Ferran's Map (48 page)

From deep behind the demon’s eyes, Crash
watched.

Shall we kill him,
the demon
murmured,
or shall we play first?
A surge of excitement
accompanied the thought.
Shall we? Shall we?

Crash was considering. For once, he and his
demon wanted the same thing. He liked this new sense of common
will.

Let’s play,
he thought.

He ran at Cobra, who activated the fifth
gate and vanished beneath his claws, but Viper expected this. By
now he knew the man's methods. Cobra reappeared behind him, and
Viper spun around. His fist connected powerfully with his enemy's
jaw.
Wham!

Cobra’s body flew clear across the alley and
smashed through a brick wall.

Viper scented the air, then prowled after
his prey. He spotted Cobra lying sprawled on the other side of the
wall. Shards of broken stone and mortar surrounded his body. His
cowl lay ripped around his neck, revealing an unexpectedly gruesome
sight: half the man’s lower jaw was missing. His skin hung loosely
like stretched cloth. His neck was mangled and distorted by scar
tissue and burn marks.

Crash tried to remember that night at
Mistmire Hive, but couldn’t. He only saw the vague impression of
flames and the shadows of a burning village, feeling the demon’s
bloodlust heavy in his mind, like a wet, humid cloud. Had he truly
created this man?

A ripple of darkness along the ground caught
his eye: Cobra’s shadow. The wave coiled around his feet, and
suddenly Viper found himself immobile. With a roar of frustration,
he lunged forward, trying to break the shadow's grip, but the dark
magic held him bound.

Cobra sat up as smoke rose from his body.
The snow around the brick wall began to melt. Viper could see the
man’s demon form boiling beneath his skin, a visible force yearning
for release.

Cobra’s maimed face pulled into a scowl.
Hatred burned in his gaze. “I would have been a Grandmaster if it
weren’t for you,” he seethed as he climbed to his feet. He stood
there, hunched and faltering, as his body contorted. Speaking
through a cracking jaw, “Forget the Shade and its schemes. You’re
dead, Viper.”

“So very devout of you,” Crash replied.

Cobra’s body suddenly pitched forward. A
second set of arms exploded from his torso. His limbs became long
and sinewy, and his skin turned mottled brown, not unlike a praying
mantis. Wicked green claws, dripping venom, sprouted from his
fingers and toes. Wide yellow eyes bulged from his skull, and a
gaping mouth full of pointed fangs finished the transformation. His
teeth were so long, his mouth couldn’t shut properly, and his jaw
fell open awkwardly to one side. Yellow saliva fell to the snow and
sizzled when it struck the ground.

Viper searched the enemy demon for
weaknesses. Cobra’s new form slumped on wide, bending limbs, not
unlike a giant insect. The second set of arms on Cobra’s torso were
long enough to be used as legs, and he switched between them
fluidly, at times standing on all fours like a wild beast, then
upright like a man. He moved with the skeletal, twitching grace of
a locust.

The two demon forms were like night and day.
Viper, of the Sandsorrow Hive, his body encased in hardened black
skin and long protruding spikes, like bristling armor from the
underworld. And Cobra, damp and oozing with toxins, like the
Mistmire swamp from which he hailed.

Viper took Cobra by his first set of arms.
He used his grip to lever himself over the demon's body in a
fantastic leap. As he fell, he dragged the blades on his arms down
the slimy mottled skin on Cobra’s back, landing the first blow.

Yellow pus spilled from Cobra's wound and
sizzled when it hit the ground. It smelled rancid. Viper recoiled
slightly.

“Careful, demon,” Cobra hissed as the two
faced each other. “My blood is toxic to humans. Hit me too hard,
and the girl might catch some on her skin.”

Viper snarled. He placed himself between
Cobra and Sora’s small body; she lay in a tight ball beneath her
cloak at the side of the alley. He could hear her ragged breath—but
he didn’t know if she was still conscious. He needed to finish this
fight and move her to safety. Once Cobra realized he was losing, he
would try to take her and run, or perhaps he expected more
assassins to join his side.

