Blood Skies Page 10

  “Wow,” Graves muttered. “Big place.”

  “Thank you for that, Detective,” Kray smiled.

  “Zip it,” Morg said quietly. Their voices echoed and faded in the distance like ghostly birds in a still wind. There were no easily discernible borders to the chamber – Cross saw a dozen or so stone islands and their resident coffins, but there were no walls visible except for the one behind them. The room might have stretched on for miles. “Anything?” Morg asked the mages.

  Cross paused and caught his breath. Snow was practically a statue beside him.

  Just hang in there. We’ll be ok. I don’t know how we’re not damn it I can’t I’m going to lose her down here and I’ll be all alone but we’re going to be ok.

  “Damn,” he muttered. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Graves asked, his tone considerably more exasperated than what Graves was used to. “How the hell…?”

  “They’re here,” Snow said quietly. “But there’s a lot of old magic here. It’s interfering with our sight. Our spirits can’t find them.”

  “And there’s not much we can do about it,” Cross added.

  “Spread out,” Morg said. “Stone, Cross and Graves take the right side; Snow and Kray, with me. Everyone keep your eyes open.”

  Cross looked at Snow worriedly. He chanced a glance at Morg, who gave him a stern nod.

  You can’t stay with her. If the groups need to split, the mages have to be separated. If anything happens to one group and both mages fall, the whole squad is screwed.

  But still…regardless of logic, or circumstance, or anything else, Cross didn’t like the thought of being separated from Snow. Not down there. It felt like throwing her to the wolves.

  No. She’ll be with Morg and Kray. She’ll be safer than you’ll be.

  He took her aside.

  “Are you okay?” he asked her. Cross wasn’t sure if the two groups would even be out of sight of one another, but that place seemed vast, and it would be easy to get lost in the murk.

  “I can take care of myself, Eric,” she said. “Thank you,” she added after a moment.

  Cross looked at her. It was hard for him to believe she was grown up. He could lose her here. He took in the sight of her, and he saw her face fade, a mask that concealed her younger self, wide-eyed and curious, pretty and insightful whatever her age, he watched her grow, watched the years pass, saw her spirit swirl in and cover her in a shroud as she left that old world, that old self, the young girl who liked to drag hand-made dolls and throw stones into the sea and who used to just stand next to him, close against his warmth for hours without speaking, and she was replaced by this older girl, this beautiful, powerful, dazzling stranger he’d distanced himself from without ever even meaning to.

  I don’t know you like I used to, he wanted to tell her. And I’m sorry for that. I’m so sorry.

  “All right,” was all he said, and he nodded. “Be careful.”

  You’re all that I have left.

  She hugged him, and he hugged her back.

  “I love you,” she said.

  The groups separated.

  Stone had a flare to light their way, and he led Cross and Graves along the eastern wall. They walked through waterfalls of soot. Shadows twisted like writhing worms in the cracks and crevices in the wall.

  The room went on and on, unnaturally dark and vast. The layout remained the same no matter how deep they went – open sarcophagi stood on grid-like stone islands, spaced apart by streams of thick and stagnant water. The general state of disrepair was more apparent the further they walked, just as the walkways, which were only wide enough for them to move single-file, were more cracked and less stable.

  No one spoke. Stone led the way. Cross was right behind him and Graves brought up the rear, all with their weapons drawn. Cross’ HK45 pistol felt heavy in his hand, but when he allowed his spirit to crawl across his skin it grew lighter, as her arcane energy infused the firing mechanism and shrouded the loaded bullets with deadly ballistic energies.

  Cross’ senses were on fire. Every sound seemed to stretch out and last longer than it should have. Drops of dead water fell from the black ceiling. His stomach was knotted so tight it was a wonder he hadn’t folded in on himself. Despite how wide and spacious the chamber was, Cross was seized by a sharp, claustrophobic terror. He felt like he was covered in grit, like he’d fallen into the bottom of a deep hole, and in his mind he saw himself struggling to rise but unable to do so, so he just kept sinking down and down.

