Authors: Anne Bishop
«Put a tongue of witchfire on the candle,» Rainier said. «Give it enough power when you make it to burn for several hours. You can light other candles with it when you find them, but at least you’ll know nothing can snuff it out.»
«Nothing but getting doused with more power than I give it,» Surreal replied. But he had a valid point. Witchfire was created with power and didn’t need fuel or air. A draft wouldn’t put it out. Neither would water. In fact, Marian sometimes shaped witchfire into a flower and floated it inside a glass vase filled with water. It was beautiful—and a little eerie—to see fire floating in the middle of water.
«All right,» she said. «I’ll—»
Something there. A soft scuffle and a new, faint scent competing with the hallway’s musty air.
She sidestepped to her right, away from the sound—and away from the possibility of someone shoving her down the stairs.
«Something’s here,» she said.
«What is it?»
«Don’t know. Haven’t made the witchfire yet.»
She raised the poker like a shield in front of her, took another step to the side, and banged her hip on a table. She pivoted to bring herself around the table, extending her left arm to set the candle down. In that moment she felt the rush of air as something lunged at her, felt the swipe of knife or claws aiming for her exposed left side.
And she hesitated a moment too long before she created a protective shield tight enough to be a second skin.
A double slice through shirt and skin in that moment before the shield formed around her. A shiver along nerves that were uncertain if they should send a message of pleasure or pain. Then…pain.
She swung the poker, a backhanded blow that connected with someone hard enough to send the person slamming into the opposite wall.
A ball of witchlight floated above the table before she consciously decided to make one. But she saw her adversary—and silently swore when the light glinted off the hourglass that hung from a tarnished silver chain around the witch’s neck.
A Black Widow who was very much one of the demon-dead, judging by how badly misshapen the head and face were from the blows that must have killed her. And not the same Black Widow who had attacked her downstairs.
“You want to tangle with me, you come ahead,” Surreal said.
“I’m in the mood to kill something.”
The Black Widow laughed. “You think you can
kill
me? Look again.”
“All right, maybe I’m too late to kill you, and maybe I won’t even be able to finish the kill. But if you don’t back off, I
can
arrange for you to become a permanent resident of a part of Hell that will make this place look like a high-class indulgence.”
“Even when you become demon-dead you won’t have that much power.”
“Actually, sugar, since my uncle is the High Lord, I’ll be able to send you anywhere I damn well please. He’ll make sure of it.”
The Black Widow hesitated, then smiled as much as her misshapen face allowed. “You won’t be going anywhere, not even to Hell. I can wait to finish you, bitch.” She passed through the wall and vanished.
“Shit,” Surreal muttered. “Guess there’s no penalty for using Craft once you’re dead.” Or part of the spells woven into the house.
She huffed out a breath and winced. First she needed to take care of the wound, figure out how bad it was—and whether she’d just been poisoned. Then she would deal with whatever came next. Right now she was certain of two things: she was in the upstairs back hallway and Rainier wasn’t.
«Rainier?»
No answer. Nothing but a strange, gray blankness.
«Rainier!»
An aural shield must have been triggered, one that not only blocked out ordinary sounds but also prevented communication along psychic threads.
Had the gong sounded? She’d been too preoccupied to notice. Had Rainier heard it, or was that sound also blocked by the aural shield?
Leaving the unlit candle on the table, she took the poker and the ball of witchlight. The first door on her right was a bathroom. A narrow space with no room to maneuver if she had to fight. But it might have clean water, and that was something she needed right now.
“Wounded because I didn’t shield and got separated from my escort,” she said as she warily entered the bathroom. “Lucivar is going to be
so
pissed.”
Interesting. Why was the witch so concerned about the opinion of a male who wasn’t there? It wasn’t like she was ever going to
hear
what he thought of her mistakes.
Yes. That was a thought. Those pointed ears would make a fine trophy. Something to remember her by when she was absorbed into the spells of this house.