Viper clawed at Cobra’s thick, clammy skin.
His enemy danced backward, avoiding the attack, but Viper followed
and grasped the second set of Cobra’s arms. With a mighty heave, he
threw Cobra over his shoulder, breaking his long, spindly arms in
the process.

Cobra released an inhuman screech. As he
fell through the air, he activated the fifth gate and vanished. But
Viper felt the row of spines on the back of his neck prickle. He
turned, prepared to strike.

Cobra materialized behind him from thin
air.

Viper plunged his claws into Cobra’s soft
underbelly.

The two momentarily stood still. A look of
shock passed over Cobra’s face. He opened his venomous mouth and
spat yellow pus. It struck Viper’s hardened skin, burning through
the top layer, but he didn’t let go, not even when blisters began
to form. His fingers remained firmly lodged in Cobra’s vitals until
he saw his enemy’s skin ripple, his face shrink and deflate, and
his arms recede into his torso.

Viper waited until Cobra took on his human
form before he ripped his claws free. A strand of entrails
accompanied his hand. Bits of flesh clung to his wrist.

Cobra lay kneeling in the snow, a pool of
red blood growing around him at an alarming rate. His eyes stared
at the unraveled rope of his long intestine.

“Kill him,” he suddenly rasped. He met
Viper’s gaze. “
Kill him
.”

“Who?” Crash asked softly.

“Kill Cerastes,” Cobra said hoarsely. “Stop
him, and you stop the Shade. Our kind are not meant to rule. Better
to worship no man, no god, than become a slave….” Cobra looked like
he intended to keep speaking, but his eyes became cloudy and
unfocused, and he slumped over as the life drained from his
body.

Crash considered him through his demon’s
eyes. He thought of Burn, of the Dark God’s weapons, and the
hopeless task he faced. Cobra was right. In order to end the plague
and the rest of this madness, he would have to kill Cerastes. His
people were not meant to have organized armies or rulers. The
Shade's new order went against their nature. Better to live
alone—separate from the Hive and the Shade—than become a mindless
slave to a demon’s will.

Then his thoughts filled with images of
Sora.

A surge of protectiveness rushed through his
demon's body. His first instinct was to charge across the alley to
her side. But the demon was not gentle, and its strength worried
him. Crash considered asserting himself over the demon’s mind and
reclaiming control, returning to his human form, but the stab wound
in his side still hadn’t closed, and he was further injured from
his fight with Cobra. If he transformed now, he would bleed out
swiftly into the snow, and wouldn’t have the strength to carry Sora
to safety.

Still in his demon form, Viper turned to her
unconscious body. He approached her slowly at a loping gait, his
wings held awkwardly high upon his back. He crouched over her and
leaned his face close. He could smell the taint of poison in her
blood: a concoction of nightshade, red sage and foxglove—not lethal
in small doses. Cobra had pricked her behind the ear. Crash
assessed her condition with a few deep breaths. She would be sick
for a time. Nightshade and foxglove, especially, could cause mental
confusion, even hallucinations. Her muscles might stiffen. She
would be hard-pressed to keep down food. He couldn’t leave her
alone.

Viper sat back on his long heels and
considered his options. He could return her to the Ebonaire estate
and seek out Lori, but that would be risky. Silas’ crew would have
discovered the Dark God’s weapons missing by now, and most likely
suspect him of joining the Shade. Caprion had recognized him in The
Regency with Cobra. Ferran and Lori wouldn't trust him, for good
reason. If he showed up with Sora in his arms, he would be blamed
for her condition, and maybe even attacked. His demon form was more
than threatening, and he didn't know if he would be able to control
it.

When he leaned over Sora again, Crash felt
the hot rush of the demon’s will: a fierce animal need to protect
and find shelter. His baser instincts demanded a cave, a den
somewhere safe and dry, easily defended. He tried to think
rationally. He lived in the City of Crowns when he was first hired
to kill Lord Fallcrest. He knew of a place. He could get her there
in time.

He picked Sora gently up off the ground and
spread his wings for flight.

CHAPTER 28

Burn opened his eyes slowly. The pain in his
head was more manageable than the day before. The absolute darkness
of his underground prison had left him temporarily blind, so he
closed his eyes again and used his ears, which were long and
pointed, the keenest of the races.