  Get a hold of yourself. If you lose it down here, you’re done.

  Cross looked back. He could only barely make out the silhouettes of the other squad members, about a hundred yards away. Kray’s lantern was as dim as a dying firefly.

  “Look,” Stone said quietly.

  They came to the end of the main room, and stood before an open doorway that led into a round, dirty chamber built from thick stone blocks. The inside of the room looked like an igloo of black ice. Stone held his flare forward so that it illuminated the chamber, which even from beyond the doorway felt ice cold. Glacial rock let off subtle tendrils of steam. Cross saw his breath in the air.

  There was a hole in the middle of the floor, pitch black and barely big enough around for a child to squeeze through. To Cross, something emanated from the hole, a presence, something vast and old. The moldered essence of centuries oozed from that pit. Just glancing at the hole gave Cross an unnerving and unnatural sensation. He imagined it to be fathomless, that its depths carried on to the heart of nothingness, a colorless and frozen void that had never seen light, and never would.

  As he looked into the hole, Cross felt the pull of death. It pulled not only on him but on his spirit, and it tried to tease her away from him, to lull her, seduce her.

  “What the Hell is that?” Graves whispered.

  “Don’t go near it,” Cross said. His own voice sounded cracked and surprised. He tried to feel through his spirit, to sense what she did, so that he could coax her to probe the hole, to reach into the invisible lines of fey consciousness and touch the space beyond the rip, not too far, just enough to test, to catch a glimpse of what lay beneath, but she wouldn’t. She knew as well as he that there would be no coaxing, no chance glance at what lay buried in that deep. If they went in, they would not come out.

  “It’s a trap,” Cross managed. “It’s a trap for spirits. It’s guarding something, but its defense is to seduce your spirit into the hole.” Cross felt like he had grave dust in his lungs.

  “I don’t have a spirit,” Graves said. “Would it affect a non-mage the same as you?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll contact Morg,” Stone said. He took the signal stone from the leather cord wrapped around his wrist. “Let him know we found something.”

  Gunfire erupted from behind them. Kray yelled out from somewhere deep in the dark. Sound exploded out of the distant shadows. Cross saw flashes of light. The darkness that separated the halves of the squad was suddenly a pitch black ocean. There were more shots, including the insanely fast fire of the mini-gun. He heard growls and the sound of blades. Snow screamed.

  “Go!” Stone shouted. He and Graves ran onto the walkway to traverse the unstable channels. They raced as quickly along the path as they could, past the streams and around open coffins.

  Cross couldn’t follow, even though his heart raced with panic to protect Snow. He heard something behind him – more importantly, he felt something, and his spirit did, as well. Their focus fused and honed in on the darkness, and, in spite of himself, Cross turned around, and looked.

  Something crawled out of the hole. It had small and thin human hands, a woman’s hands, Cross thought. A head poked out, white-eyed and dismal, covered in dirt and black clay. Long nails painted black dug into the soil and pulled up a body caked in mud. It was a female form, full-figured, grotesque because of the effluvia and blood and corrupted earth that clung to it. She looked like a doll shap
ed from idiot hands. The figure emerged from the hole and rose to her feet before Cross could react. Her eyes stuck on him, and her mouth opened to breathe out a cloud of crimson steam.

  Red.

  Cross’ spirit attacked. He crossed his hands and eldritch sparks erupted from his fingers. His spirit took the form of a spear made of ice and flame. Cross fired glowing arrow-heads at the fugitive, Red, the traitor of Thornn. The witch was alarmed for a moment, but then, calmly, as if time slowed for her, she put her palms together and pointed them up in a motion something like a prayer.

  She split Cross’ arcane fire into harmless wisps of cold steam. Her eyes were pale red, glowing blood coals.

  His spirit screamed, and Cross screamed with her, taken in by her rage and fear. Black smoke curled off of his skin as his spirit exploded in a maelstrom around his body. Cross was encased in eldritch armor of living shadow. Black lightning crackled from his hands, smoldered his flesh and darkened his eyes like burning glass bulbs. Rage overtook him. His spirit screamed like hollow thunder. Red met him in kind: howls of male pain screamed away from her outstretched hands, and the air between the two mages exploded in a storm of red fire and white noise.

