aware of nothing else.
Certainly not the shadow rising up behind the creature.
Both priestess and abomination were made keenly aware of Denaos’ presence in a blink of silver, however, as the man’s knife flashed out of the gloom and sank deeply into the creature’s collarbone. The beast growled, rather than shrieked; more annoyed than furious. It twisted its neck to see its attacker.
Denaos pulled his blade free from the creature, and at the sight of blood pouring from the wound, Asper’s senses returned to her with a fury. She began to hit, kick at the creature, pulled at its webbed claws and drove her feet into soft, rubbery flesh. The thing turned its attention to her and snarled, offended by her sudden vigour, as it tightened its grip on her throat.
Her fury was choked from her in an instant, her life quick on its heels. Denaos was quicker; his knife came up again, digging into the creature’s armpit, and twisted. The beast roared this time, but there wasn’t nearly enough blood to justify agony. It tossed Asper aside, sent her skidding through the mist, and turned upon Denaos, black voids bubbling with rage.
Asper pulled herself from the earth, ignored the stench of death on the ground, and looked toward the battle unfurling.
Denaos did not cringe, did not turn and run. His form was smooth and flowing, an ink stain on the mist, as he brought his weapon back up to face the creature. It, too, flowed, body swaying from side to side, its lantern illuminating only one combatant each moment.
She saw the fight in flashes of blue light. The creature twitched, hurled itself forward, claws outstretched. Denaos flowed backward; his blade leapt. The thing’s lantern erupted in a burst of blue coupled by twin shrieks as it drew back, clutching a webbed hand with three fingers of steel jammed through the palm.
The lantern glowed white-hot for a moment as the creature recoiled. Then, the flashes of light became bursts and the battle raged in the darkness between them.
It lunged. Denaos reached for his belt. There was the sound of glass shattering, the odour of liquor. It growled, stretched jaws open, lashed a hand out. There was a shriek, this one male and agonisingly human. There was the sound of something heavy hitting the floor.
And then, silence.
The light returned slowly. It waxed to a pinprick; she could see it drift down to a man’s face contorted in pain, breath sucked in through teeth clenched. It became the size of a fist and she saw a grey webbed hand, stained dark with blood and dripping with whisky, reach down to grab the tall man by a throat smeared with green- stained claw marks.
When it bloomed, Asper stared at Denaos hanging from the creature’s choking grasp.
She rose to help him, but found her body fighting between her commands and the throbbing pain in her arm. She whimpered, clutched it, tried to stagger to her feet.
‘Not now, not now, not now,’ she whined, ‘please, just let me … just this once.
‘Hot,’ a voice answered in reply. ‘Hot … hot …’
She felt Dreadaeleon beside her, the fever of his body seeping out of his glowing red eyes. His hair hung about his face, coat about his body as he swayed precariously on overtaxed feet. He stared at the monstrosity and the rogue without acknowledgement for the latter’s imminent demise. Instead, he merely raised a hand, a small circle of orange glowing upon his palm.
‘Hot,’ he whispered, eyes suddenly blossoming into burning red flowers. ‘
The word that followed next, she did not hear. But she did see the circle become a spark, flickering and twisting like a rose petal as it flew from his palm and wafted with an orange glow toward the two combatants. The creature took no notice of it as it sizzled over the mist, nor did it look away from its victim as the little spark drifted up and came to a rest with a hiss upon the thing’s whisky-soaked brow.
The whispers came in short, staccato shrieks. Denaos was dropped, forgotten as the creature erupted into flames. It writhed in a pillar, blue light sputtering out in the inferno that consumed it. Asper thought she could see something in its figure, now illuminated in the blaze, that seemed vaguely familiar. The shape of its torso, a mockery of womanly figures, perhaps, or the feathery gills that were burnt away like sticks of incense as it hurled itself to the earth.
She wasn’t about to try to get a closer look as the horror pulled its body across the ground, leaving a trail of ash behind it. Its wails, its whispers left her mind as the creature left the courtyard, pulling its burning body through a hole in the wall to disappear into the night.
Asper watched it for but a moment before her attentions were brought back to the scrawny boy beside her, legs giving out beneath him.
‘Did it …?’ Dreadaeleon muttered as he collapsed onto his back. ‘Saved again …’
She knelt beside him, felt his brow. The fever was no worse that she could tell; it was simply exhaustion stacked upon exhaustion. That simple spark had pushed him to a brink he was nowhere near well enough to tread upon. And like the spark, he flickered. He needed water; he needed rest.
‘Stay …’ he whispered, reaching for her. ‘Hot … hurts … but I did it … I saved …’
‘I know you did,’ she replied, smoothing the hair from his brow. ‘And I’ll be here, but I have to help Denaos, too.’
‘Denaos?’ His eyes and mouth twisted into anger. ‘
‘Please, Dread,’ she pleaded as she laid him back down to the stones. ‘Just a moment.’
‘Assholes,’ he muttered as his eyes closed, mouth still contorted in a snarl. ‘Both of you.’
No time to heed or take offence, she rose from his side and hurried to Denaos’. Pulling his head up to her lap, she could see the wound in his neck, the seeping green venom. She checked him over quickly, hands flying across his body. His breathing was swift and laboured, but steady. His muscles were tensed, but neither turning to jelly nor hardening with preemptive rigour. His pulse raced, but was there. He was wounded and poisoned, but he wasn’t going to die.
Because of her.
‘Gone,’ he whispered.
‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘it ran away.’
‘I meant my whisky,’ he croaked out through a dry mouth.
‘Yeah. Sorry.’
‘Not your fault.’ He grinned. ‘Not completely, anyway.’ He tried to muster a brave laugh, but wound up cringing. ‘It hurts.’
‘The wound’s not the worst I’ve seen,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I think you might-’
‘Last rites.’
‘What?’
‘Last rites.’
‘No, you’re not-’
‘I don’t want to die without absolution.’
The hand he laid on her arm was gentle. Her arm throbbed beneath his touch, rejecting the warmth of another human being. She fought the urge to tear it away.
‘I don’t want to die,’ he whispered.
She knew she couldn’t offer him last rites; he wasn’t going to die. There were no signs of a fatal poisoning; the claws had missed his jugular, and the venom likely wouldn’t do much more than hurt terribly. For all the wretched things he had done, he was going to live … again.
To offer last rites would be deception, a sin.
She could have told him that.
‘Absolution,’ she said instead, in a gentle voice, ‘requires confession.’
‘I …’ His eyelids flickered with his trembling words. ‘I–I killed her.’
‘Killed who?’