And then she wouldn’t have to worry about hearing
anything.
Somewhere in the house, a gong sounded twice.
«Surreal?»
No answer. Nothing but a strange, gray blankness.
«Surreal!»
Rainier held his position. Waiting. Listening. Then he wove between the children and stopped at one of the hallway’s openings and held out the lamp, trying to get a better look at the room.
Not a room. It was the front hallway.
He looked at Kester, then tipped his head to indicate the other children. “Stay here. Keep them together.”
No sass from the boy. No arguments. No comments. Maybe it was finally sinking in that the children needed to do what they were told in order to survive.
He moved toward the front staircase. Could Surreal still be downstairs?
“Surreal?”
He peered over the banister. No sign of light down below.
The gong had sounded twice. One time would have been for the witchfire she needed to create in order to light the candle. The other?
She’d sensed something. Or someone. The second time the gong had sounded. Was that for a weapon or a shield?
Should have shielded when they first realized something was wrong. They had gambled on the degree of danger they were facing—and had underestimated their enemy.
She’d been coming up last, watching their backs. Should have been the safer position, since they’d already checked the kitchen.
Should have been.
What had changed in that moment between the last girl’s starting up the stairs and Surreal’s following her?
The last girl.
Rainier turned toward the opening leading to the back hall. Seven children had come up the stairs with him. But there shouldn’t be seven anymore. The fourth girl. The last one to come up the stairs. She wasn’t one of the children who had come into the house with them.
“Mother Night,” he whispered.
He rushed to the back hallway and stopped at the opening when he saw four children clustered around a closed door that Kester was trying to force open by slamming against it with his shoulder.
No sound. No warning of trouble. The girls had their mouths open and were probably yelling or screaming. The front hallway wasn’t that big. He should have heard Kester trying to break down the door.
As soon as he crossed the threshold, he heard the screams.
Hell’s fire.
“Get back!” Rainier shouted. He kept moving, building momentum with every stride. Kester saw him at the last moment and dove out of the way as Rainier turned the last stride into a leap and kick.
The door crashed open, revealing a room emptied of furnishings…but not empty.
For a moment, he froze at the sight of the burns and scars on the stranger’s young body. An illusion spell must have hidden those injuries, just as it had hidden her ripped, dirty clothes. He felt sickened by what he saw—and even more sickened by what the girl had done.
The stranger wore openwork metal gauntlets, a kind of lethal jewelry witches sometimes wore. The fingers ended in razor-sharp talons. The ones on the girl’s hands dripped with blood.
Her mouth was smeared with blood. It ran down her chin like juice at some kind of primal feast.
She was
cildru dyathe
now. A demon-dead child—and a deadly predator.
Ginger lay on her back on the dirty wood floor, her neck, chest, and arms ripped to shreds by the talons.
No sound from her.
No hope for her.
The
cildru dyathe
sprang to her feet and ran toward the back of the room.
Rainier sprang after her.
She fumbled at the wall, the talons on the metal gauntlets tearing the old wallpaper as she searched for something.
In the moment before he reached her, he was nothing but a Warlord Prince on a battlefield and she was nothing but an enemy. When he swung the poker at her back, it carried all his strength and fury in the blow.
He heard bone break.
She fell, no longer able to use her legs. Sufficiently Blood to become
cildru dyathe
, she didn’t have the skill in Craft to use what power she had in order to get up.
He stood over her, looking at wounds that indicated torture. Looking at the madness and hatred in the girl’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You’re just like him,” she said, her voice harshened by her hatred. “You’re just like him.”
“Who?”
She laughed. “I’ll tell you once you’re dead. I’ll hook my pretty claws into your chest, and you’ll have to carry me. Be my legs since you took mine. Hook my pretty claws into your eyes too. Just for fun.”
Was that madness talking, or was that a reflection of who the girl had been?
He took a step back. Took another. Then he turned and walked back to Ginger.