  Cross pulled earth up from the ground and shaped it into a lance. He tried to impale Red with it, but her spirit split the earth while Red counter-attacked with razors made of sound. Cross’ spirit burned the projectiles away with ghostly fires.

  Red raced across the room as if she glided on ice. She moved for the entrance, towards the sounds of gunfire and pain. Cross ran after her. His spirit’s emotions caused his blood to boil. In the heat of battle, it was easy to forget which of them was in control.

  Cross kept Red in sight, but his eyes hovered over the battle. He hesitated.

  The vampires were Shadowclaws, just as Graves had told him – Ebon Cities’ elite. They wore blood-red armor made of leather and chain, thick capes and dark masks that hid their pale faces. They had pitch black hair that was tied or slicked back, and they were all male, tall and thin and agile and quick. Their weapons and claws were as black as the room, and they seemed to melt into the murk and shadow.

  Bodies flailed and clawed at one another. Gunfire flared white hot in the darkness and blades ground through bodies. Cross made out little of it clearly – the melee was chaotic and fast, swords and bones and guns and shouts.

  Snow floated out of the thick of the melee with razors of light balanced around her outstretched hands. Her body was covered in a glowing corona of white flame. One of the vampires grabbed her by the ankle, and although the contact scorched the beast it held on and violently pulled Snow to the ground.

  “No!” Cross shouted. He ran over the walkways and jumped over the streams, through the maze of coffins and pillars. Cross’ spirit tore chunks of granite away from the walls and hurled them at the vampire. The undead brute still didn’t let go of Snow.

  Another vampire dropped down on top of Cross from the ceiling. The two of them collapsed in a heap. Cross landed on his back, and only his spirit’s shield saved his life. His legs were in the water, and he quickly felt himself sinking, held up only by his attacker’s claws where they gripped his coat. The vampire’s pale face was just over his. Its mask was gone, so its oversized mouth and massive fangs hovered just inches away from Cross’ face. White spittle and grave breath washed over him. Cross instinctively threw his gauntlets out in front of his body and sent waves of black heat into the vampire’s body. It pulled back, if only in surprise. As it rose, a bullet tore the vampire’s skull in two and it fell sideways. Cross pulled free of the freezing black water.

  Morg dropped the Ruger Alaskan that he’d used to save Cross, spun round and used his spear to deflect a vampire’s katana. The sounds of fighting echoed loudly through the dark.

  Cross struggled to his feet and found Snow. The burning vampire still gripped her ankle, and it held on in spite of the fire that covered most of its body. Cross’ spirit transformed herself into a wedge of razor-sharp ice that Cross launched like a spear. It connected with the vampire’s arm and took it off at the elbow, and the hand clung to Snow just a moment longer before it burned away like a wad of scorched paper.

  Cross’ eyes felt heavy. The act of channeling and holding his spirit for so long had drained his strength, and fatigue rushed over him like a wave. He nearly slipped on the streams of blood and dark water under his feet.

  The burning vampire came at him. Cross thought it had been destroyed, but even though the immolated undead smoldered with white arcane fires it ran right at him, its one remaining arm outstretched and its oversized reptilian mouth wide with hunger. Claws the size of knives raked across the stone. Cross stepped backwards and fired arrows of flame, but doing so sent him sprawling onto his back.

  The fighting raged on behind him.

  Cross sent a pillar of fire and stone into the brute’s body, but it just shoved its way through. It was easily the largest vampire he’d ever seen, seven-feet at the shoulder and as broad as an ape. Its knotted undead muscles pulsed with grave ooze, and cracked sinew tensed with incredible undead strength. It drew close, its eyes drawn tight and its grotesque maw open and hungry.

  Graves threw himself into the brute with an armored shoulder and swiped at it with his machete. Cross seized the opportunity and sprang to his feet. He drew breath.

