CHAPTER ELEVEN
Josey concentrated on her hands, clutched together in her lap. She had always liked her hands. They were small-boned, with long, tapering fingers. Her nails needed painting; the pink lacquer was flaking off at the tips, but besides that, they were very nice hands.
The killer’s hands, however, the hands that had murdered her father, were wrapped in hard sinew. Tiny scars dotted his knuckles. One long cicatrix started on the back of his left hand and ran up into the cuff of his shirtsleeve. She stared at it as he held out a cup to her.
“Take it,” he said.
She grasped the round porcelain cup with both hands. It was deliciously warm. A pleasant green tea smell rose from the rim, but her stomach quailed at the idea of ingesting anything given to her by this beast. She let the cup rest in her lap.
He glanced at her temple. “Does that hurt?”
She shook her head to prove it didn’t. His voice sounded different than she expected, more normal. He’s not normal. He’s a cold-blooded murderer.
Her teeth clenched together so hard her jaws ached, but she knew if she didn’t keep them clenched she would start screaming again. Everything about him repulsed her. His shoulders were too broad for his frame; his wrists were thick and ropy with muscle. His face wasn’t uncomely, but it had a stoniness that made her think of the statues that decorated the walls of the new cathedral. Although she considered herself a good, pious woman, the sight of the immense edifice disturbed her, especially the stern faces of the statuary, which didn’t resemble the kindly saints of her imagination. The killer had the same hard look about him. His chin was too sharp to be handsome. It made him look sinister, like a fox out to pilfer unattended chicks. And his eyes. They were chips of granite, cold and impervious. She looked away and tried not to think of his gaze upon her.
The apartment was modest, barely larger than her bathing chamber. A shoddy table and the single chair in which she sat comprised the only furniture. The boards were bare wood, but clean-swept. A thick mat sat in the far corner. Leather bags hung on long cords from hooks set into the ceiling. Were they some sort of crude torture device? Metal bars of various lengths leaned against the wall. The kitchen area was likewise spare, with its antique coldbox and simple oven, some cupboards. Something unexpected rested on the countertop, a book. She couldn’t make out the subject, but its illuminated pages were held open by the blade of a dagger.
A thought struck her from out of the blue. He lives alone. Strangely, she wondered if he was lonely. Then, he turned to fetch a cup for himself and she saw the huge knives strapped to his back. One of them had stolen her father’s life. In her imagination, she ripped the knives from their harness and plunged them into his neck.
“What’s your name, girl?” he asked, startling her with his brusqueness.
“Who were you talking to before you grabbed me?” Josey congratulated herself on how steady her voice sounded. She started to lift the cup to her lips, but then set it back in her lap.
“I was talking to no one.”
“I heard you through the door. You were talking, but I didn’t hear anyone else.”
“You and I are the only ones here.”
She nodded to herself. So he’s either lying to me, or he’s a madman who talks to himself and kills defenseless old men. Her fear was receding. In its place rose a gush of burning anger from the pit of her belly.
“What do you want with me? If you’re after a ransom, you ruined your chances when you killed my father.”
He watched her with his stony eyes. “The only people I killed were the men intent on doing away with you.”
“I saw you standing over him!” She couldn’t stop shaking. The cup trembled in her hands. “I saw the blood and…his chest. I saw everything!”
“Yes.” He was remarkably calm in the face of her rage. “There was blood and the old man was dead, but I didn’t kill him. He was already dead—”
“Liar!”
She threw the cup at him. He dodged faster than she had ever seen anyone move. The cup shattered against a cabinet door, spattering hot tea and pottery shards across the wall. She steeled herself for his rebuke, but he stood there and sipped his tea.
“I had the contract on his life,” he said. “And I would have killed him. It was under false pretenses, but I suppose that matters little to you. Still, I’m telling you the truth. Someone else had been there before me.”
