The Lion & the Deathless Dark — Chapter 8

C HA P T E R E I G HT

told myself life was easier alone.

TWACK, as Zefiah burst through a spine.I CRACK, as the head struck the tile floor. Flecks of blood spattered my face. The head rolled, slightly lopsided, stopping by a smashed-in nose.

I grabbed a fistful of long, blond hair and hoisted it over my shoulder, then turned to survey the grand dining room. Gore now coated the machinery that comprised the floor, jamming them and interrupting the steady ticking rhythm. This was a temple of Srana, and one of the grandest ones I’d seen—a monument to technology crafted of whirring gears and pipes puffing steam. The head belonged to what had once been one of Shiket’s top priestesses, who had defected in favor of joining Srana’s ranks.

A great slight in Shiket’s eyes, especially considering rumors that Srana was eyeing Shiket’s role as the de facto leader of the White Pantheon. The death of Atroxus, the sun god, ten years ago had left a power vacuum among the gods, and they’d been squabbling over it ever since.

Three bodies, all Srana’s acolytes, now littered the floor. Two more priests—students, by the look of them—cowered against the wall.

It was a shame to make such a mess. Srana was as terrible as the others, but at least she had style. Val would’ve loved this place. I almost regretted

that she wasn’t here to see it. Almost.

I eyed the students in the corner.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” I said to them, holding up the head by the hair. “I have what I need. I won’t bother you if you don’t bother me.”

They were silent, gazes glued to the lifeless bodies of the acolytes who had, in fact, bothered me. They wouldn’t make the same mistake.

I turned to the door. Then paused and glanced back at the dead acolytes.

About how far behind schedule are we with Shiket? I asked Zefiah. {We? You expect me to take responsibility for your carelessness?}

So, very behind. {Very behind.} I eyed the hands of a dead acolyte, inches away from their weapon—a clumsy copper bow that didn’t have nearly the creative finesse of Val’s work. The sigil of Srana, two interlocking gears, was tattooed there.

Probably should take those, too. An extra apology gift for Shiket.

I sighed, set down the head, and started hacking away.

I LEFT SWIFTLY ONCE I was done. I didn’t care to stick around to see whether Srana would take notice of the act. Gods were petty little bitches.

When I’d first come to bear Zefiah, I’d naively thought I really would become the warrior for justice that I’d once believed the Vindica Ultis to be.

I put that innocent dream out of its misery quickly. Shiket used me as her own personal bounty hunter, punishing those who had dared to defy her.

Most of it didn’t even have to do with the war—she sent her human armies and her Sentinels, divine warriors created from the souls of the dead, to the battlefronts instead.

And here I was. Hacking off heads and hands and bringing them to her feet like some kind of house cat. All witness the great Vindica Ultis.

I got a few miles out of the city before I found a boardinghouse and let myself rest. It was a tiny place, sparsely occupied and mostly by criminals.

Zefiah and my famed title meant that I was easily recognized, but no one in this type of place was about to fall to their knees—which was all right with me. I was given a room in the back, with a door that led directly out into an alleyway currently occupied by a couple fucking behind a pile of trash.

There was no bath, just a faucet and a rusty bucket that I suspected had at one point also been used as a toilet. I scrubbed it vigorously before

stripping and dumping freezing water over myself until the liquid ran clear, then collapsed onto the bed.

I sat cross-legged and brushed my hair, wincing at the snarls, as I sized up the row of offerings neatly arranged on a single crooked table. A delightfully gruesome menagerie of appendages.

What do you think, Zef? A good enough offering for your maker? {Shiket is not my maker. I was merely made alongside her.} I paused mid-brush. Really? By who?

It occurred to me that even the myths didn’t cover who had made the gods. {I do not remember. No one does. Does it matter?} Probably not.

I lifted my eyes to the dirty window. Through a sliver in the curtains, Srana’s temple rose up against the stars in the distance. Too far away now to see whatever chaos might be unfolding over there. Then my gaze lowered to the streets. Quiet, save for the final grunting crescendo of the amorous

trash couple.