He listened down long tunnels under the
earth, to every creak of stone or drip of water, and far into the
distance, where giant gears ground endlessly through the rock.

Two people stirred outside his small cell.
He could hear their shallow breaths. He waited, but it seemed that
only two assassins were guarding him, and he felt grimly satisfied
by that. The Shade must not realize how fast he healed, or the true
extent of his strength.

He climbed heavily to his feet and
positioned himself behind the door of the cell. Then he clanked his
chains to attract the guards’ attention. The first one, a man,
entered his cell, no more than a shadow amongst shadows; he caught
him around the throat with his chains and easily snapped his neck.
The second guard, a female, tried to waylay him with a long
cutlass, but he swung both fists and smashed his chains upside her
head. She crumpled to the ground.

He stood still, his breath labored. His
temples throbbed. He fought to stay balanced—perhaps he wasn’t as
recovered as he thought. After a long minute, the dizziness passed
and he began to search the bodies of the assassins. He found a set
of keys along the woman’s belt and unlocked his chains. Then he
swiftly left his cell and locked the two guards inside..

Burn limped quickly through the freezing
underground corridors. No torches or lanterns illuminated his path,
but with his heightened senses, he was able to distinguish the most
used passage through the dungeons. He knew this was a risk. He
might run into more of the Shade, but he needed to find an exit,
and this route seemed the most likely. He followed the tunnel
cautiously through the darkness.

His concussion had left him disoriented. He
didn’t know which direction he was traveled in, only that he had to
escape the underground as soon as possible, before more of the
Sixth Race appeared. His long ears perceived a distant trickle of
water, a hollow gust of wind, and he started in that direction.
Burn suspected he was in the sewers beneath the city, and that the
water would eventually empty into the Crown’s Rush. Hopefully, the
drainage tunnels would be wide enough for him to travel
through.

* * *

Ferran climbed into the Ebonaire carriage
alone, then started off down the long, curved front drive. He
watched laborers outside the window clearing the road and shoveling
salt onto the snow, in preparation for the next storm.
So much
salt, worth its weight in gold,
he thought, watching them
sprinkle it across thick patches of ice.

He had left Lori in an argument with Olivia,
Danica’s handmaid, who apparently thought the Healer’s treatments
out of vogue. Olivia said half of Lori’s techniques were considered
“country cures” not used in the city. Lori threw her hands up in
exasperation, seeming ready to skin the maid alive.

He snickered quietly in the carriage. The
First Tier even had trends for medicine. Olivia accused the Healer
of brewing up bunk concoctions that might ruin young Danica’s mind.
He half-expected Lori to smack her in the mouth.

Ferran unfolded the map before him and tried
to direct the coach. They left the Ebonaire estate and traveled
deeper into The Regency. He tried to follow the access tunnel on
the map by using ancient landmarks and street intersections. That
made it all very troublesome, as some streets had been repaved and
renamed, or alleys had been built in-between; twice, he lost all
sense of direction. The sky was solidly overcast and there was no
sign of hills or the river. He wasn’t overly familiar with this
district of The Regency; his driver had to backtrack several
times.

Finally, Ferran found himself in front of a
quiet house on Timerlin Lane. He spotted it partially by luck,
partially because he thought the entrance to a sewer access tunnel
might be nearby. The townhouse appeared dark and quiet, with no
servants or horses in sight. He stared at the curtained windows for
a long moment. The owners might have left for the season. Perhaps
it was a vacant guest house for a much wealthier family?

He stopped the coach and got out. A black
wrought-iron fence surrounded the property. Dark ivy covered the
house’s white facade. A navy-blue door stood atop a series of
flagstone steps, with a brass knocker in the shape of a boar’s
head: the king’s emblem. This must be a guest house of the royal
family reserved for visiting nobility.

The gate to the fence was locked. The house
looked deserted. He frowned for a while, looking at the map.
According to the old blueprints, access to a sewer drain should be
directly where the house stood. Perhaps it was located somewhere in
the yard? After a brief inspection of the garden, he could only
decide either the map was wrong, or the sewer drain was somewhere
under the house.