Soulrazor (Blood Skies, Book 3) Read online

  Cross kept his spirit close. She practically snarled against him. She wanted to strike out at the dismal energies that they sensed beyond the walls of the Darkhawk, as Kane had taken to calling their vessel. He felt Black’s spirit bristle, as well, and her spectral consort clung to the dark interior of the ship to keep himself under control.

  Their spirits had grown used to one another. To her credit, Cross’ never cowed to Black’s dominant male power. If anything, she was often the one that was more out of control, and even after three years Cross still had to apply extra effort just to make sure that she didn’t cause too much damage during her occasional bursts of rage. It got easier all of the time, but sometimes Cross just didn’t understand what was taking them so long to adjust to one another.

  Because what happened to you is entirely unnatural, he told himself. You’re lucky to have a spirit at all. Stop bitching that you can’t get her to behave.

  Ash’s spirit, on the other hand, was reserved and nearly silent. One of the advantages that a witch had over a warlock was that they weren’t burdened by such a short lifespan. It wasn’t that witches lived to be terribly old, by any means, if for no other reason because the nature of their powers generally placed them directly in harm’s way, but generally speaking they usually had more time to patiently develop a relationship with their spirits. Cross, in his late twenties, was practically considered to be of a venerable age for a warlock.

  The turbine engines struggled to elevate them the last few hundred feet of their vertical journey. They moved below necrotic shadow web sensors and between rotating pillars of acid light.

  The Darkhawk was easily three-quarters of the way up the length of the Bonespire, tilted at a steep enough angle that everyone had to grip the iron bars that ran the length of the ceiling to avoid falling into the bay doors behind them. The noise outside was deafening.

  Cross wiped sweat from his brow and adjusted the Remington 870 strapped to his back. A pair of HK45s sat in holsters on his belt, and the hilt of a bone-white and incredibly thin blade protruded from the back of his waistline. The magical weapon had lost most of its arcane properties, but it had been bestowed to him by the Woman in the Ice, an avatar of the mysterious White Mother, unseen leader of the Southern Claw Alliance.

  Cross still had a few questions regarding what all of that meant, and thus far he hadn’t had much luck in hunting down any answers.

  Black moved up next to him. She held a Winchester 1892 Short 44 Magnum rifle in her hands, an archaic device that belonged in a Clint Eastwood film, which was likely why she carried it. A revolver and a machete lined her otherwise thin armaments, especially compared to Kane’s heavy sword, MP5A submachine gun, a pair of SIG Sauers, a heavy combat knife, and a few grenades. All three of them stood shoulder to shoulder as they looked through the gritty film that covered the window.

  The top of the Bonespire loomed overhead, a grim edifice made of shadow and ebon steel. Cross had bore the sight of the structure from across the ice fields for most of his adult life. Up until a few months ago, if not for the ebon clouds and the presence of dark machines that moved menacingly through the surrounding sky and at the tower’s shadow-drenched base, one could have believed it was a dormant structure, a dark monument to the vampire’s power.

  No one from the Southern Claw had ever breached the interior. It took a dozen witches working in tandem to cast an enchantment over the Darkhawk – a price that had come at a pretty penny, even with the so-called discount that Cross’ black market contact Ilfesa Warfield had given them – to make it so that they could get as close as they had. Those enchantments allowed them to slip through the various enemy defensives without bringing the considerable Ebon Cities’ forces stationed around the tower down on top of them.

  And while there was no guarantee that the enchantments would last long enough to get them clear for the return journey, the Southern Claw brass had decided that was an acceptable risk.

  Cross felt like he’d swallowed something sour. He looked at Black and Kane and then at the rest of his team, and he tried to shake off the feeling that something terrible was about to happen, that no matter how many impossible situations they’d walked or flown or swam into before that this one was different, that this time it was too much, that the risk was too great, that none of them would get out alive.

  He knew that he was probably just being paranoid. He also knew that fear meant he would try that much harder to make sure that each and every one of them made it home.

  The ship leveled out and ascended as if it had landed atop a rapidly rising sea. Gravity seemed to leave them, and the team held on to the beams and walls to avoid floating into each other. They fell, up.

