A Study In Ashes Part 44

Evelina dropped the poker, and it clanged on the stone. "Get away from me."

She'd never encountered one of the Others this close before. They'd always stayed just out of reach, lurking in corners. It grabbed her arm, maybe with a hand or a tail-she couldn't be sure. Cold shot through her-a pain that struck the gut and radiated clear to her jaw.

You don't get to leave.

She wrenched away, seeming to surprise it, and slammed it with her boot. It staggered back with an angry shriek. If you can hurt me, she thought, I can hurt you back.

And then it opened a slash in its head that was lined with a double row of jagged, pointed teeth. A dark, shadowy tongue lashed out, longer than it had any business being, and the thing hissed with the sound of a shovel sc.r.a.ping on Evelina's grave.

She bolted. And as if losing her nerve was the signal for mayhem, the parapet swarmed with Others. At first she thought there were just many of them, but then she realized it was a boiling sea of shadow rearing up in waves of grotesque limbs and sightless eyes, as if they'd melted together and heaved as one. Hands and mouths and things that had no name shot from the ma.s.s to trap her legs, to pull her under and devour her. Evelina screamed in sheer disbelief. Such things did not belong in a rational world. But this was Magnus's world.

The only part of the roof free of Others was the end with the iron grill where Magnus had used his seeing stone. She made for that, stumbling when something caught her foot, but she kicked loose and surged forward, grabbing up her skirts so she could go faster. But it was a roof, and it ended. She banged against the merlon beside the grill, catching herself with her hands. For a moment, all she knew was the terror of prey. Oh, d.a.m.nation!

She whirled around, only to see the hideous tide rus.h.i.+ng at her. Without thinking, she jumped to the ledge of the crenel, backing against the grill. She felt the back of her legs against the iron, but inched further away as the first Other separated itself from the clot of its fellows and loomed toward her, somehow growing taller and thinner as it came so that it could grope upward, the shadowy hands-with far too many fingers-all but touching her face.

Evelina shrank away, arching her back, and then was dimly aware of a chiming sound, like metal grating on stone. She had a brief memory of the grill's rusted bolts, and then she was sailing backward, somersaulting through s.p.a.ce toward the foaming surf.

IT WAS THE NEXT MORNING, AND EVELINA KNEW COLD.

Her perception had narrowed down to a spark sheltered deep inside herself, the merest pinp.r.i.c.k of life. Cold was the only concept she could find a word for. The was no question of moving. She couldn't feel individual things like arms and legs. They were useless to her now.

That wasn't the worst outcome. There was none of that thing called pain, just a growing darkness that told her the pinpoint of her life force was about to be snuffed out. Then she wouldn't even have to worry about the chill.

She was fairly sure she'd drowned, but there were other things wrong, too. The waves had been harsh, tossing her against rocks before they finally vomited her up here. Her legs had never bent at that angle before now.

She wasn't sure how long she lay there. Long enough the sound of the water grew less and something many-legged tracked across her body. Gulls began to gather in the faint gray of the dawn, crying like the disappointed dead.

Then she heard feet crunching across the stones, the rhythmic step of a man stuck in the track of his routine. "Lor' what's this, then?" And the steps turned into a jog, stones crunching louder with each heavy slap of a boot.

A hand, rough and cold, touched her throat. "Miss? Miss?"

Another hand pulled the wet curtain of her hair away from her face and the sun hit her eyes. The spark flared, alert. From beneath her lashes she could see a face was near hers, lined and forested with a thick gray stubble. Breath smelled of strong tea with a drop of the good stuff to keep out the morning cold. The face turned, an ear close to her lips to catch any faint sigh of life. Evelina wasn't sure if he would feel anything or not.

The face turned back, wrinkled with sorrow. Within the weathered face, his blue eyes were surprisingly bright, like a flash of sun on a pale blue sea. The hand left her throat and pulled off a shapeless black cap. "I'm that sorry, miss. A bad end for a pretty girl."

The words sang with the lilt of the countryside, and she thought as last rites went it could be worse. At least it was heartfelt.

She wasn't expecting it when the dark power struck, swift as a cobra. It lanced up from deep inside, arrowing through her too quickly for conscious thought. Suddenly she was sitting and her lips were on his, tasting that tea and smuggler's brandy, and devouring the man's life with savage, thirsty gulps. Life coated her mouth and throat, soothing like honey until it hit, sweet and burning, in her core. She felt the healing strength of it stretch out through salt-logged lungs and crushed bones, st.i.tching her torn body anew. But more than that, it rippled through her veins with heady pleasure, drawing her up to her knees so that her mouth could get a firmer fix. Her mind was staggered with it, blinded, so she was as helpless as her prey as she sucked and drank, shuddering with the intensity, the shattering fullness of so much power ringing through her. She was gorged, and then almost sick with it until, finally sated, she fell away with a sigh. Only then did she let the man go.