So much blood, he thought as he knelt beside the dying girl. Too much damage. There were not enough moments left in her to even try a healing. There was not enough he could do for her with the basic skills he had to make a difference.
Her eyes stared at him but didn’t see him.
Did landens have some place like Hell? They didn’t become demon-dead. When their bodies died, they were gone. But did their spirits have a place where they spent some time before they were truly gone?
He didn’t know, had never asked. And right now, he really didn’t want to know.
“Her name was Anax,” Kester said. “She lived at the orphans’ home. She ran away a couple weeks ago.”
Had she run away or had the people in charge of the orphans’ home assumed that because Anax had disappeared? Someone had tortured the girl and killed her, leaving her in here to become one of the predators who hunted the “guests” trapped in this house.
“Did anyone else run away from the orphans’ home recently?” Rainier asked, looking up at the other children.
“Three or four others,” Kester replied, shrugging as if the loss made no difference.
Rainier choked back the urge to roar at the boy for being so cold and unfeeling. In order for Anax to become
cildru dyathe
, she had to be Blood. Which meant one of the Blood had been cold and unfeeling toward the girl long before Kester and his friends were.
No life in Ginger’s eyes. No breath when he held a hand above her mouth and nose.
“She’s dead,” he said, getting to his feet.
“What…” Kester swallowed hard. “What do we do with her?”
Rainier waited a beat. “We have to leave her.”
They looked at him.
“We
can’t
just leave her,” Sage said.
“You’re welcome to carry her,” he replied, retrieving the oil lamp. “I won’t.”
“So what are you going to do?” Kester asked.
Rainier tipped his head toward the wall. “Anax was searching for something. I’m going to find it.”
There was water. Not as rusty as she’d expected, which maybe wasn’t a good sign, since it meant someone had been using this bathroom on a regular basis recently. Of course, the Black Widows would have needed it before someone helped them into the first stage of being dead.
Surreal frowned at the toilet. Did the demon-dead need to pee? When they drank yarbarah, was there anything wasted, or did they absorb it all to sustain the dead flesh and their power?
Too bad she’d never thought to ask when she’d known some of them.
And what about Guardians like Uncle Saetan? He used to eat meals with the family, at least some of the time. So did he…?
“No,” she told herself firmly. If the High Lord of Hell did something so mundane as park his ass on a toilet, she did not want to know about it.
Besides, she had more immediate things to think about.
She turned sideways, her back to the bathtub, and studied the bathroom door. Should she close it and turn the lock to avoid a surprise attack from the hallway, or leave it open to give herself a fast way to escape?
“Don’t close yourself in a box,” she muttered, sucking in a breath as she removed her jacket. The shirt came next. She dropped both on the closed toilet seat. Then she braced the front of her thighs against the sink and stood on tiptoes to see her torso in the mirror.
Hell’s fire. The blood was running between her skin and the shield, so she couldn’t actually see the extent of the damage—and couldn’t tell if the bleeding would stop on its own or if the wounds were something she needed to tend.
«Rainier?» she called as she lowered her feet.
No answer.
Dropping the shield would be one use of Craft. Restoring it, another. Calling in her kit of healing supplies, a third. Then another choice: vanish the kit and, therefore, close another exit, or leave it behind and hope she wouldn’t need it again.
She couldn’t reach Rainier. Would he hear the gong that signaled she’d used Craft? How many exits had they closed? How many were left?
If there had been any to start with.
It was ingenious, really. If this had been a story, she would have been intrigued, would have appreciated the struggle to avoid using Craft. Would have argued with Rainier about how and when Craft should have been used.
Since it wasn’t a story, she was going to find the bastard who created this place and skin him, using nothing but a dull paring knife. Then she would crush all his bones into pebbles, leaving the spine and skull for last to be sure he got the benefit of all the pain. And
that
would be
before
Uncle Saetan got hold of him.
“Nice thought, sugar,” she told her reflection, “but you have a few things to do first.”