Seasons of War, page 30
Valkyrie shrugged. “Maybe I can give you a demonstration. If you’d just unlock my cell …”
Assegai came right up close, pressed her head against the bars. “You think you’re clever.”
“Clever enough.”
“Not too clever, though, are you? I wasn’t even following you, do you realise that? The watchtower I found you at, that’s one of the rendezvous points. That’s where the Teleporters meet with soldiers like me in order to take us into the city. And you’re just wandering around it like an idiot.”
“That does sound kinda stupid,” Valkyrie admitted.
“We’re going to find out all your secrets.”
“Sounds likely. Any idea when the torturing will begin? I might have to clear my schedule.”
“They’ve got quite a lot to get through before it’s your turn, I’m afraid, so you’ll have to sit here, in your own filth, with nothing to do but anticipate the pain and disfigurement to come. Once you’ve spilled your secrets, and once the Sense Wardens are through with you, I’ve asked that whatever’s left of you be handed over to me. Would you like that? Would you like to be my pet? If you’re lucky – if you’re very, very lucky, and very, very good – I’ll take you with me when we pass through the portal. But if you’re not, if you’re a bad pet, a naughty pet, I’ll leave you here. For the draugar.”
Valkyrie couldn’t think of a smart remark that was equal to what Assegai had thrown at her, so she sneered and gave her the finger.
It was something, at least.
Temper walked into his quiet, cold house. He missed Kierre. He missed her warm smile. He missed the way she greeted him. He missed just about every little thing about her. But most of all he missed the feeling that he wasn’t alone any more, that there was someone there for him, that she’d chosen him out of everyone. He missed that.
Something hit him. He stumbled against the table, went for his gun, but the weapon was torn from his hand. He lashed out and his head rocked back and he was thrown against the sink.
Dazed, his jaw aching, he blinked quickly to clear his vision.
There was a man crouching on his kitchen table. Long grey hair, old jeans and dirty boots. A shirt, open, showing the tattoos on his bare chest, painted like there were demons crawling out beneath his skin.
He had a grinning mouth tattooed across the lower half of his jaw.
“I know you,” said Temper slowly. “You’re Mr Glee.”
The mouth beneath the grin smiled.
“Valkyrie Cain told me about you,” said Temper. “You’re a serial killer. Gleeman Shakespeare, is that it? That your full name?”
“That’s it.”
“The invisible man. From New York.”
“That’s right.”
“Whereabouts? I’m from New York. I might know someone you know.”
“Temper, Temper … I’m here to kill you. Not talk to you.”
“So what are you, a serial killer or a hitman? Pick a lane, buddy.”
Glee disappeared.
Temper heard him jump and he swung with the kitchen knife in his hand, hit nothing. Then all of a sudden Glee was beside him and Temper slashed and Glee caught his wrist, disarmed him depressingly easily. A punch knocked Temper back. A kick knocked him over a chair.
He got to his feet, trying to breathe. Glee walked after him. He was a tall man, but sort of stooped. Temper backed away.
“I know what your power is,” Glee said. “You’re one of those Gist people, yeah? I’ve never seen one in action. Care to let it loose, see how I do against it?”
“You wouldn’t last three seconds.”
“So let it loose. Let me go down in a blaze of glory.”
There wasn’t anywhere left to back up to.
Glee’s grin got wider. “So it’s true,” he said. “You’re at the end of your tether, as it were. You let that Gist out one more time and you disappear and it takes over. That right? Yeah, that’s right. So there isn’t really a whole lot you can do to fight me off, is there?”
Temper didn’t say anything as Glee picked up the kitchen knife, turning it so that it flashed when it caught the light.
“I’m gonna gut you,” Glee said. “Just so you know what’s coming. Just so you know what to expect. It’s gonna be a painful death. Not too drawn-out … but certainly painful.”
Temper put his hands up, ready to fight.
Glee chuckled. “That’s the spirit.”