Evelina rocked back on her heels, reeling as if drunk. Ideas were slow to arrive. The gulls had flown away. The sun was warm on her face even if the rest of her was waterlogged. She wasn't cold anymore, and all her limbs worked as they should. She closed her eyes and opened them, bringing the world into painful focus.

Where am I? She turned her head slowly, the world slos.h.i.+ng a little as she did it. Her back was to the ocean and Magnus's tower was far to her left. To her right was a lone cottage and a dock thrusting into the water, a boat tied at the end. A fis.h.i.+ng vessel, she thought, and then she remembered the man.

With a gasp, she looked back at him, alarm and guilt confusing the part of her that had deemed him prey. I survived. Now I should just run. But she stayed.

He'd fallen on his side when she'd let him go. Evelina crawled over to him, her mind still squabbling about what she should do. In a reversal of roles, she reached for his throat to feel for a pulse.

He sat up with a cry, grabbing for her wrist. His grip was weak-she'd taken all his strength. "Devil!"

"I see you're all right." Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, cool and detached.

"You came from the castle," he hissed, fumbling with his free hand inside the neck of his threadbare s.h.i.+rt.

"Have you had problems with the castle before?" she asked, still in that distant way. I'm in shock, she thought.

"The Lord Magus set his fiends on us in my grandsire's time." He held out a silver medal stamped with the image of Saint Peter, patron of fishermen.

"Magus. Magnus," she muttered. The same Symeon the Mage, perhaps, from the ancient writings? Just how old was the sorcerer? She found herself staring at the medal the man thrust toward her, and felt a twinge of temper. Saint Peter didn't bother her, but the fact that he was waving the medal at her did.

She pulled away easily, rising to her feet. The fisherman rose and scrambled backward, putting some distance between them. "Please," he said. "Take me but spare my wife."

Evelina's jaw dropped, but then the full realization of what she'd done broke through. The man was pale and breathing hard, unsteady on his feet and trembling as if he had a violent fever. She'd clearly hurt him-might have done some permanent damage. If he'd been anything but the tough fisher stock, she could well have drained him dry. But I was nearly dead. What she'd done was pure instinct, as reflexive as fighting for air.

The why of it didn't matter. This was how Magnus kept coming back, and back, and back. He'd done it so long he couldn't let go even when he'd gone off like old cheese.

She put a hand to her mouth, sick-but it wasn't the kind of sickness a simple spasm of her gut could fix. She had pa.s.sed some point of no return, the darkness in her now stronger than the rest. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do it."

The man took another step back, still brandis.h.i.+ng the medal. "The demon has you in his thrall. Heaven save your soul but please don't come back here."

"I won't." She hoped that was true. She had no idea what she might do. Evelina began backing away, hoping that meant this poor man would escape her. He called me a thrall. Just like Magnus did. And then she turned and began to run. She'd lost her shoes, but her feet flew over the rocks and sand as if they barely touched them. Her limbs moved with an ease they hadn't had since she was a child, her hair streaming behind her in a wild dark ma.s.s. She ran and ran, barely touched by fatigue, leaping up the rocky tumbles of the cliffs as if they were no more than the shallow steps to a ballroom floor. As she ran, the sun broke fully into the sky, spilling orange and pink flames across the rippling sea.

One thought filled her mind. I'm no man's thrall. And as she thought it, her feet turned toward Siabartha Castle. She had tried to run to avoid activating these powers, but that had happened anyhow. Escape hadn't solved a thing.

And she needed a solution. She'd finally got a st.i.tch in her side by the time she'd reached the wall of the castle. Her clothes were dry, though they were stiff and stained with salt. Her skin and scalp itched. Otherwise, she felt strong, almost invincible. She hated what that stood for. I'm not like him. I'm not!

She arrived at the castle gates. She tried the postern first, but it was locked. Then she tugged fruitlessly at the enormous main entrance. Apparently her extraordinary stamina didn't extend to tearing doors off their hinges.

"Magnus!" she bellowed at the top of her lungs. The word faded too soon, answered only by the keening of a gull. "Magnus!"

And then she saw him, leaning out of the window of the gatehouse tower. "Gone for a wander, kitten?"

