Bronze Gods Page 18

  No. That’s . . . old magic. Aurelia had only heard legends of such things, Ferisher princes with such power. He has the ability to shape his garden to his will, a small, sly voice reminded her. And terror clutched her until she went light-headed.

  “You were careless.” He curled his claws as he flashed a predator’s smile, giving the body a little shake. The corpse made a wet sound as it hit the ground. “Never again.”

  Two others rushed him, and Theron dodged a bullet in the motion. Spinning, he tore out another man’s larynx, the blood dripping hot through his fingers.

  One of Theron’s enemies landed a blow; the knife skimmed his ribs, and in response, he split the man from throat to groin. The noise he made wasn’t human; it sounded like sirens, rising and falling beneath a drowning rain. Aurelia crammed a fist into her mouth to stifle her horrified gasp; and only pure self-control kept her quiet and still. She knew if he caught her, she would end up as another body on the ground, later a pale and bloated corpse floating on the waves.

  Theron ducked as another fired. Lead slammed into the wall behind him. Another four shots hit the cobbles behind and beside him, a mark of the marksman’s panic, Aurelia suspected. Theron rolled to his feet, both hands embedded in the third man’s torso. He rent his flesh before discarding the gibbering assailant to his final moments of agony. She had never been so frightened in her life, muscles locked, her breathing light and quick.

  The last attacker backed against the wall, trembling. With hands dripping the blood of the others, Theron approached. Took the gun. The man shuddered when warm, slick claws touched his flesh, closing his eyes. She couldn’t look away as Theron grasped the survivor’s chin between dripping talons.

  “Erebos hired you to kill me.”

  “Yes.” A whimpered admission.

  Truth. But why? To protect whomever Theron was hunting? After what she’d seen, she had no doubt that Theron’s prey would meet a brutal end. Before, she’d seen him as an entertainment, a way to stave off ennui, but now . . . You’ve stumbled into such deep waters. The irony was, her father had predicted exactly this, years ago, during one of his endless lectures about her headstrong ways.

  “As I thought.”

  The man’s dying scream woke sleeping dogs six blocks away. Covered in dried blood and dirt, Theron moved in leaps and bounds befitting beast better than man. Reaching the warehouse wall, he tensed and jumped. Razor fingers dug into crumbling mortar. With a hiss, he started climbing. Talons slipped into stone with a soft whisper, withdrew with the rustling fall of mortar dust.

  Aurelia fled, then.

  She couldn’t follow him on such a monstrous climb; nor did she have any desire to. Her knees felt too weak to support her; and without the charm, it was certain she’d have been robbed and murdered before she stumbled the mile out of the Patchwork’s maze and into more hospitable environs. Tremors rocked her from head to toe, and her thoughts felt scattered like a deck of cards flung to the winds.

  I just saw four men, murdered. I ought to . . . report it. Shouldn’t I? Given they had been hired to do harm, they probably hadn’t been good men, but it was still wrong to kill them. The lights seemed too bright after the shadows between the derelict buildings, the alleys heaped with refuse. It was so noisy, too, with hansoms and people rushing by, laughter ringing out with a tinny echo.

  She reeled, nausea rising until she doubled over. Aurelia caught herself on a lamppost, leaning her brow against the cool metal. Pedestrians strolled past, not seeing her distress, ignoring it, in fact. Why isn’t anyone asking if I’m well? Why . . . ?

  The charm. Of course. With unsteady fingers, she reached up to pull it over her head, but before she succeeded, someone stumbled into her, slamming her chest into the metal post.

  “Filthy street peddlers,” the man muttered, giving her another shove.

  She was already shaky, and her heel slipped off the curb. Aurelia reeled backward, too stunned to attempt to break her own fall. A chugging steam carriage rushed straight for her; she scrambled on hands and knees, but she was dizzy, disoriented again, then strong hands locked on her arms, hauling her out of the street and back to the safety of the sidewalk. The carriage thundered by; and she squeezed her eyes shut. Two more seconds. Just two. And I wouldn’t be standing here.

