Flicking his cowl over his shifting mottle-skin, he tilted his head as though listening. Triq counted one, two, three – and he was gone, dissolved into the chaos. Not a leaf shook, she didn’t hear him leave.
Summoning her courage, she touched a hand to Redlock’s muscled shoulder.
“What happened to me?” The kiss haunted her.
The axeman turned to her, his face troubled.
“My fault,” he said. “I trusted the wrong person – let familiarity govern judgement. Won’t happen again.” He dropped one axe though its belt-ring and ran callused fingers over her cheek. “You may not believe this,” he smiled at her, “but I think it suits you.”
“What suits me? No, don’t mess me about, damn you. Just tell me. What did she do?”
His hand paused. “You’re older, maybe... ten returns.” His thumb brushed her lips. “And still beautiful. Perhaps more so.”
She turned into his hand, kissed him as she had done in the ribbon-town tavern, a hundred returns ago.
“From anyone but you, that’d be the worst line...”
No, not a hundred. Ten.
That explained the aches, the stiffness, the thinness of her face and the length of her hair. Explained why the stones in her cheeks hurt – they were attuned to her skin, her bones and her growth, an old desert tradition whose truth was long forgotten – they hadn’t had time to adjust.
And neither had she.
Redlock’s hand hadn’t moved. “It’s only ten returns or so, Triq.” He grinned. “I still have a couple on you.”
She found she was biting her lip, trying to stop her face from crumpling. She swallowed twice before she could speak.
“You don’t understand.” Her voice was a whisper. “My sire – was desert-born. We grab at life because we don’t have enough of it. My returns don’t measure as yours do. I –”
“Enough.” His mouth was on hers, gentle. She returned his embrace – wilfully banishing the yammering memory of Tarvi’s death kiss, her heat and softness and hunger.
“Oh for chrissakes.” Ecko’s rasp made them jump apart like guilty ’prentices. “Good thing there are no beasties down here, you guys’d be dinner. Will you quit snogging already and come and look at this?”
* * *
Amethea was aware of the darkness.
It was over her, it was closing on her vision. It was writhing down from the sinuously twisting, sliding knot of stalactites above her. It was falling, droplets of black water that kissed her hot skin.
She was aware of the brazier, though dimly. She could hear the rising celebration of the Sical, its delight in her blood, its need to be free. She almost felt sorry for it – Maugrim had no business trapping it like that.
She was aware of Maugrim himself, his presence still stung her flesh. He was watching the descending writhe of the pillar, eager for the union that would fuse cathedral to Monument, belly to throat, and loose the elemental at last.
She couldn’t stop him.
The thought was surreal: she was dying. After everything. Down here in this forgotten place – and no one would ever know what had happened.
Then Maugrim was turning from the brazier’s visions, his heavy tread ringing hard on the stone floor. She heard him, as if from a hollow distance.
He spat one word, shock, disbelief, a sudden arrowhead spiking the side of his scheming...
And the word sank through the darkness in her head, sending ripples like waves of hope.
He was
The Sical shrieked, flapped its wings like a trapped bird. Sparks flew. As she struggled onto her elbows, the blood ran anew from the wound in her belly – why was there still no pain? – and she realised the fire-creature was bigger.
A lot bigger.
Oh dear
This was not some tiny, trapped being: this was the cathedral’s corrupted heart, an Element manifest, the pure and naked wrath of the Soul of Fire. It was too hot, it shone brighter than the sun and it stood taller even as she watched it. It was rising above Maugrim, its light searing the walls.
It was Maugrim’s heat and lust given form – and it was craving release.
Maugrim was swearing, words harsh and unfamiliar.
“All I fucking need is some goddamned self-professed hero – arrived in the nick of time to rescue the bloody girl.” He jabbed a ringed finger at Amethea. “Don’t go away, little lady, seems you’ve got a friend wanting to join you.”
She stared in a wonder of realisation – a comprehension of something amazing.
He was
Feren had survived. How could she do any less? Breathing steadily against her suddenly rising heart rate, she lay back down, feigning the edge of unconsciousness. She had no intention of being a hostage.
The Sical screamed, hissed. As its wings flapped, it threw blasts of heat and sparks.
“Soon.” Maugrim promised it. Amethea heard a heavy, metallic jangling. “You’re mine – you’ll do as you’re told. If you wait –” she heard him shudder, anticipation, excitement “– if you wait, you’ll have more fuel, better fuel. And you’ll be free.”
Barely daring to breathe, Amethea heard Maugrim’s boots cross the cathedral floor.
* * *
The garden was as still as a corpse.
It was claustrophobic, stagnant, hot and heavy. The weight of it pressed down on Ecko’s shoulders. Too much green stuff, too much
He watched everywhere, oculars flicking through multiple channels. His adrenals were still down – his starter motor coughed, but wouldn’t turn over.
The axeman and the girl – girl no longer – were behind him, feet soft on the overgrown gravel path. Together, they crossed what must once have been a stream, now a rank, crusted gully, and came to the edge of the undergrowth.
Ecko pointed, shards of light on his mottle-dark skin.
They had reached the lair of the Big Bad Boss.
Over him, over the garden, the cathedral was a bombed ruin, a nightmare hollow of blackened stone. The huge window was shattered, fragments of coloured glass hanging twisted from the web-work frame. Walls stood headless, jagged and crumbling, as though the cavern’s teeth had bitten them clean through and had spat back the bits to crash among the plant life. He didn’t need his heatseeker to tell him what lurked within.
They faced a broken doorway, rotted wood hanging crazily from ancient hinges. Between them, a red-lighted throat like the fucking Gates of Hell.
How he would
Overhead, he could see the underside of the shining black stone – the capacitor they’d come past – now shot
