Authors: Rhys Ford
A gray film coated the lower baseboards of the foyer’s clean white birch walls, its edges a crumbled velvet. Clean of movement, it lay inert, pulled back by the sheer force of the Horsemen’s abode. Mal stopped when he noticed Kismet wasn’t behind him, turning to shoot a curious look at the young man.
“What’s the matter?” Mal returned to Kismet’s side, wondering what he was staring at.
“I can see those edges.” Kismet stepped closer to the wall, his sneakers nearly touching the rough stone trough under the waterfall. “That Veil of yours, I can see the edges of it. And there still isn’t any of that humming noise. That’s the one thing I noticed the last time. Nothing buzzed in my ear when I was inside. It was so quiet. I’d never heard that kind of quiet before.”
“I guess I’m just used to it by now,” Mal said. “There’s nothing like coming home to this. If I had to live in the shadows all the time, well, it’s no wonder humans go insane.”
“Yeah,” Kismet agreed, his voice nearly as soft as a rush of water over stone. “I’m still not convinced that I’m not nuts.”
“We’ll have a lot of time to convince you.” Mal grinned. He hooked an arm over Kismet’s shoulders, hoping the gesture seemed as casual as he intended. “Come on. Let’s get some breakfast.”
T
HE
STAIRWELL
stank with the press of bodies, the darkfae gathering tight against the fire door. Tusks sprouted from one of the darkfae’s wide mouth, his thick-lipped face nearly flat. Two slits fluttered between wide-set eyes, their whites nearly goldenrod in hue. Another male stood to the side, a three-fingered hand scratching his face, a splintered nub of a horn curled down from his forehead to the middle of his cheek. There were five darkfae besides the immortals and Beckett, mute, glowering men whose thick skin shone, with small scales and soft hair covering their visible forearms.
“It’s so cold in here.” Faith rubbed at her bare arms, trying to pull the shadows closer to her body. “Are the others in the stairwell ready?”
“Everyone’s primed. They’re listening for the signal to attack once we’re on the top floor.” Beckett reassured her. “The other darkfae have those exits covered just in case.”
“Good. We’ll need them if we’re going to kill Death.” The Veil crackled thin, and Faith’s influence thinned. She could feel Death in the air, the burden of the eldest immortal’s power pushing back all the layers of the curtain. “Everything here smells like the Horsemen. Even with the Veil peeled back, it smells like them.”
“I’m hoping that in a little bit, the only thing you’ll smell is blood,” Charity replied. The immortal picked through the shadows, hoping to find a pool of untainted darkness to pull on, dipping his hands into the inky curtain and drawing what strength he could muster from its thinness. “Do you have everything you need, Beckett?”
“Yes.” The magus held up a small duffel bag. “Once we enter the foyer, there’s nothing to keep them hidden, right? I don’t want them hiding the boy where we can’t get to him.”
“No, they won’t be able to get into the shadows,” Faith replied. “We have to go outside of our sanctuaries to travel through the Veil.”
“Just remember, don’t raise a hand to the Four,” Charity warned Beckett. “No matter what is happening, they can’t touch you unless you move against them.”
“One of them killed Frazier. Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” the magus said.
“Your lap dog was an idiot for shooting Pestilence,” the immortal remarked. “As soon as you attack one of them, they are free to defend themselves against humans. Death keeps them on a short leash, but there’s only so much the Four will stand for.”
“Immortal,” one of the men grunted at his employer, his wide finger holding the fire door open a crack. “There are two in the foyer. One is Pestilence. I’m guessing the other is the boy.”
“This is just too easy.” Charity nodded at the darkfae. “Keep the boy whole. Or as much as you can. Kill the others. It doesn’t matter how. Just kill them. Might do the world some good to be free of the Four for a few hours.”
K
ISMET
STARTED
at the raucous sound, feet stomping over steel stairs, heavy and authoritative. Mal jerked around when the stairwell door blew open, a rush of bodies pouring free. A fist to Mal’s face stunned him, his surprise cut short by a wave of pain. Struggling to see through the blood flying over his face, the Horseman yelled at Kismet to stay behind him.
With his vision cleared, Mal lashed out with an elbow, hearing a grunt as he made contact with someone’s face. His attacker stood nearly a foot taller than him, a jutting square chin furred black with a soft pelt. Spitting out what leaked into his mouth, the immortal blinked, unsure of what was happening around him.