  “Thank you,” she managed, after a few seconds.

  The man who had saved her looked familiar. “Are you well? That brute shoved you, practically under the wheels of the coach.”

  At that moment, it was beyond Aurelia’s ability to lie. “I’m better than I would’ve been, if you hadn’t come along. It’s been a . . . difficult night, all around.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Wright. Can I escort you somewhere?”

  When he spoke her name, she placed him—Mr. Gideon—employed by her production as a technician.

  She managed a polite smile. “If I wouldn’t be imposing, would you mind walking me to the Royale?”

  Leo would know what to do, surely. That was, if he believed her wild tale of old magic, savage transformations, brutal murder, and near death. Though she’d experienced the events herself, Aurelia still found everything hard to credit. It sounded like a story written to terrify small children.

  “Not at all. Though I think, perhaps, we ought to take a hansom, if you wouldn’t be too unsettled after your near accident. It’s a long way.”

  Startled, Aurelia took stock of the streets and her surroundings, then realized he was right. It was over four miles to the theater, and she didn’t feel up to walking. “I’d appreciate if you hailed a coach, but you needn’t accompany me. I’ll be fine.”

  “If you’re certain.” Doubtless, Mr. Gideon had plans in the area, for which he was already late because he didn’t argue the necessity of riding with her.

  Efficiently, he flagged down a hansom, gave the driver her destination, and bundled her into it. Then he tipped his hat and stepped back as the carriage clattered off. Aurelia was halfway to the Royale before she touched the charm at her throat. With a faint frown, she pulled the necklace over her head to examine it. The glass was cracked, so possibly she’d broken it when she fell, or when the ruffian pushed her into the lamppost.

  “If so,” she said aloud, “then I’m lucky to be alive.”

  If the charm had been working, Mr. Gideon wouldn’t have noticed her predicament. By this time, the worst of the queasiness had passed, leaving her exhausted. Her knees were watery as she climbed out of the carriage to pay the driver. She gave him a generous tip and trudged the last few feet to the Royale, then fumbled in her bag for the key to the side door. The shadows were deep and long, and she had that awful, creepy feeling again, as if someone was watching her.

  Theron? What if it’s been him, all along? What if he’s hunting me, along with that other “special person”? The idea was terrifying and twisted, if he’d been following her for months, making her wonder whether she was going mad, only to step into her life while playing these dreadful games. Her heart was pounding like crazy by the time she got the key into the lock and dashed into the building.

  It was late, so there were no rehearsals, just a dark and unnerving theater; Leo didn’t pay for lights he wasn’t using. To combat her sudden, irrational terror, she focused on what she knew existed in the impenetrable shadows. Aurelia moved out of the wings onto the stage. Though she couldn’t make out the details, the dais on which she stood possessed a pagoda-like roof and columns at each end. To the untutored eye, they might look like marble in the daylight, but Aurelia knew it was green oak, cunningly finished until footlights completed the illusion. As her eyes adjusted, she caught glimpses that suggested motion from the velvet drapes to the catwalk overhead.

  It’s the wind and your imagination. There’s no one here but Leo . . . and possibly Elaine. Find him.

  Downstairs and through the hidden door, her footsteps rang loud and quick in the silent halls. Fortunately, she knew the turns down to his secret room and could navigate them in th
e dark. Farther in, there were lamps lit, as Elaine wouldn’t come into the subterranean gloom Leo truly craved, some manifestation of his guilt, Aurelia suspected. Any other day, she might even tease him about it, trying to get him to smile.

  Not tonight.

  Once she could see properly, she broke into a run, not even trying to disguise her desperation. Others might see a wounded man, a broken one, but Leonidas had always represented safety, ever since she turned her back on the Olrik legacy. That much hadn’t changed. She burst into his room without knocking, even knowing they might be engaged in behavior best not interrupted. Fortunately, it was only dinner, and Elaine gaped at her, a chicken leg halfway to her mouth.

  Leo sprang to his feet, his masked gaze sweeping her in a lightning assessment. “Auri? Are you well?”