You sense anything out there? {No. Nothing beyond the ordinary.} The same every night. Every day. Nothing.

It almost embarrassed me that I had genuinely believed Septimus’s warning that the Shadowborn would be trailing me here. The worst I’d encountered on the trek had been a few wandering soulless. {Your ego is wounded to learn you are not as important as you thought

you were,} Zefiah said.

It’s just . . . surprising. {Fallen ones lie. I have seen this for longer than you have lived.} But why would he go out of his way for a lie? {Why does a cat give a mouse a slow death?} I thought of Septimus’s smile, curling on one corner of his mouth, and bit down a surge of anger that I’d ever looked at that smirk and thought any word that slipped between those beautiful lips could be true.

I tossed aside the brush and lay back in bed. I was sore. The guards had gotten a few good shots in before I took their heads off. Next, I would be heading to Shiket’s temple to deposit my bloody gifts at her doorstep, stroke her ego enough to satisfy her for a little while, and then be on my way to more lucrative prospects.

And . . . {Will you go back to them?} Zefiah asked the question I couldn’t even ask myself.

I’m sure they’re having more fun in Hegaella than they would be here. {Mirie has not been home in many years. I imagine it is pleasant for her to visit her family. And likely a restful break for all of them.} It was a nice thought. Mirie spoke warmly of her home. Valentina wasn’t much the religious type, other than to perform the perfunctory service to Srana that enabled her best work as a machinist, but she enjoyed people. And from what Mirie said, the people in Hegaella were good ones.

Maybe the few good people left in this shitty carcass of a world. Val had likely already made all kinds of friends. And Marko—well, I don’t know.

Maybe he found someone pretty to fuck.

Not prettier than me. But pretty.

These were more pleasant thoughts than the ones my mind usually drifted to in the silence. I clung to them until exhaustion took me.

SCRTCH SCRTCH SCRTCH . . .

My eyes snapped open.

Scrtch scrtch . . .

The sounds surrounded me, faint but loud enough to wake me. They came from all directions, echoing in the darkness. I sat up and grabbed Zefiah before I was even fully awake. My feet hit the dirty, splintered floorboards.

Zefiah’s golden light illuminated the room. Empty. Still.

Scrtchscrtchscrtchscrth— The sounds came faster, blending together like rushing water. And then I realized: They were mice. Mice scurrying inside the walls, frantic.

Running away from something.

The silence shattered. A man’s guttural shriek rang from the next room, silenced with a wet splatter. A woman wept somewhere in the distance. A

thud shook the floorboards beneath my feet, as something—or someone— struck the ceiling hard on the level below.

The hairs stood on my arms, the back of my neck. A wave of fear set my

muscles rigid.

Soulless.

I whirled around just in time to see a face, upside down, peering at me through the window. Too-long fingers splayed over the glass. Pressing,

pressing— CRACK.

Glass shattered. I lunged at the creature just as it lunged at me.

Pain bloomed across my face, a claw ripping flesh. Red flooded one eye, making it difficult to see. I swung Zefiah. Light flared. An inhuman voice wailed. Flames engulfed the soulless, who staggered away from me, clutching the burning wound across its torso.

I didn’t hesitate. I drove Zefiah through its chest, straight into whatever rot remained of its heart.

And then I tore my blade free, grabbed the sack of heads from my dresser, and threw open the door. I ran out onto the balcony and down the line of inn doors. The screams were everywhere, now, echoing through the inn, up the deserted road. In the distance, I saw two shacks on fire atop the

hill leading down to the slums.

A horde, then? {Perhaps,} Zefiah said, as another soulless flung itself from the roof. I swung, sent one grey, sinewy arm flying over the railing, and then the rest of it in my second strike.

Gods fucking help us if they ever figured out how to give those things wings.

