Death by Cliché (32 page)

He closed his eyes and cursed, the abyss opening beneath him, the pain spreading into his limbs, everything fading. Fading.

Fading.

Chapter
Sixty

“He disagreed with something that ate him.”

—Bob Defendi
(quoting Ian Fleming)

urkand froze quite figuratively: the water was the
temperature of urine. If you think that’s a coincidence, you’ve never shared a tank with a shark.

He went limp, floating like the metaphorical seaweed from Chapter 56. He needed time. Time to think, chiefly, but millions of years of survival instinct also wanted time for time’s sake. It doesn’t care what you use the time
for
.

Something sprinkled down out of the walls, and the smell of the water became strange and pungent, not a smell he usually associated with shark tanks. He tried to nail down the odor, but after a futile second, his mind kicked out all speculation in favor of planning for its next heartbeat of oxygen-enriched blood. That was all the brain cared about, no matter what anyone else told you.

But the shark or sharks could put a stop to that. He needed a plan beyond holding still and hoping the drowned guard hadn’t scraped himself and bled on the way down.

Jurkand, being a retired overlord, knew a good deal about sharks. He knew swimming and thrashing about attracted them. He knew blood attracted them. He knew they rarely attacked anything bigger than them. Finally, he knew they hated the taste of Human flesh.

And still, that smell made his eyes water. It seemed stronger now.

He took a breath. He needed to stay calm. The hysteria dragged at him. He needed to keep his cool. He couldn’t risk any accidents. The smallest drop of blood in this water would mean death, or at least a savage tasting.

The thought didn’t appeal to him.

Here at the bottom of the shaft, the water glimmered darkly. It still rolled and splashed with the earlier impact of the guard, each wave slightly smaller than the last. The black water and silver, pox-ridden crests made for a mesmerizing sight. It took some time for him to wonder what would give the water pox.

He reached out carefully, skimming his hand across the surfaces, catching dozens of little bits of debris floating there. He pulled his hand into what light he could see from above. Flecks of wet matter clung there. He pulled them to his nose and sniffed. That smell came from these bits of muck. He’d seen them fall in. Maybe the sharks had a button underwater that released them. He chuckled at the thought.

He stopped.

Slowly, his hand trembling with terror, with the effort, he brought it over to his mouth. With a tentative, seeking tongue he licked his hand, tasting an explosion of spices and salt. A miraculous, marvelous taste.

It was seasoning.

“Ah hell,” he said.

The shark took its first bite, tearing the tender muscles of his belly, pulling out bowels, reaching for those tasty, seasoned organs.

Jurkand screamed, but only briefly.

Chapter
Sixty-One

“Superman never had trouble with dilemmas like this.”

—Bob Defendi

amico stood, still paralyzed with terror. On one
hand, the woman he loved. On the other, the world. The rational part of his mind screamed the answer was obvious, but his soul wouldn’t listen. This wasn’t a time for rational thought. This was a time for
action
.

He just had no way
to
act.

He carried a dagger in his hand. His fingers twitched and went numb. The knife slowly tumbled from his grasp.

His ears filled with the echoes of her last scream. His mind’s eye filled with images of her raped and broken, wondering why he’d abandoned her. This was supposed to be a game. This was supposed to be a series of escalating fights leading to a boss monster. It was supposed to be rollicking. It was supposed to be
funny
. What the hell had happened?

The answer, of course, was
he
had happened.

He’d transformed the lifeless into the living. He’d given will and strength and freedom to the story-bound, a third dimension to the caricatures. If he hadn’t, she would be fine. If he hadn’t, he never would have loved her.

His mind raced faster and faster along paths of guilt and damnation. His fault. All his fault. He needed to save her
and
the world. He needed to have his cake and eat it too. This was a
game
; this was about wish fulfillment. Who would wish for this?

No, he had to move, or both the woman and the world would be lost. He had to move.

The dagger clattered as it hit the floor.

Damico picked a direction and took off. He knew in his heart. No matter how rationally he explained it.

She’d never forgive him for this.

Chapter
Sixty-Two

“There was nothing funny about that either.”

—Bob Defendi

otianna ran, her bare feet slapping against paving
stones as she tore through the halls of the Heart of Light. She ran, and she screamed incoherently, and she didn’t look back.

She could hear them, walking calmly behind her, catching up every time she rounded a corner. They came, and nothing slowed them. Nothing stopped them.

Lotianna had to get away, but the wind tore at her lungs, ripped her throat raw. Her side stitched. They’d run her down and catch her.

She kept pushing and pushing, but her feet fumbled on the paving stones now. With one last step, she stubbed her toe in a brilliant explosion of pain and canted onto the stone floor.

The fall tore her shift and bruised her knees. She sprawled, scraping her hands and thighs then banging her head against the stone with a cascade of stars and blood. It was all she could do to writhe in agony.

She had to get up and get away, but she couldn’t move. The pain had become everything. The wet feel of blood her only relief from the torture of her wounds.

Finally her gaze cleared.

The guards stood, filling the hall at her feet, watching her with impassive expressions. They probably wouldn’t rape her—they seemed more golems than men—but that didn’t mean she could afford to have them take her. They’d carry her to a chamber or to a cell, and then the overlord or another of his henchmen would have her. She needed to run, but she had nothing left inside, just a raw, rasping breath that barely drew enough air to right her spinning head.

“Die,” she said.

One of the guards reached for her, but she acted instinctively. The running, the clear word, the strength in her limbs when she fell. It all came together at once, and arcane words scratched out of her mouth and at her ears.

A blast of lightning launched out of her hand, catching the first guard in the chest. Lightning should have sheeted across his armor, grounding away without killing him, but the same magic that directed it through the air also directed it through his heart, causing him to collapse in a spasming pile of armor and seared meat.

The other guards gaped at her, stunned, then rushed toward her, but already, she jumped to her feet, her hands and eyes flickering with power. She was back, and it was time to—

The lightning ripped from her hands, too eager to even let her finish the thought. It caught one of the guards in the chest, launching out the other side and catching the next, then the next. When it finished crackling in the air, four of the guards dropped, leaving only a single standing man, amid a halo of smoke and the smell of burning hair.

“Reconsider,” she said. It didn’t sound impressive as she vainly tried to tuck the torn part of her shift together.

The guard examined her bare, bloodied limbs. He took a step forward.

She raised her hands, reciting the words of the spell, but her tongue still felt slightly thick in her mouth, her reflexes just a little slow. It wasn’t until she slurred the first word she realized that while she
could
cast spells, she couldn’t cast them reliably.

The power of the spell writhed out of the control of her misspoken words, flashing though her brain with searing heat that roared in her ears. One moment she was clear and in control and winning, and the next she landed on those abused knees, holding her head and screaming in time to the pain. Her entire body ached as she tilted over to one side, the power reverberating in her skull. Her body went limp, and she fell to the ground.