  “No,” she said shakily.

  For the first time, she realized her palms were bleeding, that she’d torn the fabric of her skirt, and there were smears of red there, too. Bronze gods only knew what she’d gotten on her clothing during the walk into and out of the Patchwork District. Her whole body hurt from the fall, and she was frightened as she’d never been in her life, as if there were no safe place left to hide.

  “Elaine, go home. Take your meal if you like.” Leo dismissed his mistress with a casual gesture, one that would cost him later in baubles or jewelry.

  The dancer departed with a glare and a flounce, then Leo gathered Aurelia close. Though he wasn’t the charming man she’d known before, he was still strong and comforting. His arms felt like the only haven she could trust. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Tell me when you’re ready. I’m here.”

  Belatedly, she remembered a long-ago conversation with her father. She had often wished for another gift, one less painful, because people lied all the time; it was as natural as breathing. Her father, so distant and dispassionate, had said it was because nobody could bear complete truth. Possibly, he had been right, because she’d been happier not knowing how dangerous Theron truly was. It had been better when she’d considered their exchanges a simple game, not a mortal struggle where the stakes were life and death.

  Sometimes, the lie is safer.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE SUMMER LADY LAUGHED, AND HER PEOPLE CELEBRATED WITH HER: another cycle had come and gone, and the Courts met once more to renew their treaties of peace and restate their declarations of ancient war. The gathered hosts raised their faces to the rain and danced, screamed their defiance to their brothers and sisters.

  Across the headland, Winter cheered—the banners of a dozen powerful families waved and whipped in greeting, their cries mingling with the wind. They surged toward one another, then, a slow and steady pace to the beat of the hammering rain and screaming thunderclaps. Splashing and calling challenges as the distance shortened; nobles on steeds. Behind them came towering, lumbering creatures of rock and moss. Translucent sylphs wove through the spray, forms of mist and swirling droplets.

  In trying to circle around the Host of Winter, a small hobgoblin troop spotted the strangers moving in the hills. Calls of wonder and alarm spread like wildfire. The whole procession went to the cliffs, trolls carrying sprites alongside skittering shadow forms. They gathered, Summer Court mingling with Winter, old feuds and vows forgotten as they watched the bearded invaders march on their revels. The invaders looked up, weathered faces squinting against the storm. Raising dread iron blades, they roared a challenge to the figures on the cliffs.

  “There will be war,” said the Summer Lady.

  “So be it,” the Winter Lord replied.

  • • •

  MIKANI JOLTED AWAKE, the midmorning light falling into his eyes like shards of ice. For a moment, he couldn’t hear for his own heartbeat, couldn’t remember what day it was or what was real. These visions came at irregular, inconvenient times; he had no idea what they meant. At some point, perhaps when he wasn’t so sore, he’d investigate.

  He ground the palms of his hands against burning eyes and rolled out of bed with a groan. His ribs ached, the multitude of cuts burned, even with the dressings and salves Ritsuko had applied the night before. He braced his side, feeling out the edges of the bandages, and smiled faintly. Gods and spirits, what’s wrong with me? He never allowed anyone to tend to him. Even after he was stabbed by some mercenaries over a card game, he’d holed up on his own until he could walk again. No doctor. He’d stitched the wound himself, bore the scar to this day.

  I trust her. Like no one before.

  He shook his head and rose, swaying slightly. Ritsuko had gone home last night, shortly after midnight, despite his protests that she was welcome to his sofa. The mystery of how his partner had wriggled so far under his skin had to wait, as hell would freeze before he let a mere suspension keep him from investigating two murders, currently left to Shelton and Cutler.

  If that pair could solve the case of the missing pastry, I’d be entirely astonished.

  Long practice let him shower and dress quickly, so, walking stick in hand, he headed toward Electra’s midtown address within half an hour. Each step hurt. He considered stopping to purchase some Dreamers, but after a moment’s consideration, he chose the pain. Guilt kept him clean and sober, out of respect for her memory. Elsewhere, the Summer Clan would be mourning with strong drink, dancing, and endless stories. In that vein, Mikani could only remember her; the last time he’d been to Electra’s flat, it was a warm night, no clouds.