“Am I supposed to believe you?” The scorn in her voice made her feel invincible. He could hurt her, even kill her, but he couldn’t stop her from speaking her mind. “Was there a whole legion of assassins waiting to kill my father? He was a harmless old man, well loved and respected by everyone.”
“Not by the person who killed him, nor the client who hired me. That’s two fairly serious enemies. A bit much for a man loved by everyone.”
The dryness in his voice made her want to claw his eyes out. She crossed her arms across her breasts. She didn’t have to listen to this. Her father was a good man. A great man! He had connections to the palace and all the best families. Now he was gone. Moistness crept into her eyes when she thought of how she wouldn’t be able to attend his funeral. Who will attend mine?
“You killed Markus, too,” she blurted.
“Your servant? I never touched him. He’s still alive for all I know.”
“Second Prefect Markus, one of the Sacred Brothers you murdered when you were abducting me. He was the betrothed of my dearest friend.”
“Those tinmen were after you, not me. I saved your life by stopping them.”
“Markus would never hurt me. He was my friend, and you killed him like he was nothing.”
He regarded her for a long moment. Her stomach quavered. Was this it? Was he going to kill her now?
Instead, he asked, “What’s your name?”
“What does that matter?”
“I’d like to know.”
She straightened her posture. “I am Josephine Frenig, daughter of Artur Frenig, seventeenth earl of Highavon. Now, what of you? What are you called?”
“It makes no difference.”
“What’s fair for one is fair for both. Since you surely mean to murder me, it should be of no consequence to you.”
“Caim.”
“Caim.” She had to choose her words carefully. “If you have any shred of decency, you will release me immediately, or at least allow me to write a letter to my father’s friends.”
“And if I intend to murder you?”
Josey’s tongue dried up in her mouth, but she forced her lips to work. “Then be done with it, craven.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t take you just to kill you here.”
“Then why? Why did you do it?”
He glanced at the wall over her head. He hesitated before saying, “It all comes back to your father. I didn’t kill him, but someone wanted him dead. You must know someone who wished him ill, someone jealous of his success.”
“No.”
“A business partner? Some lady’s husband?”
“No!” she shouted, and then sat still, frightened by her own anger. “He had no enemies. No lovers. Just me. He was a good and decent man.”
“Decent men have plenty of enemies. I know.” He started to pace back and forth past the table. “What was your father’s position?”
“He was the exarch of Navarre when I was a girl. Afterward, he received the Golden Sword for his service and retired to a life of ease here in Othir. He was a great man. Infinitely better than a lowborn killer.”
If the comment stung, he gave no indication. “Yes. That could be. It almost makes sense.”
“What does?”
“Never mind. Was your father involved in any overseas ventures? Did he belong to a social club?”
Josey remembered the nightmare of the people in funny robes meeting in the basement of their house, but shunted the memory aside.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. He spent most of his time in the study, writing letters to old friends. Nothing to do with me.”
Caim didn’t seem to be listening, so she stopped talking and studied him. Now that she had a better look at him, he didn’t appear like she imagined a killer would. He was strong, but not overly big or brutish. In fact, his features were rather refined. He might have even been fetching if put into proper clothes. When he turned to look at her, she quickly glanced away, a shudder racing through her insides. He had a gaze like a corpse.
“No,” he said to the air over her head.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
The man was clearly deranged. What would he do next? One thing was sure. If she remained here much longer, she would never leave this dingy apartment alive. There was a window behind her, but it was shuttered and locked like the one in the bedroom. Josey glanced at the door across the room. It had to be the way out. There was a slide-lock holding it shut, but if she could distract him long enough to work the bolt…
“Do you want more tea?” he asked.
“Yes. Have you anything to eat? I’m famished.”
He nodded with his back to her. “I might have some victuals about if you’re not too particular.”
