its mismatched legs.
Malden stepped through the door and slammed it behind him. He was no longer worried about making any noise. Especially when the house had begun to creak and moan all around him. He could hear its columns and its boards shifting on foundations that had stood for as long as there was a city around it. The wood was strained by the damage the demon did to its walls. Malden pricked up his ears as he heard a series of popping noises like thunder cracks. Nails giving way above his head, one after the other, bursting from the beams and rafters they held together.
It was time to flee, definitely. Behind him the demon raged and threw itself at the door he’d closed, desperate to get at him, needing to devour him so it could return to its egg and resume its long sleep. The wall around the door shook and split, as a wide crack opened in the plaster and went racing toward the ceiling.
Get out now, Malden thought, and raced toward a solarium at the far end of the house. A door there stood between him and the garden. It was locked, and far too sturdy to knock down with his shoulder. He cursed as he reached for his bodkin and the tools woven into its grip. He needn’t have bothered, though. Before he could get his first pick free, the entire house leaned over to one side, the walls and ceiling seeming to careen right toward where he stood. The door before him, warped out of its frame, went spinning off into the night.
Behind him the demon crashed into the solarium. Its skull heads circled around in the air, its red nostrils pulsing. Malden ran through where the door had been and out into cool night air, the demon hard on his heels. It got one of its skull heads and two of its legs through the doorway before the second and third floors of the house collapsed all at once on its back.
The noise was beyond imagining, like the earth opening wide to suck the entire city down into the pit. Debris was everywhere, tumbling and arcing through the air, entire rafter beams dancing end over end across the Ladypark Common. A rolling cloud of plaster dust hit Malden like a tidal wave and he was knocked down by the shock wave. A piece of glass jagged as a knife blade cut across his forehead, and blood made red tracks through the dust that covered his face.
Choking and heaving for breath, he got back to his feet and surveyed the destruction. It looked like a storm had loosed every lightning bolt in its quiver at the house, all at once. The villa had become a chaotic hell of rubble and wreckage, with barely two boards still standing attached to one another. In the mess, a few small fires burned, while dozens of small animals, freed from their cages in the ruin, burst into flight or went howling away on long legs or only crawled or slithered out of the cataclysm.
Malden could hardly believe his eyes. This had been his plan all along, of course, but even so-the damage was immeasurable. The destruction utterly complete.
He started to dust himself off, but stopped when he saw something moving inside the debris. A massive board was heaved clear and then a snowdrift of plaster went sliding into a cavity in the heap. A pink, raw arm reached up from inside and hauled at a crossbeam that was still mostly intact. Little by little the demon pulled itself clear of the remains of the house. Its skull heads lifted clear of the wreckage and its mouth began to howl once more.
“Bloodgod take my eyes,” Malden cursed.
The demon had survived.
Chapter Ninety-Two
A minute earlier, outside:
Bikker took a step toward Croy’s left, but did not advance.
Croy stood where he was. Ghostcutter’s point tracked Bikker as he moved. Croy had lived with the sword so long it took no effort at all to keep it pointed at the bearded swordsman.
This would all be over in a moment.
One strike-and Acidtongue would carve Croy like a chicken. The vitriol on its blade would sear through his flesh and he would be undone.
One thrust-and Ghostcutter would drive through Bikker’s shirt of chain, pierce his vitals, and leave him gasping in his own blood. Assuming Croy had enough strength left to complete the stroke.
“Are you ready?” Bikker asked.
“There is no such thing as readiness,” Croy said. “One fights, and lives, or one prepares, and one dies. You taught me that.”
“Do you regret it has come to this?” Bikker asked.
“Yes.”
Bikker sighed. “As do I, to be honest. Shall we count to three, and then strike?”
“One,” Croy said.
“Two,” Bikker responded.
“Three,” they said together.
Acidtongue whirled through the air, coming down hard and fast from Croy’s left, his weak side. Croy tried to lean out of the way but knew he wouldn’t be fast enough. Ghostcutter shifted in his hand and came upward to parry. The two blades met with an awful grinding, sizzling noise. Acid bit into Ghostcutter’s silver edge and notched the iron underneath. Bikker pushed forward suddenly and Croy went sprawling, his left hand out to catch him as he fell.
Not enough, not nearly enough-Croy had wasted his one cut-it was the end-in a moment Bikker would remise, following through on the stroke Croy had parried, bringing the blow home, and – Ghostcutter broke free of the engagement, ringing clear of Acidtongue. The acid had made the blades slick and unlocked them. Croy turned at the waist as he fell, trying to catch himself before he fell on his back, and Ghostcutter whistled through the air in a tight arc. Croy used every bit of control he had over the weapon and brought it low and inside Bikker’s guard. Busy gaining leverage for his remise, Bikker had his arms up, and that left his side unprotected.
Ghostcutter was a heavy blade. Its own momentum sliced through the chain-mail shirt over Bikker’s hip and deep into the flesh beneath. It didn’t stop until it had sliced halfway through Bikker’s spine.
Bikker gasped and took a step backward, and Ghostcutter came free of his midsection as easily as it was pulled from its own scabbard.
“Sadu take you,” Bikker shouted, and lifted Acidtongue again for another stroke. He lunged forward, but before he was halfway to Croy he stumbled and blood came vomiting out of his mouth.
Acidtongue dropped to the grass. It was dry by the time it landed-it secreted vitriol only when held by a strong arm. Bikker dropped to his knees beside it and then fell face forward into the earth.
Croy crawled toward his old teacher and rolled the man over on his back. Bikker’s face was congested with blood and his eyes weren’t focusing. His mouth moved but the words that came out were inaudible whispers. Croy bent his ear over Bikker’s lips to hear what he said.
“When you find an heir for my sword,” Bikker told him, his voice no louder than the breeze that ruffled the grass, “teach him that stroke. It’s a good one.”
Croy closed his friend’s eyelids, and wept.
He was not given time to grieve, however.
The grass was blown back by a flash of light more bright than the sun at midday. Hazoth and Cythera were suddenly standing over him. He looked up into her eyes but didn’t like what he saw there.
She might have spoken-but just then, behind Croy, the villa fell in on itself with a mammoth crash.
Chapter Ninety-Three
“Croy! Croy!” Malden called, racing around the side of the house where the debris was not so thick. He jumped onto a fallen rafter beam and leapt into a drift of plaster dust that billowed up around him like a cloud. He managed to sidestep a pile of broken glass but still came down hard on a plank of wood that shifted under him and sent him sprawling forward.