Darkfae were ascending into the foyer from the stairwell, forcing through the doorway and into the Horsemen’s home. Popping sounds bounced off the walls as the darkfae broke through the Veil’s resistance, their thick bodies pushing past the shadowy barrier. Turning to shove Kismet back toward the front door, Mal slammed into a darkfae that appeared between them.
An arm hooked around Kismet’s throat, jerking him back against solid meat, nearly taking the breath from his lungs. He twisted, turning his attacker sideways. The creature responded by slamming the boy forward, using the wall to stun the human into submission. Amid the stars across his eyes, Kismet’s anger took over.
Hit fast. Hit hard. Run. Kismet knew the formula well. Repeat if necessary. If he did it right the first time, it was rarely necessary. With his slender frame and delicate, pretty face, more than one person had believed he could be easily victimized. Kismet learned at an early age that heavy objects and quick reflexes could often win over brute strength, especially when he attacked hard and repeatedly.
Trying to get a good look at the area around him, Kismet cursed the lack of anything within reach. With his air slowly being choked out of him, the human knew he wouldn’t have long before he passed out. A terra-cotta pot filled with a tall shaped evergreen would be his best bet if he could get a hand on it. Stretching his arm out, the top of the tree skimmed his fingertips, just out of grabbing range. The creature bashed him forward, again snapping his temple against the foyer’s hard wall. Black spots appeared in his vision, the edges of his sight starting to gray out. Gritting his teeth, Kismet took the next course of action left to him.
Kismet tasted blood from his bitten tongue, red smearing on the penthouse lobby’s birch paneling. Leaving a crimson path along the wood grain, the young man jerked back, slamming his head into the soft ridge of his attacker’s nose. The satisfying crunch of cartilage breaking coupled with suddenly being released pushed his adrenaline into overdrive.
Spinning about, Kismet doubled down, pushing his weight up behind his fist, jabbing upward into the meaty softness just within reach, an anguished oomph washing hot air over his face as he made contact with the flat of his attacker’s midsection. Stepping back to be clear of the man’s bent-over body, Kismet stopped suddenly, stilled to a stunned silence as he saw the small group of people coming toward him.
Four creatures towered over him, the top of his head barely at eye level. Their yelling rose, a harsh, guttural crescendo unintelligible to Kismet’s ears.
A woman, delicate and ethereal, stood near a tall shaven-pate man and another man who looked to be her twin. She turned her face from the fray, as if reluctant to watch.
The shaven man had no such qualms. His gaze was fully fixed on the circling darkfae, and his hands twitched at his sides, as if it took every bit of effort not to wade into the fray and bash his clenched fists against unwary skulls. Meeting the man’s eyes, Kismet took a step back when the man’s face curled with a cold smile.
The blond man shouted at the two creatures in front, sending them lumbering toward Mal and Kismet. The bottleneck against the foyer walls opened up, spilling the creatures forward. Screaming in rage, the one-horned darkfae raised his arms above his head, bringing a long-handled machete down toward Mal’s shoulder.
Mal was rarely thankful for Death’s training. Too often he spent hours trying to recover from the beatings he received when the elder Horseman tried to teach him how to defend himself. As the blade whistled in the air, Mal dodged, sliding his body to the side, nearly stumbling over Kismet’s leg. Rolling into a crouch, Mal steadied himself with his fingertips against the wooden floor, trying blindly to gauge the distance to the front door behind them.
“Kismet!” Mal shoved the young human toward the wall, his hand connecting hard on the young man’s hip. “Get to the door. Get back inside! Don’t let the darkfae get between you and the door.”
Mal’s voice penetrated Kismet’s brain, startling him into action. He slammed a fist to one creature’s stomach, succeeding only in hurting his own knuckles, as thick clothing absorbed most of the impact of his blow. His teeth worked better, sharp and tearing through the short pelt furring an arm that tried to wrap around Kismet’s throat.