He lunged and Temper opened his hands. The creature living in his arm poked its head through the scar in his palm and then shot out, burrowing through Glee’s shoulder. The killer howled, twisting and falling back.
The knife fell. Glee reached for it, but another black tentacle shot out of Temper’s other hand, that mouth with all those teeth barely missing Glee’s fingers. Instead, it gripped the knife and whipped it away as it retracted. Temper had to duck to make sure it didn’t impale him on its way past.
“What the hell?” Glee roared from the ground.
“What,” said Temper, “my pets? Just a little gift from a dying friend. They needed a home, you know? And I’ve always been an animal lover.”
Clutching his shoulder, Glee got up. “You’ve made an enemy tonight,” he snarled.
“You came to kill me,” said Temper, a little puzzled.
Glee turned invisible and his footsteps retreated. Temper sent a tentacle to snatch up his gun, and he followed the footsteps – and the trail of blood – out of the front door, all the way across the street, where he lost it in the shadows.
“Good Hansel,” he whispered to his left hand. “Good Gretel,” he whispered to his right.
Razzia would have been proud.
Their time had almost run out.
There was one day to go before the auction and Omen and the others still had to find the Obsidian Blade. This was bad. This was terrible. They’d been in the hotel eighteen times. They knew the layout well. They knew how cold it was and how dark it was, and they knew which parts of the wooden floors would creak if trodden upon.
They had searched the lobby and searched the bedrooms. That left the kitchen and some of the bathrooms, but Omen’s optimism had long since dimmed. He made a promise to himself – if they didn’t find the Obsidian Blade tonight, he’d alert the High Sanctuary, even if it meant being kicked out of Corrival.
Never teleported them to their usual spot, up on the balcony overlooking the lobby. Reznor Rake had just left. He’d announced that he was sick of the food they’d been eating, and he’d taken the car to go and get something different.
Reznor being gone wasn’t that unusual – he hadn’t spent an awful lot of time there over the last two weeks – but Tancred never left, and his movements were awfully predictable. He slept in Room 9. He ate and watched TV in the lobby. He spent forty-five minutes or more on the toilet, every single time he went.
He was a man who liked the toilet.
“Holy crap,” whispered Never.
Omen frowned, peered down through the slats in the balcony, to where Tancred was sitting. The TV was showing some awful sitcom, but Omen’s attention was on the crumpled beer cans on the table to the left side of the man, and the way they disappeared when Tancred stabbed them with the black-bladed knife in his big, meaty hand.
The Obsidian Blade.
Tancred lined up another beer can. Aiming carefully, he jabbed it with the tip of the knife, and it looked like the can was swallowed by emptiness. Obviously fascinated by this, Tancred moved another can into position. Once again, he jabbed downwards – but this time he went too hard, and it was not just the can that disappeared but the entire table.
The other beer cans clattered to the floor, and Tancred laughed.
Axelia and Never looked at Omen, expecting a plan.
“When he goes to the toilet,” Omen whispered, looking at Never, “you teleport down, grab the knife, and we get out of here.”
Never didn’t look overly impressed with that plan, but she didn’t argue, either, so Omen took that as a ringing endorsement.
But, an hour later, the Obsidian Blade was resting on the table to the right side of the chair, and Tancred hadn’t budged. He was watching a documentary on old Hollywood musicals and had completely missed his regular evening constitutional.
This was bad. If Tancred didn’t head off to the toilet soon, Reznor would return and the Blade wouldn’t go unguarded. So Omen came up with a second plan. A terrible plan.
“I’m going to sneak down,” he whispered, “crawl up behind him and take the knife. The moment I have it, you both come get me.”
Axelia shook her head furiously. “That’s a terrible plan.”
“It’s not that bad.”
Never glared. “It’s awful. Just awful.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ll do it.”
“No,” said Omen.
“I teleport down, grab it, teleport back, grab you, we all teleport away. It’s the only plan that makes sense.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“Funny,” said Never, “Too Dangerous is where I live. It’s on the corner of Brave and Awesome.”
Axelia frowned. “What?”
