"And you, Sora, are trembling like a man lost in the mountains in his undershorts...." Burn began.
"Why are you sweating, Crash?" she asked softly.
He looked at her strangely. “I had to hurry, Sora. I saw the wraith, and I knew...."
“Knew what?”
"That... that I might be too late,” he said, his voice quiet.
He let go of her arms, beginning to close off. The other men in the group shifted uncomfortably. Had she embarrassed him?
She grinned. “I thought you'd have more faith in me by now."
Crash nodded, though her vision was getting worse and she could feel her body starting to drift away, pulled towards sleep. She let a weary sigh escape her lips. "So why weren't you here sooner?"
"I...."
"Are you two quite done?" Jacques cut in loudly. "This young lady needs rest!"
Crash leaned down, and Sora felt herself already losing consciousness. "I came as fast as I could," he whispered into her ear.
Then she dropped into a deep sleep.
Chapter 15
Lorianne raised her eyes to the top windows of the brothel. It was well past midnight, but of course the windows were still lit. What am I doing here? she asked herself for the third time.
Ferran stood next to her, his thumbs hooked in his belt. He swaggered up to the front door with a stride that she remembered.
“Really?” she called after him. “This is where you sold the book?”
He shrugged. “Had to pay the woman somehow.”
“You're a complete mess.”
No response. She wondered if he had heard her.
They had spent the last day in the small fishing village of Pismo. She explained her situation to him—the plague, the Cat's Eye, the sacred weapons, her daughter....
“So you have need of my... services?” he had said in a low voice, leaning across the table toward her, sobering up over a mug of tea.
She raised an eyebrow. “You're still a treasure hunter, aren't you?”
“All my life,” he had replied.
He knew about the sacred weapons. More than once, he had entertained the thought of searching for them. He had owned a book a few years ago, salvaged from a burned library, that outlined how to find and destroy the sacred weapons.... It had included a map, too. Priceless—if accurate.
But nothing had come of it. He had finally given up that life—lost faith, you see, grew tired of it all—and had sold the book to a good friend.
Yeah, a good friend, Lori thought, staring up at the brothel. She eyed the back of his head distastefully. The past day, they had sailed up the coast in his small boat to the slightly larger town of Cape Shorn. The brothel was a large red building, right on the docks. She really shouldn't have been surprised. They were quite common in port cities; sailors were eager customers. I wonder what other kind of friends he keeps....
“Not many,” he said over his shoulder, and put his hand on the door of the brothel.
Lori's mouth opened in surprise. “What?”
“Friends,” he replied. “I don't have many.” Then he opened the front door.
Lori shook her head. She must have spoken her thoughts aloud. Right? He couldn't read her thoughts, that was impossible.
He glanced back at her, saw her expression, and grinned. “Come now, Lori. Your silence is an open book. You haven't changed that much.”
Her cheeks flushed and she glared. “Sure,” she said. That's what he thought.
They entered the brothel. It smelled strongly of incense. The inside was richly decorated in deep purple carpet with elaborate wall hangings, everything from floral paintings to tapestries of men and women, tastefully—or distastefully—posed next to each other.
With all the brash colors, Lori didn't expect the soft, low music that permeated the air. It was almost pleasant. Then her eyes landed on the harp in the corner, and she changed her mind. A naked woman sat behind it, softly plucking the strings, dressed only in a large gold necklace that dangled provocatively between her breasts. Lori stared, slightly jarred by the sight. Oh, come now, I'm over thirty, this shouldn't be shocking, she scolded herself. But she hadn't spent much of her life in these places. No, she had stuck to the country, to small towns and quiet ways.
Ferran walked past the harp and the harpist without glancing at them. He approached the front desk, which was made of beautiful dark rosewood. The woman who stood behind the desk was probably the only clothed employee in the entire building. “Is Beatrice in?” Ferran asked.