Kismet expected the creature’s blood to taste the same as his. It should have been the same copper tang he was used to. He’d been struck many times in the face, fallen or bitten the inside of his cheek, even once stupidly licking his mother’s shooting track when it pooled on the inside of her elbow, the bittersweet taste of undiluted heroin a sharp contrast to the thick heaviness of her body’s life. Blood was a familiar taste, so he wasn’t prepared for the acrid sour orange flavor spurting from the creature’s open wound, a choking rush that burned the back of his throat. Spitting out the foul mouthful, Kismet backpedaled quickly when the arm pulled away, and he stepped over Mal’s outstretched leg. His skin was slick with sweat, the bookstore’s logo clinging to his back as his borrowed T-shirt soaked up his nervousness.
“Faith!” Mal spotted the blond woman, shock closing over his stomach. Suddenly the arrival of the darkfae was a much more sinister taint. They’d been delivered by another immortal, someone the Horsemen should be able to trust. The violation of their home had been brought on by one of their own, his thoughts shoving aside the danger of the darkfae in front of him. “Shit, Charity! What the hell?”
“Mal, I can’t get the damned door open!” Kismet had reached the front door, fighting with the knob.
The latch had closed tight behind them, locking the world out. His hands were shaking too hard, his addiction beginning to leech energy from his body.
“Fuck, not now.” Kismet pleaded with his trembling body. The spiders of his addiction were stirring beneath his skin, lengthening their barbed legs into the soft meat of his arms. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the latch and shoved hard against the thick door with his shoulder. “Just for once, hold off.”
Kismet winced when a fist crashed into Mal’s temple, the Horseman failing to see the attack in time to duck. His glasses were askew on his face, skittering down his cheekbone. With their denser bodies, the darkfae had a distinct advantage over the Horseman. Mal instinctively kicked out, striking the creature’s knee. The weak joint cracked, bending back with ease. Pain crawled across the creature’s face, his body in agony as the shattered bones popped out of the back of his leg.
“Keep the door closed! Don’t let him get inside!” Charity shouted to the darkfae. He was trying to edge through the massive bodies to reach the new immortal. Beckett stood behind him, bending over the duffel he’d brought with them.
A darkfae barreled closer, a large crowbar coming down at Kismet’s head. Ducking, the young man tried to roll out of the way, the air pushed from his lungs when the creature kicked at his ribs. The darkfae swung at the door’s latch, the iron shearing off the turning mechanism. The darkfae’s enormous hand closed over his face, nearly cutting off his air supply.
Biting at the fingers shoved into his mouth, Kismet balked at the taste. Jerking his head around, Kismet yelled for Mal. “They broke the door. We can’t get back inside!”
Kismet twisted against the creature’s hands and fear turned his blood. The darkfae moved apart, leaving a corridor through their bodies. Caught between the desire to escape and the need to help Mal, he struggled, kicking against his captor’s shins.
He was being worked through the corridor, duck-walked past another of the creatures. The hole between them closed, tightening up behind him. Kismet fought harder, making the creature work to keep him contained. Gnawing on the darkfae’s skin, he choked when the creature forced his hand farther into Kismet’s mouth. His jaw ached, pushed wide apart by the muscled arm. Gagging, he pulled back, his chest spasming with dry heaves.
“Bring him here.” The man who’d made eye contact with Kismet earlier approached him, motioning toward the wall. “Keep the other away. Don’t try to kill him yet. Charity, help me, please. I need his shirt off.”
A metal object glinted in the man’s hand, unfamiliar and menacing. Cylindrical and sharp on one end, it resembled a tube of some sort, with a thick-mouthed spigot at its top. He drew closer to Kismet, a thin smile on his face. There was a lust in the man’s expression, a simmer bubbling in his cold eyes. It chilled Kismet’s guts. The metal tube looked ominous. His fear grew when the blond man came over and dug his hands into Kismet’s shirt, ripping it apart to expose his chest.
“Beckett, you’re going to have to hurry up with what you’re doing. The others will be here soon. I’m sure of it.” Balling up his fist, Charity backhanded Kismet across the face, splitting his lip. “What is that thing?”
“It’s an oil can punch. I’ve used it before. It gives a steady flow of blood.” The magus lifted the cylinder above Kismet’s body. “Hold him still. I need to do this right the first time. We don’t have time for seconds with this.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Kismet gasped, then screamed in pain. His tortured voice sliced above the sounds of the darkfae crowding against Mal, awakening a deep fear in the immortal’s heart. Begging, he cried out, “God, no! Please, stop.”