  The vampire backhanded Graves and sent him flying. Cross cried out and released a three-foot-wide blast of fire into the vampire’s chest that pushed straight through its rotted skin.

  Something struck Cross from behind. He heard something crack. The flames stopped and he tumbled forward. His spirit absorbed the force of what should have been a killing blow, but in so doing she nearly destroyed herself.

  Cross lay there. Blood and sweat ran into his eyes. He was barely able to move, and he could only watch as the rest of the battle unfolded.

  Morg dodged a blow from the vampire giant, and in the same fluid motion he swung his spear in a wide arc and cleaved open a different vampire’s skull. Chunks of white bone and flesh flew through the air. The giant took Morg in its grip and locked his arms back. As big as Morg was, the vampire was bigger, but Morg kicked backward and down and snapped the giant’s knee-bone backwards, buckling its weight and forcing it to the ground. Still it fought, its giant mouth wide, its arms out. Morg had been disarmed.

  A blade of red light took the vampire giant in the back of the head and remained stuck there. The brute looked up and stupidly regarded the weapon that had pushed through its forehead from the back of its skull. Its arms went slack, and it finally fell forward in a thunderous heap. Snow stood there with a blade of purple and white energy firmly affixed to her gauntlet, and the force of her spirit swirled around her like a cloud of crystalline dust. Her eyes were fixed and blank.

  Cross could barely move. He looked around. He heard and then saw Stone, but he didn’t see Kray or Graves.

  He forced himself up, slowly and painfully. Blood streamed down the side of his head and the back of his neck, and it felt cold as it flowed under his armored coat. His left arm was numb. If not for his spirit he knew that he’d be dead. He felt her there, lingering, weakened from her prolonged activity and from having saved him from a pair of blows that should have ended his life.

  Stone and a vampire fought near a mound of bodies and splayed limbs. The floor was littered with blades and shattered claws and heaps of humanoid remains.

  Graves lay on the ground in a crumpled heap.

  “Sam…” Cross said. Morg ignored him, his eyes locked on something. Cross looked up.

  Red was still there. She’d been blocked off from the exit by yet another Shadowclaw Creed, pale-skinned and red-armored vampires who’d been armed with saw blades and automatic weapons. She’d dealt with them. Their bodies hung from the wall, stuck there by arcane bolts of black force, spikes made of gray ice and blades wrought of translucent amber. The sheer force of Red’s spirit cascaded around her, invisible to the human eye but plain as could be
to a warlock: it was a chaotic cloak, a shroud of male arcane fumes that burned like an explosive rainbow.

  Morg didn’t hesitate. Surprisingly, neither did Snow. The bloodlust was on both she and her spirit. Cross struggled to rise, but he felt a sharp pain in his side, maybe a cracked rib. He reached out with his mind and breathed, tried to lasso in his spirit. She was there, barely, a fade of her normal self.

  Snow shouted out, and her spirit launched himself at Red as a cyclone of shrapnel and bullet casings that left brilliant clouds of crimson dust in its wake. Morg followed Snow’s attack like a charioteer behind his steeds. He bore a serrated broadsword in his hands, and though his face was bloodied his eyes were focused. He was a human train, and he tore across the rubble and blood spattered ground. His armored boots tore chunks out of the stone.

  Cross, unable to call up his ailing spirit, remembered his HK45, which had somehow found its way back into his unsteady hand.

  Snow’s attack dissipated before it reached Red. The Witch’s spirit met Snow’s attack with a shimmering wall of prismatic rain, and he chewed through Snow’s magic like acid through paper.

  Morg barreled his way through the chaos, howling with fury. Red focused, and in that moment, Cross fired his pistol. The shot took Red in the meat of her shoulder and pushed her back.

  Red was a blur of motion. She spun with the shot, turned full circle, and lashed out with a violet wave of liquid daggers that expanded like a fan. Cross called up every last shred of his spirit’s power. He felt her scream, felt her energy fail, but he willed Snow to do the same. Static explosions of sound filled his mind. His stomach tightened, and he felt himself torn inside out.