While he rummaged through a pinewood pantry painted with faded flowers, Josey slid off her slippers. They were soft lamb’s wool, but she would move faster and more quietly in bare feet. As she watched his back, something stirred in the shadows above his head. She froze as a long, sinuous shape emerged from the corner of the ceiling. Without a sound, it glided down the wall. A violent shiver ran through Josey. It was the most revolting thing she had ever seen, a serpent of pure blackness, and it was headed straight for Caim. She almost called out a warning, but clamped her lips shut.
No, I won’t help him.
Watching the awful creature slither toward her father’s killer, Josey rose from the chair. She tiptoed across the room. A single sound would betray her. She reached the door without alerting her captor. The bolt was a thick affair of iron. She grasped it with both hands and pulled. The slide shot back with a loud click. Without looking back, she yanked open the door and dashed out into the dark hallway beyond.
Her naked feet slapped on the floorboards. Fear lent speed to her steps. She reached a narrow stairwell at the end of the hall and raced down the steps, and gasped with relief as she spied a large doorway at the bottom. With a grunt, she shoved open the door and ran out into the night.
* * *
Caim suppressed a sigh as he peered into the pantry. This conversation was going nowhere. The girl, Josephine, obviously didn’t trust him enough to give him straight answers. And why should she? In any case, he was beginning to doubt she knew anything pertinent. She was just a pampered socialite without any cares beyond the lacy confines of her perfect world. Kit was right again. Bringing the girl here had been a mistake.
He was pushing aside a sack of old flour to see what might be lurking behind it when the weird sensation returned, stronger than before. Fear was a thing he had learned to live with. It was part of his life and his livelihood. Every time he faced a drawn weapon or crept into a strange location for a job, it perched on his shoulder. He had learned to control it, to harness its energy to do what had to be done. This feeling was different. It refused to be repressed or ignored, but roiled in the pit of his stomach like a bad meat pie.
“Caim!” Kit yelled. Her shout made him jerk upright, almost banging his head on the roof of the cupboard.
He extricated himself and turned in time to see his captive dart out the doorway into the hall. With a curse, he took two steps after her and halted in his tracks as a bitter chill descended over him like an avalanche of snow. Kit stared up at the ceiling. Caim dove to the ground and rolled. A sharp pain pierced his right ankle, cutting through his boot. He kicked and spun around.
A great serpent reared above him. Its inky scales gleamed in the lamplight like diamonds of polished jet. The tail end disappeared into the shadows of the ceiling. The wedge-shaped head hovered before him, jaws wide enough to swallow a dog splayed open to display rows of glistening fangs.
Caim slid one of his knives free of its sheath. The serpent watched his movements with cold, cerulean eyes. Its head swayed from side to side.
“Are you all right?” Kit’s gaze remained on the black creature as it floated nearer.
“What in the hell is that thing?”
“Something very dangerous,” she whispered, and dropped her voice even further when the serpent’s head swung toward her. “I could distract it while you run.”
“It can see you?” He gathered his feet under him and bit his bottom lip as a bolt of agony shot up his right leg. But it supported his weight. “No, go after the girl.”
“But—”
“Go! We can’t afford to lose her.”
With a last glance at the serpent, Kit vanished into the floor. Caim crouched and backed away as more of the creature’s body emerged from the ceiling. All the while it moved closer, its great eyes stalking him. Caim studied its movement. Like him, the serpent was a predator. It would keep maneuvering closer until it pushed him into a corner. Then, in a sudden rush, it would lunge.
He retreated step by step. His ankle was throbbing. He drew his other suete and waved the knives back and forth to draw the serpent’s attention, but its gaze never left his face. Caim got the uncomfortable feeling the creature wasn’t a dumb brute, but possessed some semblance of intelligence. He remembered the invisible beast that had torn apart the Blue Vine. Was this it? Had this thing somehow come from him?
As he backpedaled onto the cushion of the woven-reed exercise mat, a pulling sensation stirred behind his breastbone. A familiar tingle of energy ran down his spine. He didn’t need to seek out his fear; it ran through him in terse, nauseating waves. The shadows wanted to come out and play, but he pushed them away, back down into the dark recesses of his mind from whence they came. He couldn’t afford the risk. If he had inadvertently summoned this creature, calling upon his powers again might make matters worse. What if more appeared?