The woman glanced up. She had piles of black hair clipped messily atop her head. A large, dark mole kissed her upper lip. Her makeup was so thick, Lori thought it might be outright paint.
“Hey, Ferran,” she said casually. “Haven't seen you around in a while.”
Lori frowned. How long is “a while?”
Ferran shrugged. Shrugging seemed to be his favorite response to any sort of question. “Is Beatrice in?” he asked again.
The woman looked at him for a moment, then glanced at Lori, arching a black eyebrow. A mischievous smile twisted her lips. She pointed her long, feathered quill at a staircase to their left. “The pearl room,” she said. “Upstairs. Door 24... but I'm sure you remember.”
Lori wondered what that look was for.
Ferran nodded briefly, then turned, following her directions. Lori fell into step behind him. They started up the narrow staircase, the air around them heavy with perfume.
“A year,” he said.
“What?”
“A year since I've been here.” He glanced over his shoulder, surprisingly close to Lori in the cramped space. His eyes glinted wickedly. “You were wondering, weren't you?”
Lori sighed. “Stop this, Ferran. I get it, you fell in love with a whore.”
“Who said anything about love?”
“Please don't make me think any worse of you,” she said in exasperation.
Then he threw back his head and laughed. “And you haven't had a lover since Dane passed?”
The question shocked her—it was unexpected. She hadn't heard Dane's name from anyone in almost ten years.
“I've... I've met some people,” she said evasively. Honestly, Lori didn't want to think about it. She had given up Sora when she was twenty. For a few years, she had tried to rebuild, meet someone new, but....
They reached the second floor and headed down a narrow hallway. Doors were evenly spaced on either side. 21... 22... 23.... Room 24 was a small, ovular white door with gold letters painted on the front. Despite the thick walls, Lori could hear soft laughter and deep groans coming from the other side.
Ferran didn't knock; he simply grabbed the handle and opened the door. Lori stared, shocked again. You'd think it would be locked!
“Hey, Beatrice!” he called, entering the room. “Remember that book I gave you?”
Lori hesitated slightly, then followed. She expected to be screamed at—she certainly would scream in such a situation—but there was no such rebuke. Instead, she shut the door softly behind her and looked around the room.
The pearl room was decorated in soft whites and silvers. The bed looked like a giant clam shell. A man was tucked under the covers, staring at them speechlessly, his mouth agape. He was an older gentleman, portly, perhaps a sea merchant.
Beatrice was a tall, voluptuous redhead with more than ample curves. She was dressed in a corset, tall leather boots and fishnet stockings. She carried a switch in one hand.
Ferran raised his hand, waving slightly to the client. “Pardon me,” he said. Then he turned back to Beatrice. “About that book....”
The woman glanced over them with bored, hooded eyes, as though interruptions were common. “Really, Ferran?” she finally asked. “That was a year ago....”
“Turns out I need it.”
“Hmph. Well, as I recall, I sold it. And it didn't even pay for half of your charges.”
There was an awkward silence. Lori smirked at him, but Ferran didn't ret
urn her look. “Ah, well, money's a bit tight as it is,” he muttered. “Sorry about that. Do you recall who you sold it to?”
“Yeah, a pirate, just like you,” she retorted.
“Treasure hunter. I've never captained a ship,” Ferran corrected.
“Like I care. He came by about a month ago and paid good silver for it.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“Aye,” she said, and nodded to her left, indicating some distant, unseen location. “He's anchored up the coast a bit, towards Sylla Cove.” Then she slapped the switch against her thigh—snap! Everyone in the room jumped. “Is that all? I'm busy.”
Ferran nodded and gave them both a short bow. Then he turned, grabbed Lori's hand, and pulled her from the room.
“What...?” she started.
“Well, we know where the book is,” he said. “Time to head to the Cove.”
“And do what, exactly?” she asked as they headed down the hall, back the way they came.
“I'm thinking we're going to have to steal it back.”
