No. Stop it. That’s not going to help her, and it’s not going to do you much good, either.
“ Something in my gut just tells me that the White Spider is all wrong.”
“ Come on,” Graves said. He looked more worried than Cross would have liked.
You must think I’m going crazy, he thought.
“ Grab your gear,” Graves finished, “Let’s go find Stone.”
Stone, as expected, was downstairs, seated alone at a table, eating a bowl of steaming soup. There were only a few other patrons in the tavern, mostly gray-eyed workmen dressed in heavy industrial boots and ragged fur coats, probably laborers from the mines or the factories. Cross smelled coffee, and his gums watered.
“ We have some concerns,” Graves said quietly. He and Cross sat, and Graves made it sound like both of them were worried they might have been walking into a trap at the White Spider.
“ You’re being stupid,” Stone told Graves, and then he turned to Cross. “And you’re being paranoid. It was your idea to go and find a tracker in the first place, remember? I thought it was a ridiculous plan. For the record, I still do.”
Cross was about to argue, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. It was hard to focus. He was having difficulty putting even simple thoughts together. It must have showed, because Stone and Graves both gave him a look like there was something wrong with him.
“ Are you out of sorts because you lost your spirit?” Stone asked.
“ I think so…sorry. Nothing is really making sense to me right now. My head is all…fuzzy.”
“ Hey, me too,” Graves added with a nervous laugh.
“ Yeah, but we’re used to it from you,” Stone said with a perfectly straight face. “You’re naturally stupid.”
“ Screw you, friend,” Graves smiled back.
“ Sir.”
“ Fine. Screw you, Sir.”
They ate some hearty soup — it was lamb, Cross thought, with artificially grown vegetables and a surprisingly thick gravy-like broth — and they drank strong coffee, all of which invigorated him and made him feel better than he had in days.
“ Cross,” Stone said after they ate a while, “your senses are pretty dull, huh? And your judgment has been… hot and cold?”
“ I’ll be all right,” Cross said. Stone looked at him doubtfully. “I’ll be all right,” Cross insisted again.
“ Stone…” Graves said quietly.
“ You stay out of this,” Stone said sternly, then turned back to Cross. “We’re not going on a parade. If you’re not going to be able to cut it, something needs to be done. As it is…”
“ I know,” Cross said. “Without magic, I’m useless. Well, Stone, with all due respect…go to hell. I’m fine.” He went back to his soup.
Surprisingly, Stone nodded, and he didn’t bring it up again.
They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence, and Cross steeled himself for having to hand over his magical duties to a complete stranger.
What the hell good am I now? he wondered. Maybe Stone is right. Maybe I’d be best staying behind.
But no. Snow was out there, and Cross wouldn’t quit until he found her. He knew there was little hope that she was still alive — the Blood Witch was no vampire, but he couldn’t think of a reason why she’d keep her captive breathing. But he had to hope.
What else am I going to do? Besides, like the man said…sometimes things just work out.
THIRTEEN
They needed new gear for the trek north, but they all agreed that a trip to the market needed to wait until they were on their way out of Dirge, as they needed a guide who had knowledge of the Bone March to come with them to help determine what equipment they really needed. That being said, Stone’s contact at the Blackfang informed them that the witch they sought to hire at the White Spider could be found there at almost any hour, at least for the next few days. She was apparently an attraction of sorts, though what exactly that meant was anyone’s guess.
The White Spider didn’t have much going for it, at least not from the outside. The white marble structure looked like it had been clawed by an army of tigers, and the thick marble columns at the top of the wide stone steps looked to be on the verge of collapse. Refuse and questionable stains covered the structure. The facade of an elegant spider hung over the doorway, but it was mostly faded now. Steady, rhythmic drums pounded up at them as the three soldiers descended a steep set of stairs located behind some scorched double doors in the side of the building. The blended smells of hashish, alcohol, tobacco and exotic southern perfume made the air thick.
A pair of rough-looking bouncers renovated them of their weapons at the foot of the stairs. While no one was happy about being disarmed, they knew they had little choice if they wanted to find a guide. In any case, they’d already left all but a handful of small arms and blades stashed back in their room at the Blackfang Inn, carefully concealed beneath some loosened floorboards. Cross figured that Graves would still manage to sneak a blade inside, and both Sam and Stone were capable hand-to-hand combatants. Under normal circumstances, Cross wouldn’t have worried about himself, either, given his status as a warlock. As it was, he’d have to rely on the small bags of alchemist’s powders he’s smuggled under his shirt, which he was fortunate the bouncers missed when they patted him down.
Ever since he’d lost his spirit, Cross felt more and more exposed with every step that he took. He hated to admit it, but he felt the pain of his spirit’s loss even more deeply than the loss of his sister…and he hated himself for it. In his mind, Snow and his spirit were beginning to blur, to become one and the same being. He thought of his spirit, and he saw Snow’s face. He was starting to remember them as a single woman he’d lost, that he would die trying to rescue.
Stop. Clear your head. Focus.
Cross didn’t need his spirit to recognize the obvious displays of arcane security in the White Spider. There were hex wires strung like netting across every doorway, plates of cured cold iron laid out like doormats in front of every threshold, and vents positioned to launch hypergolic fluids across the entry hall. The main room of the White Spider was a long and high-vaulted chamber lit with lamps that billowed grey-green smoke into a noxious electric haze. Cigarillos danced like fireflies in the dim light, and people moved and swayed and drank and laughed like ghosts in a fog.
Invisible icy fingers raced down Cross’ neck and spine as he moved through the room. He stayed close to Graves and Stone.
The tobacco grime made Cross’ eyes sting, and his nostrils filled with exotic spices, clove and malted liqueurs. Barely-clad women slithered their ways through the throng of working-class and mercenary patrons; their smooth bodies were clad in skirts that had been slit up the sides, tall desert sandals and dark leather bras. The sound of rattling dice and coins echoed over the voices and the music, a vibrating staccato beat of drums, pipes and harpsichord that had to be generated by some hexed acoustic device, as there was neither band nor musician in sight. Money and drugs changed hands openly and without hesitation, and the bump and grind and purchased sex lent vocals to the White Spider’s song.
“ There,” Stone said, and they made for a separate chamber at the back of the Spider.
That larger room smelled of blood, sweat and money. A sunken pit stood at the center of the chamber, and the pit’s metal walls bore dark stains, blood, bile and vomit. Primitive benches were bolted to the floor around the pit. The benches were protected from the pit by loose wire mesh. The spectator’s room was packed with rowdy workers and sultry women, laborers and soldiers, mercenaries and thieves.
Brutal howls issued from the pit, and Cross stepped into the room just in time to hear a blood-curdling scream. A spray of blood and steaming human meat flew against the mesh from below. The mess spattered the first row of spectators, who cheered and hollered even as they recoiled in horror.