The room shortened as the inky serpent backed him toward a corner. Caim ran through his options. The only window was shuttered and locked, but the front door hung open. He could make a break for it. The beast was large. He might be able to outrun it. As if sensing his thoughts, the serpent looped around to block his path. Caim’s shoulder brushed against a target bag suspended from the ceiling. He didn’t have much time left. A few more steps would bring him to the wall and nowhere else to go. He eyed the scaly hide and wondered if cold steel could even harm it. There was only one way to find out.
He lashed out with his left hand and set the target bag to swinging. The serpent kept coming for him, lowering its head to stay out of the arc of the swaying bag. Caim took a quick step to his right and punched another bag. As it swung toward the creature, he crept sideways toward the window. When the serpent reversed course to cut off his escape, he attacked. He lunged with his right-hand knife extended, the point aimed at the serpent’s blunt snout. As the creature reared back, Caim threw himself forward onto his knees. He slid underneath its bulk and thrust upward with his left-hand knife. Its point skittered along the monster’s belly, unable to pierce the tough scales.
Caim gasped as the pressure in his chest returned, twice as strong as before. Unprepared for the sudden onslaught, he almost lost control. Every muscle in his body tensed as he fought his powers. They clawed against the walls of his mind like a pack of sewer rats trying to escape the rising tide. Above him, the serpent reared.
Caim leapt away, evading its curved fangs by inches, but the creature looped around and pulled him close. So quick, it flowed like a rushing stream. Pain blossomed around his rib cage as the rippling, muscular body wrapped around his middle. His legs strained under the enormous weight. The knife fell from his left hand and he stabbed at the beast over and over with the right, but it had no effect. Every breath was a struggle. Black spots appeared before his eyes. His muscles slackened. And still, his powers fought for release. Caim clamped down on them with every scrap of resolve he could muster. This battle had become more than a struggle for release. Either he would control his abilities, or they would control him. His lips stretched back in a grimace as he strained.
Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the pressure vanished.
Its abrupt departure left a hole in Caim’s chest, a void that bothered him almost as much as the pressure had, but he had more urgent concerns. The serpent had looped another layer of coils around his midsection. Its crushing embrace threatened to squeeze him in two. He reached up with his free hand. The giant wedge of the creature’s head swayed above him, just out of reach. His fingers found purchase at the back of the neck. Smiling through the pain, he struck.
The serpent shuddered as the knife pierced its eye. Caim tried to hang on, but the writhing coils flung him about like an infant. A mighty convulsion threw him across the room. Battered, he lay prone on the floorboards. His lungs burned as fresh air hit them. The serpent thrashed in the center of the floor, his knife still stuck in its eye socket until its violent throes hurtled the weapon free.
Caim crawled to his knees, but the creature had given up the fight. Black ichor dripped from its ruined eyeball as it undulated into the far corner of the room. Draped in shadows, it vanished like the remnants of a dream, and the eerie sensation with it.
Caim climbed to his feet. He ached from neck to toe, but he had survived. He tore his gaze away from the corner and hobbled to the door, down the hallway. The girl had a good lead on him, too damned good by half and him with an injured foot, but how well did she know Low Town? Not at all, most likely. He glanced through a grimy skylight as he passed under it. Night had settled over the city. That worked to his advantage. The darkness would make her flight more difficult. She might wander the Gutters for hours before finding her way to a landmark she could recognize. If Kit was doing her job, he would find Josephine in plenty of time, unless someone else found her first. An image of the girl, cornered in an alley by a Low Town street gang, blasted through his mind as he reached the stairwell. He leapt down the steps three at a time, heedless of the burning pain in his ankle. Down the stairs and across the foyer. He shoved open the heavy door.
Knives bared and ready for anything, he limped out into the night.