I darted past a soulless sinking its teeth into the throat of a man in the alleyway. He screamed for my help as I whipped by. I kept running; down the stairs, around the corner, past the rotten garbage, as three, four, six soulless slithered from the shadows after me.

As I wove through cluttered alleyways and crashed through abandoned buildings, I tried to keep count of them. A couple dozen, maybe, though it was hard to tell in the chaos.

Was this it, then? The attack that Septimus had warned me about? It could just as easily be a wandering pack, hungry from the barren plains, drawn by the promise of fresh blood.

{Over there,} Zefiah said.

My gaze settled on a derelict building just up the street—perhaps once a bank or library, before society came to the point where those things were not often needed. The once-grand stone structure had partially caved in on itself, stone scorched by what may have been fiery remnants from long-ago looting.

I darted down the street then, at the last possible opportunity, flung myself through a cracked window.

Half a dozen soulless poured in after me.

I ran to the corner, drawing them in to a small room. They were easily led, and now encroached upon me like hungry wolves. They seemed almost vampiric, like this—silhouetted in the dark in a way that hid their most monstrous features, their reflective eyes open and trained upon me. They were closer to animals than people most of the time, but with their attention sharply fixed on their prey, their bodies upright and teeth bared, they

revealed a shade of their makers.

You ready, Zef?

Zefiah didn’t even dignify that with a response.

Light burst from the blade, drenching the tiny, dank space in searing gold godlight. And with the light came the screams—shrieks of agony as the soulless scurried backward like insects seeking the shelter of rot. But there was nowhere to go. I’d lured them into a trap.

The stench of burning flesh filled my lungs. One of the soulless, near the back, managed to drag itself back out the broken window into the night beyond. The rest collapsed into twitching masses on the ground, their sallow flesh eaten by purple and black burns. Not dead yet, but harmless.

Zefiah’s glow faded. My eyes adjusted to the fresh darkness, burning with the afterimage of her light. It was a trick she could only use so often, but a useful one.

Silence, save for the distant echoes of screams from other buildings in the city.

But I still sensed something. An uncomfortable sense of not-alone-ness.

I turned slowly, brow furrowing.

Zefiah whispered, {Kyrene, someone is here.} A streak of darkness.

An unmistakable pressure on the back of my skull, like someone was prying open my thoughts with a crowbar.

Shadowborn.

I spun around. The vampire was barely visible. Darkness wrapped around them—a skill of the Shadowborn—obscuring their features save for the glint of their delighted grin.

Come here, a voice crooned into my mind, and every muscle begged to comply. Come here, come here, come here.

I threw my energy into resisting. I surged forward at the exact same moment they did, Zefiah raised— A silver bolt whipped past my face, nearly brushing my nose.

The Shadowborn staggered, fluid grace disrupted. The shadows around them flickered, revealing a tall, dark-haired man, dressed in House of Shadow green. The very same man I’d encountered before. Miles. He

turned, peered over his shoulder.

“Wait—” he started.

TWACK, as another bolt went straight through his chest.

He slumped to the ground.

An oddly familiar silken voice said, “You are terribly hard to keep alive.”

Zefiah let out a disapproving hiss as a figure stepped into a ray of silver moonlight. Fair hair, broken-glass eyes, and impeccable white clothing.

Septimus.

He cast the dead Shadowborn a vaguely disgusted glance and tossed the crossbow to the ground like it was repulsive.

There were many useful things I could have said, but the words that flew out of my mouth were, “I didn’t need the help.”

“Of course you didn’t.” He frowned at a spot of blood on his sleeve.

“We don’t know each other well enough yet for you to understand how significant it is that I keep getting my hands dirty for you.”

I scoffed. “You didn’t get your hands dirty. You pulled a trigger.”