"And I'm back," she snapped. Back to stop you, once and for all. Most miraculous of all, she thought she knew how it would happen.

He gestured to the smaller postern gate, and she heard it unlock. Always a showman, she thought darkly, and flung through the door. He caught up with her as she strode across the bailey.

"What happened to you?" he asked.

"Your pets chased me off the roof. I went for a swim." He caught her arm and she wheeled on him. "Take your hands off me!"

She half expected retaliation, half desired it, but his look grew speculative instead. "You've had an adventure," he murmured, and his dark eyes glistened with hunger. "Tell me."

"I stink of fish. I need a bath." She turned and started walking. Magnus followed two steps behind.

"Fish or fisherman?" he asked.

She didn't reply, for once having the upper hand. She kept going, her shoulders squared, praying he wouldn't outwit her just this once. It was all she could do to keep her hands steady as he unlocked her bedroom door, letting her enter.

It looked clean and neat. Someone had rearranged her trunks and put her things away. He knows how I got out. A moment of panic seized her as Magnus stood between her and the door. She could end up a prisoner again. She hadn't thought through every detail. She was flying on rage and a gambler's confidence. Finally, she couldn't stand it any longer and turned back to him.

He gave her a gentle smile. "I left that loose board. I was curious to see how long it would take you to find it."

Shock made her flinch, and then anger drove her forward a step. But she clenched her fists, forcing herself to be still. Was he telling the truth? Did it matter? "I trust I met expectations?"

"That depends." He took a step toward her, then another. "What did kitten bring me?"

She was going to gag if he called her that one more time. But she stayed mute, gritting her teeth to stave off the revulsion she felt as he drew closer. He smelled wrong-a putrid, gangrenous stench that set every particle in her straining to get away. As he bent close to her, she could see how the flesh wasn't quite adhering to his bones anymore. She'd seen the walking dead once they'd begun to go off. Magnus was well on his way.

She closed her eyes, bracing herself, and then pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth to stop the impulse to vomit. Even though she knew it was coming, the touch of his lips on hers sent a deep shudder through her core. And then she felt the tug of his power on hers, prying the life she had stolen from her grasp. No, she thought. This is mine!

Her dark power sprang to life, snarling, but his roared. Whatever she was, Magnus was a thousand times older and more cunning. She clutched her prize hard, but he twisted it from her grasp, reeling it in as easily as if she had no more strength than a babe.

Fury made her writhe and she wrenched it back, surprising him for an instant, but then he stopped being gentle. His power slammed against hers, tossing her back. I've beaten you before, she thought frantically, but it was only once, and it was quite a different kind of fight.

But she only needed once. Come on, she thought to her power. Where are your fangs now? You struck out this morning, fast and hard. Do it now! Locked in a desperate struggle, she tried to think of what she'd done to the fisherman, how it had felt. It was no use. What had happened by reflex wouldn't come on command.

And it was hard to fight when all she wanted to do was squirm away. Magnus was just so revolting-and she didn't really want to have to see this through. But that was the one thing that had been different with the fisherman. Her magic had taken command, and it hadn't hesitated.

She couldn't flinch now. And so she threw herself into the moment, summoning all her magic, all her desire, all her anger. She leaned into the embrace, grasping Magnus's face in her hands and pulling him close. She kissed him like he was her long-lost husband back from the wars.

Once she had committed to the act, it took only a moment to learn that she was the stronger. His strength was spent; hers was brand-new. And so she pulled the stolen life back into herself-and then she kept going, drinking what was left of Magnus down. It tasted bitter and black, like the sandy dregs of cold, strong coffee gone to tar.

She faltered when he began to struggle, but then some predatory instinct took over as she dragged out the remnants of his strength, feeling the terrible deeds he had done brush against her soul. There was remorse and pain and loneliness in him, as well as the pride and madness she had come to know. And when she had felt the last shudder pa.s.s through him, she tasted his death. Then she finally released him, staggering back as vertigo rushed through her.

Magnus dropped to the floor in a boneless heap, already dead. Evelina wiped her mouth with a salt-encrusted sleeve. He wasn't getting up again. She'd made sure there wasn't one drop left.

Southwest Coast, October 13, 1889.

SIABARTHA CASTLE.

3:10 p.m. Sunday.

THE ATHENA ARROWED TOWARD THE COORDINATES HOLMES had provided. They'd been delayed by a skirmish and a bit of a chase with some of the Scarlet King's dirigibles. It would have been fun, except for the urgency to reach Evelina. Now Nick stood at the front of the s.h.i.+p, watching out the large windows. Digby, his russet head bent in concentration, studied a series of bra.s.s gauges and adjusted the huge s.h.i.+p's wheel a degree.

