapons out of her victims’ hands. Admirable reflexes, she mused, remembering how she’d dodged between a pair of particularly nimble young women with very sharp blades, tripping one into the other and finishing the survivor. While Rohini worked to channel her own magic through the girl, it had been a minor thing to keep the twin’s body fighting.