  “You don’t have to see me home,” Electra had said. “I take the underground at this hour all the time.”

  “It’s my fault it took you so long to close up. I’ll be a gentleman for once.”

  She’d flashed him a mischievous look. “No nonsense. My uncle would kill you.”

  Mikani had laughed. But as promised, he’d taken her home and left her politely at the front door. He had genuinely liked Electra. Possibly Bihár had sensed as much when he accepted the blood vow. He was so lost in the memory that he didn’t realize his feet had carried him to the café until he was standing under the bright awning. He swore under his breath and nearly turned away. Since he passed it every day on the way to headquarters, he had to deal with the new reality sooner or later.

  Inside, a new girl was tending shop, very young, in tight braids and with a woolen shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

  “Good morning, sir. What will you have? We have biscuits, fresh made. And, there’s fruit.”

  “I’ll just—”

  “Also, the teas are lovely. And fresh brewed. You could use a mint tea, I’m thinking.”

  “No, I don’t—”

  “Herbal tea? With some toast—”

  Mikani slammed his hand on the counter, bringing the girl up short. “Coffee. Black. Unsweetened. Thank you.”

  As she scurried away, he swore under his breath. That didn’t go well. Some might appreciate her well-intended suggestions, but he missed Electra. A few minutes later, the waitress brought a cup overflowing with coffee, but it wasn’t strong the way he liked it. This was a weak brew, a possible economy on the part of the owners, but Electra had made it fierce enough to stand a spoon. With a faint sigh, he edged the saucer away untouched and left a few coins before striding out.

  Don’t know if I’ll be back anytime soon.

  As if stopping at the café hadn’t been depressing enough, he still had to sort Electra’s flat. Mikani doubted the family had been there yet; Summer Clan placed little stock on material possessions, and she had been wearing all her tribal tokens when they’d claimed her body. Still, at least it will give me some peace of mind to ensure that nobody’s stolen whatever else she owned.

  It took him half an hour more to find the right door in the warren of apartment buildings, boardinghouses, and family-owned businesses off the Leeward promenade. Her street looked different enough during the day to throw him off. She had never invited him to tea or asked him to visit, but she always seemed happy enough when he arrived for coffee.

  A white lie to the
landlady about being family—aided by a handful of coins—got him the spare key to Electra’s apartment. She lived on the second story; the building itself was clean and well kept, though the walls were thin. Mikani wondered whether her family had ever visited this place, or if she had been cut off when she settled down.

  Inside, her flat was small. He pulled on gloves to avoid inadvertently reading some object, noting the small collection of shells gracing the windowsill and battered writing desk, the cheap prints depicting sailing ships and the docks of Dorstaad looking far cleaner than they did in reality. I spoke to her two or three times a week. Yet I never knew she loved the ocean.

  Mikani peered into the bedroom; it looked as if a cyclone had hit it. He closed the door with reverent care. Elsewhere, scarves and wraparound skirts draped the settee as well as wood chairs in the kitchen. On the table, five cards lay in the shape of a cross, beside a chipped mug. The tea had long since evaporated, leaving dark residue; the cards looked old and worn, well handled. Mikani moved with his gift reined in; even so, the cards called to him. Electra had possessed more than a pretty smile and a gift for telling people what they wanted to hear . . . the dying echoes of magic hummed from her deck.

  He slipped a glove off and pressed a fingertip to the center card.

  The rush of old impressions was faint, faded. Joy and regret mingled, the faint threads of other emotions ran deep. But it was all her; Electra hadn’t allowed anyone else to handle this deck. He concentrated and laid his palm on the cards, doing his best to touch all five.

  Her gift sparked his. He could see what she’d divined, and the shock stole his breath. Three girls, their features indistinct, joined by a silvery web. Looking closely at them, he sensed the weight of their families like watchful ghosts. Their figures turned as one, falling from the web; cast out or choosing to walk away from the network of filial obligation to walk their own path.