Never sighed. “Whatever. Just prepare to witness brilliance.”
She rose up off her knees, into a crouch, and then she wasn’t on the balcony any more, she was down there, in the lobby, right behind Tancred’s chair.
He adjusted himself in his seat.
Omen and Axelia watched as Never took a tiny step forward, watched as she reached out, slender fingers moving for the knife handle. Ever so slowly, she wrapped her fingers around it.
Tancred sniffed, adjusted himself again, happened to turn his head ever so slightly, and roared when he saw her hand on the knife.
Never jerked her hand away as Tancred shot to his feet. She cursed, dived for the Blade, but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her into a punch. Never’s knees gave out and she crumpled and Omen and Axelia came running down the stairs, screaming curses, and Tancred stalked over to meet them.
He batted Axelia to one side. Omen charged him and got a fist to the side for his trouble. The breath whooshed from his lungs and he fell, eyes bulging.
Tancred cracked his knuckles as Axelia advanced on him. “This doesn’t have to be painful, princess.”
“I’m afraid it does,” Axelia said, settling into a fighting stance.
Tancred chuckled. “All right then,” he said. “Let’s be having you.”
Omen tried to call out, but his muscles were still protesting too much to allow him to take a decent breath, so all he could do was watch as Axelia threw out a few tentative jabs. Tancred’s grin widened as he swayed back, avoiding each one.
She tried a kick. It missed, but it was flawlessly executed. If it had connected, it would have maybe broken Tancred’s jaw. As it was, it swished past his face and Tancred laughed and clapped.
Axelia’s brow furrowed. She didn’t much like being patronised at the best of times.
She feinted with another punch and switched to a kick, a low one, to the inside of the thigh. Tancred’s grin vanished off his face as he stepped back, rubbing his leg.
“You’re starting to annoy me,” he growled.
Omen sucked in a thin sliver of air.
Axelia kicked Tancred’s legs three more times. The third kick almost buckled his left knee. He moved back, scowling. She moved in for a fourth kick and instead clipped him with a punch, dead centre, right on the nose. He grabbed at her and she ducked under and spun. If Omen had tried that, he’d have mistimed it or missed completely – but Axelia judged it perfectly, and her heel smashed into Tancred’s gut.
She hopped back, staying on the balls of her feet, fists up and elbows tight. Chin tucked in.
Tancred held one hand to his face as he tried to straighten. That last kick had winded him, and blood from his nose was trickling through his fingers. He’d stopped enjoying this a while ago. Omen recognised the look. It was the one a lot of instructors got when Auger got the better of them. It was a sign of trouble to come.
Tancred walked forward. Axelia caught him with another kick to the leg, and once again he nearly buckled, but, instead of going down, he lunged. Grabbed her. Axelia tried breaking the hold with a technique taught in combat class, but he shoved her back into the wall before she had any time to execute it. He moved in, sliding her up off her feet, then twisted, flipped her, and slammed her into the ground.
Omen stood and gave a long, involuntary moan as he tried to straighten his back.
Axelia started getting up. Tancred’s knee missed her face and hit her shoulder instead, sent her sprawling. She scrambled to her feet, struggling to breathe, holding one hand out to keep him away. He grabbed her wrist, punched her with his other hand. She went down on one knee and he helped her up by gripping her throat.
Omen still couldn’t stand straight, but he charged anyway. He hit Tancred with enough force to make him drop Axelia, but not enough to do anything else. He moaned again as Tancred grabbed him, kept him in position, and drove a knee up into his face. Omen managed to turn his head just in time to save his teeth, but the world rocked and he went straight down, blinking away tears.
He turned over. He could breathe a little better now. There was an awful ringing in his ears, though, a ringing that reduced everything else to a distant murmur.
He blinked again as Tancred sent Axelia hurtling over a sofa. He didn’t think she’d get up after that one, but she did. Her lip was busted and blood was running from her nose and there was a massive bump already rising around her left eye. Tancred darted in, grabbed her, and hit her. She stumbled. He hit her again.