Lori rolled her eyes. “Ferran, there's better ways of doing this, we aren't kids anymore.... We should try to barter.”
“Oh, and with what money?” He looked her up and down briefly. “Last I checked, your coin purse was quite light.”
Lori grinned mischievously at that. “You checked my coin purse? When?” she asked, eyes glinting. “I stashed the rest where you wouldn't find it. I'm a Healer, you know. I make a good living....”
“Is that so?” Ferran asked slowly.
Lori returned his look. “Yes, it is. Anyway, we don't have the time to dally around.”
“And we won't. We'll leave tonight to get the book.”
They started down the staircase. Lori was eager to exit the building. The combination of perfume and incense were giving her a headache... and it was stiflingly hot.
“Think you could buy me a drink, then?” Ferran asked, as they approached the front door.
“No,” she said.
“Oh, come on, Lori, what happened to you?”
“Life happened to me,” she barked, and jumped out the front door into the wide, cool night. She started walking down the docks at a fast pace, forcing him to keep up with her, toward where he had moored his boat. A dozen or so ships sat on the cape, at varying distances from the shore. None of them were larger than a fishing vessel; there were no cargo ships or large merchant vessels. It was past midnight and the town was finally winding down; the only people on the street were sailors and questionable women.
“And what's that supposed to mean?” Ferran asked, coming up behind her. “Like life doesn't happen to all of us....”
“I'm a Healer,” she explained sharply. She wasn't sure why she felt so defensive; somehow, she had hoped that Ferran had found a new life for himself, a successful trade or at least a supportive wife and children. Instead, she was faced with a late-thirty-something bachelor who still got into bar fights. “I don't drink. And you're not drinking anymore either, not as long as you travel with me. I'm going to need your head on straight. This plague is spreading. You might not have seen it yet, but... it's terrible.” Her voice ended close to a whisper, her mind distracted by the patients she had treated. Her remedies had been useless against the sickness. That left a cold pit of dread in her stomach.
The treasure hunter groaned behind her. “Fine,” he muttered. “I get it. You're stingy. I don't like it... and I will hold it against you.”
She smacked his arm in annoyance. He grunted in response.
When she glanced sideways at him, he was staring straight ahead... and grinning.
* * *
Volcrian was enjoying his time, strangely enough.
He was camped close to the ocean, enough to taste its saltiness with each breath. The smell reminded him of clean, fresh blood. That alone would have made for a good night...but to top it off, he was spending it with a beautiful woman.
A beautiful dead woman.
He grinned across the fire at her, a small hen roasting over the open flame. The once-priestess of the Wind Goddess was clothed in her ceremonial robes, just as he had found her, though he had cut the neckline daringly low, displaying her mangled neck. Her eyes stared vacantly at the flames. He had never cared for a woman's chatter, but her youth and beauty were preserved on her pale face, like a porcelain doll.
“Eat, love,” he said, offering her a piece of meat. Then he smiled. “Not hungry?”
“Release me,” she replied. Her voice was dry, crinkled, like an autumn leaf.
“In time,” he replied.
He had killed a dozen men first, then had dragged her through the city and out into the fields, where he had bled her dry. She had struggled, of course. A feisty one, this priestess. Even after death, she still had the gall to speak to him.
The rest of Barcella had watched helplessly. None had raised a weapon in her defense. He had seen fear shining in their eyes. Not even the remaining handful of soldiers had tried to stop him. He hadn't even been followed. Cowards. Of course the humans would abandon each other. There were so many; what mattered if one more died?
The memory of killing her brought a rush of excitement to him. There was something powerful about death, about mastering it. He felt invincible, more alive than ever before. He was getting better at using the blood magic, more controlled, his spells stronger than ever.
“So tell me about yourself,” he said to the dead woman. “Tell me about your Goddess.”
“She will come for you. She will save me.”