“Usually I have other people pull triggers for me.” {How kind of him to admit his own weakness to us,} Zefiah said smugly. {Let us take his heart now.} I could have. He was right there. A burst of godlight, especially so soon after the last, wouldn’t be strong enough to kill a full vampire, but it could stun him. Push him up against the wall. Blade through the heart. Easy. It would be especially poetic if I used the crossbow to end it. If you like other people to pull the trigger . . .

But I was nosy by nature, and that vice won out against my violent

impatience.

“What are you doing here?”

“Keeping an eye on you. Since you seem intent on ensuring your own demise.” He ran his hand through his hair, pushing silver strands back only for them to fall right back into place over his forehead. “I told you not to come here.”

“Because the formidable Shadowborn were after me.” I stared down at the corpse, unimpressed. “Is this it? This is the terrifying army that was supposed to take me down for good? Funny, you warn me that I’m being stalked, and yet the only vampire I see standing here is you.” {For goddess’s sake, Kyrene. Kill him!} Septimus laughed softly and withdrew a cigarillo from his breast pocket. “I think I understand now how you’ve made it so far. Balls and luck.”

I couldn’t bring myself to find this offensive.

I pointed Zefiah at him, a threatening glow shuddering along her blade.

“Why are you following me?”

“I just hate to see talent wasted. Though you’re right—apparently you are doing just fine on your own. I really did think I was going to have to spin some kind of lie to get the Shadowborn off your scent. But no, you did the job for me by being the most blasphemous divine warrior I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.” He drew in a long, thoughtful inhale and let it out with a plume of silver smoke. His eyes sparkled with curiosity, like he was genuinely intrigued. “Tell me, Kyrene, who did you sell the gauntlet to?

Some poor traveling trader? Or maybe one of the warlords who placed the bounties you’re always chasing?”

I hoped, prayed, I had misunderstood him. I blinked. A bolt of unease shot through me.

Still, I kept my smirk affixed to my lips.

“The gauntlet?” I said lightly. Casually.

“You weren’t in Hegaella. So who was?”

Hegaella.

My extremities went cold.

Even Zefiah was silent.

I managed, softly, “Why are you asking me about Hegaella?”

Could a vampire hear the way my heartbeat stuttered? Smell the way my blood curdled in my veins? His expression flickered—half a shade of interest, or perhaps pity, as he pieced something together—barely there before it was gone again.

I lurched closer, Zefiah’s glow dousing the elegant panes of his face in gold. “How do you know I wasn’t in Hegaella?”

My voice cracked despite my best efforts.

He inhaled deeply, and let it out. There was an agonizing wait before the answer.

“The Shadowborn are innovators of magic,” he said. “Adept at tracking methods. But they need to be creative, when the sword you bear shrouds itself, and you, from prying eyes. The gauntlet was touched by the divine, a mark of the Vindica Ultis—and yet, weak enough that it could be tracked.

Just enough evidence of your whereabouts that Queen Egrette could be convinced to go to Hegaella, not Yiferis.” He nudged the dead Shadowborn with the toe of his boot. “This was the scout. Sent ahead just in case you came here after all, when they were unable to find you in Hegaella.”

I barely heard him over the buzz that had risen in my ears. My hands trembled. I stood there, staring at him, not speaking, not breathing.

Stuck on those words.

On the horrific scene they stitched together.

You weren’t in Hegaella.

Queen Egrette could be convinced.

The queen went there.

No.

The Shadowborn queen, and her army, went to Hegaella. Went to the very place I had sent them for protection.

No.

Outside, the screams of the soulless rose to a crescendo. My mind wasn’t steeled against their fear. It crashed over me in a horrific wave— images of my own past and an imagined future weaving together, a painting of blood and guts and severed limbs and children crying out for their mothers and the Shadowborn queen covered in blood and and and— I no longer cared about my unspoken question. I no longer even cared about carving out Septimus’s heart.

I cared only about getting to Hegaella as fast as I possibly could.

Septimus said something that faded into the static of the background. I ignored him.

As the soulless let out another wave of wails, I turned and I fucking ran.