Spitting blood, crying but refusing to stay down, Axelia tore off her jacket. Tancred tried to grab her again, but he couldn’t grip her bare arm, and she hit him with a looping haymaker that caught him on the ear. He howled, went reeling.
Axelia wanted to move after him, Omen could see, to take advantage of his distress, but she was too tired. Her fists were no longer up, protecting her head. Her elbows were no longer tight, protecting her ribs. She sucked in big breaths through her mouth. It wasn’t easy to breathe with a nose full of blood.
Tancred shook his head. His face was bloody and red with exertion, and he was breathing heavily, too. But, where Axelia was growing visibly weaker as the fight went on, he was drawing strength from his anger. He stormed towards her. She backed off, desperately looking for a way out.
He pulled his arm back for a punch. She saw it coming. She didn’t have the energy to dodge so she tried to block. His fist came right through her defences and collided with the left side of her face and her body twisted and she went down in a heap.
Tancred stood over her, snarling.
Omen tried to leap to his feet, but all he could manage was a sad little push across the floor. It was enough to catch Tancred’s attention, however.
“Want some more, do you?” Tancred asked.
I can do this all day, Omen wanted to growl, but of course all he could utter was a groan.
Tancred laughed, and then there was someone behind him, and he squawked in pain.
For a moment, in the confusion, Omen thought it was Skulduggery, come to save him. He was the same height, and he wore a hat and a suit. But the hat was the wrong kind of hat, and the suit was checked and it had a bow tie. And the face …
The stranger with the strange face didn’t use any magic to take down Tancred. Omen was glad of that. It meant he could watch Tancred being physically dismantled by a superior opponent.
And this guy was good. Granted, Tancred was already tired, and already hurt, but nothing he threw came even close to landing. Moving with precision and calm efficiency, the new guy proceeded to beat Tancred to a spectacularly bloody pulp until, by the end, Omen was almost feeling sorry for him.
No, actually. Omen was feeling sorry for him.
Tancred went down for the last time and the new guy adjusted his bow tie and looked at Omen. “And who might you be?” he asked.
“Omen,” he managed to gasp. “Omen Darkly.”
The man extended his hand. “Omen, good to meet you. Name’s Crepuscular. Crepuscular Vies.” Omen hesitated, and Crepuscular shrugged. “Sorry, my face takes some getting used to.”
Omen grasped the outstretched hand, and Crepuscular pulled him slowly to his feet.
“What?” Omen said. “What’s wrong with your …? Oh, I see it now. Yeah, the … It’s really not that bad.”
Crepuscular smiled. Or at least, Omen thought that’s what he did. “You’re too kind,” he said. “Dare I ask what brings you here to get smacked around by this gentleman?”
“We’re doing a little investigating,” Omen said, hobbling over to Axelia first, and then Never. They were both unconscious. Both in need of a doctor.
“Ah,” Crepuscular said, “teenage sleuths, eh? I always wanted to be a teenage sleuth. How’s it going?”
“It’s been better,” Omen said, kneeling painfully by Never’s side.
“I’d hope so. Do you have a healer you can get to?”
Omen did – or at least he hoped he did. Reverie Synecdoche had told him a while ago that, if he ever needed help, he just had to knock on her clinic door. “Sorry,” he said, “but why are you here?”
Crepuscular raised an eyebrow. “Oh. Me. Yes. Well … I suppose I’m here for some adult sleuthing, to be honest. Heh. Look at us, the intrepid little detectives that we are.”
“What are you investigating?”
“Ah-ah,” said Crepuscular. “One sleuth never reveals his case to another. That’s the first rule of sleuthing.”
“Is it?”
“I’m not sure. It could be.”
Never muttered something without opening her eyes. Omen hoped that was a signal that she was about to wake.
“Thank you, by the way,” Omen said as he stood.
Crepuscular’s bulbous eyes blinked. “Whatever for?”
“For this. Saving us.”
“Is that what I did? My, that was brave of me.”