“Ha!” he barked, and took a bite of meat. It wasn't quite done yet, but he liked the taste of uncooked flesh. “Then tell me, why didn't your Goddess stop your death? Why didn't she strike me down?”
The priestess turned her blank, glassy eyes upon him. Her movements were slow and stiff, suitable to a corpse. She did not answer. Volcrian threw back his head and laughed, a sharp sound. “I can answer that for you,” he said, still chuckling. “Because my powers are not bound by a Goddess. No, sweet priestess, I am beyond Her reach... and soon, just maybe, I shall become a God myself....”
Volcrian paused. Become a God? Where had that come from? He hadn't considered it before, had never desired it. But certainly, all things were possible with blood magic. The idea was suddenly very attractive. He could begin a following, spread his influence, gather servants....Why not?
He felt an odd tremor inside of him. His head swam, looking for a reason. No... no, this wasn't about power, he reminded himself. It was about Etienne. He shuddered. For a moment, he had almost forgotten his brother's memory, his murdered body on the steps of the flower shop.
Forgive me, brother, he thought, and shook his head. He was giddy, high from the blood of the priestess, distracted. Of course he wouldn't forget his hunt. It had consumed his life for years. He couldn't forget.
He felt slightly sobered by the memory of his brother. A bitter taste entered his mouth. He turned back to the priestess and raised a thin, silver eyebrow.
“I'm bored,” he said, grimacing. “This spell isn't meant for conversation. Dance for me.” And he sat back against the grass, watching the young priestess with narrowed eyes.
“I cannot,” the priestess replied.
It surprised him, and he glared, his temper rising. “You are my servant and my creation, little pet.”
“The dead do not dance.”
“By my command, they do.”
Then, as though pulled by invisible strings, the corpse rose to its feet. It staggered for a moment in place. Volcrian watched, waiting.
Slowly, she began to slide from foot to foot, her body swaying and spinning to the crackle of flames. He liked the way she bent against the fire, the way her shadow flickered on the ground, how the light licked across her white skin.
He even liked the streaks of blood that leaked from her eyes—perhaps tears, perhaps the natural decay of the body. He didn't care which.
Chapter 16
Sor
a slept through the second half of the day, but was rudely awakened close to midnight. According to the Dracians, the ship they were planning on “commandeering” had just docked, and it was time to get a move on. They quickly packed. Both sacred weapons were carefully wrapped up and stored. She felt exhausted and shaky upon waking, but the thought of boarding a ship seemed simple enough. You just pack your luggage, walk up a plank and set sail....
But of course, they weren't just boarding a ship.
Sora tried not to seem too obvious as she mingled around the perimeter of the docks, watching as cargo was unloaded from an incredibly large, seagoing vessel. Not a boat, she thought. A ship. A true ship. It was the size of several houses, two stories up to the deck, and a third level above it. She stood in her mother's cloak with her staff held tight to her chest, leaning back against the shadowy overhang of a building, hoping she didn't come off as nervous, which she certainly was.
It was dark, about an hour past midnight, and the docks were all but deserted. The storm had relented for a moment, but it was still freezing cold. The only light came from the ship, where dull lanterns swung slightly side to side. The buildings behind her were mostly large warehouses, used for storing cargo.
At this very moment, her friends were positioning themselves for a total takeover of the ship. All of their supplies had been packed onto rowboats, and the Dracians were sneaking them around the rear of the vessel, where they would be lifted aboard by ropes. It didn't seem very safe, but with most of the crew distracted at the front of the ship, the Dracians had assured them it would go smoothly.
“Don't worry, we've done this before,” Tristan had winked. Sora wasn't completely convinced. From what she could tell, they were fond of taking risks.
Goddess take me... how did I get myself wrapped up in this mess? she thought. She was still tired from the wraith's attack, and now she was about to enter a new battle. Hopefully this one wouldn't be as draining. From what she could see, the sailors were of all matter of heights, makes and creeds—and they all had one thing in common: bulging muscles.