The ash rooks had flocked around the s.h.i.+p and paced it now, their vast wings occasionally blocking his view of the coast. More had joined them since they had reached the ocean-Nick suspected this part of the Empire was their native territory-and now they spread like spilled ink across the clouds, metal flas.h.i.+ng from the helmets and neck chains that marked their status as warriors.

More had joined them, but when they had veered close to the area where they'd sighted the red dirigibles, three more rooks had been killed. Gwilliam was growing reluctant to deploy scouts, and that would be a problem once they returned to enemy territory.

"Anything?" Striker said, coming up beside him.

"The castle should be dead ahead," Nick replied.

No sooner had he spoken than the flock split in two, birds veering right and left to give the s.h.i.+p a clear view. Nick saw a claw of rock thrust into a thras.h.i.+ng sea and the black castle rising above it like the figurehead on the prow of a s.h.i.+p. Dread rose from the place, as much a palpable mist as the ocean spray. Nick's chest tightened as he leaned against the window, trying to gain a better view, even as every fiber in his body yearned to turn away.

Magnus. Nick knew what the sorcerer could do, and felt the creep of fear along his bones. But Nick would crack the place like an egg before letting Evelina spend another hour behind those stygian walls.

Striker looked down and gave a huff of disgust. "Nice place."

"I'm going in to get her."

"Of course you are."

Digby cleared his throat. "Captain, there aren't many places to take a s.h.i.+p this size down, and anchoring in this wind adds a complication, even with Her Ladys.h.i.+p's a.s.sistance." He nodded respectfully toward the panel where Athena was housed.

Such good manners, the deva said approvingly.

"What about the roof?" Nick asked, disliking the idea the moment he said it.

"Maybe," Digby said. "It will be a bit of tricky flying to get close to those towers."

I shall inhale.

Striker stabbed a finger at the gla.s.s, a scowl on his dark-skinned face. "That's all well and good, but where are his defenses?"

It was a good question. Nick hovered between caution and a deep desire to get in and out before dark. The roof would be fast, and there was no evidence of guards or weapons up there. In fact, the castle looked utterly deserted. Was that good or bad, or did they just have the wrong place?

He made a decision. "We'll give a roof approach one try, but back off the moment the s.h.i.+p is in danger. I'd rather walk a mile if I have to."

Striker gave a derisive snort. "If someone lives in a castle like this, if you don't take him by surprise, you don't take him at all."

"You can't sneak up on someone in a steamspinner," Digby pointed out. "It's not that kind of s.h.i.+p."

"I rest my case," Striker said darkly, stomping from the bridge with his coat swinging behind him. "I'm going to the weapons locker."

The Athena slowed, and they drifted closer, the deva's uncanny ability to hover under her own power giving the enormous vessel a precision that would otherwise be impossible. One thing Nick noticed was that steering the new, larger vessel required more teamwork between the helmsman and the air spirit. The engines quieted as they made the final approach, the crenelated battlements sweeping into view.

The ash rooks circled, almost but never quite in the way. But then they shot out from under the s.h.i.+p, sweeping upward in a chorus of croaking so loud that Nick could hear it through the gla.s.s.

"What is it?" he asked.

There is something below, Athena replied. The ashes of souls.

Nick had no idea what that meant, but Evelina was down there with it. "How do I get through?"

Only darkness will allow you to see them. Look into the darkness and refuse to fear what you see.

That sounded more than usually vague, even for a deva. "Any practical advice?"

Take Mr. Striker's special blue weapons.

By the time the s.h.i.+p was in position, gray clouds were rolling in from the water and making an early dusk. Striker groaned when the ladder unfurled from the s.h.i.+p's hatch-he had never been a fan of heights, and was even less so after the wreck of the Jack-but he made no move to back out of the mission. Nick descended first, his gaze sweeping the rooftop for anything suspicious. Above, Striker crouched, weapons drawn for covering fire. The rooks clung to the rigging of the s.h.i.+p like a ragged cloak, loath to leave its shelter.

When Nick's feet touched stone, he drew his own weapons, covering Striker while the other man made a laborious descent. The guns were of Striker's own design, shaped like a gourd that had mated with a cannon. Nick thumbed the switch that activated the weapon's charge, and it hummed slightly as a crackle of blue light snaked around the barrel in a continuous double helix.