  The ship drifted back and forth as it made the ascent, and as they drew closer to the tower they eliminated the lights and turned the ship utterly dark. They could only see each other by the dank ethereal illumination that spilled down from the hexed defense beacons at the zenith of the undead citadel, a pale and sickly glow that rendered their faces and weapons in ghostly silhouette.

  They were just a few hundred yards from the structure. It was a charnel dagger of black rock dotted with crimson glass plates that oozed dismal energies and made the air sluggish and thick. Gargoyle sentries rounded the tower, and their bladed wings and heavy pikes dripped venoms that fell like rain. Razorwings laggardly perched atop metal spikes that jutted out of the Bonespire like deadly quills.

  Something waited inside, something ancient and primal and powerful, barely contained within smoking walls of necrotic stone. The air rippled with electricity and smelled of freshly spilled blood. The team heard churning soul engines and the wailing screech of venomous steel.

  “This,” Kane whispered, “is going to suck.”

  Maur brought the ship up, unfolded the translucent hex sails, and guided them towards the incursion point.

  TWO

  HALLS

  The ship had to turn nearly vertical again as it drew close the spire’s west face, a smooth but multiple-layered blasphemy of rune-carved obsidian and glittering onyx rock. The entire structure leaked shadow. The Darkhawk moved towards thick panes of crimson glass located on the tower’s angled upper levels. Pale sky hung overhead, barely visible through the drifts of black cloud and cold vapor.

  The floor of the Darkhawk was ridged, which gave its passengers some footing even though the vessel had all but turned on its end. Maur quietly lowered the vessel against the blood glass. The ship rattled loudly for a moment as the adhering plates grafted down and brought the Darkhawk to a sudden stop.

  Danica went to the control panel on the floor, where she manipulated dark knobs and buttons and depressed iron plates that sent a shower of sparks between the ship and the dark tower. Glowing embers dropped onto the glass. The process of cutting through was surprisingly quiet: all they could hear from inside was a low hum. The scent of smelted metal was strong as the arcane torches did their work.

  Finally, after what felt like hours, they heard a clang as the Darkhawk's cutting implements worked their way through the red glass. Telekinetic force held the severed piece aloft and pushed it aside so that it floated in the air.

  Cross nodded. Black opened the floor hatch.

  The interior of the Bonespire was frozen, dark and vast. Shadow vapor curled up to the dizzying heights of the tower, where the Darkhawk waited. Nylon rope ladders unrolled out of the vessel and dropped down the length of the preposterously tall chamber.

  Even with the light that filtered through the dark red glass, most of the shaft was lost in darkness. The smell of old tombs mixed with a sickly scent, something like hashish and methane, charcoal and hemlock.

  Cross stepped through the doorway cut by the Darkhawk, affixed and checked his harness, and slid down the rope and into the interior of the tower. The others followed in short order.

  Dead wind rushed up at him and turned his throat and nostrils raw. The sound of metal on rope filled his ears. They rapidly slid towards the unse
en ground. Cross’ stomach leapt into his mouth as he picked up speed, and at any second he expected to fall into the hands of some demented undead brute or a gargantuan and toothy maw that waited at the bottom.

  Luckily, no such thing happened, and Cross’ feet came to rest on a cold stone floor covered in bone grit and crushed skulls. White dust kicked up as he shuffled away from the rope and cleared space for Black, who was at his side in moments. The air was dark, and they had practically zero visibility, nor any indication as to how far away the spire’s walls stood.

  What they did have was a soulstone, an arcane tool that was, essentially, an eyeball in a small cube of liquid. When attuned to a specific target or destination, the eyeball pointed in the direction that its bearer needed to go. It was far from the most reliable form of navigation, but it beat wandering around blind in the undead halls of an enemy fortress.

  Black had the soulstone out, and it indicated they should head south, towards the center of the Spire’s shaft.

  Cross saw Kane touch down behind them, and he knew that Grissom and Ronan were on their way. (Kane always took particular care to make room for Grissom. He’d admitted to having nightmares about being accidentally crushed by the half-Doj.)

  They pushed through shadows as thick as ink. The air clung to them like soot.

  The soulstone provided some illumination, and Cross and Black could also see because of their spirits, who moved ahead to scout.

  Thankfully, the interior of the Bonespire wasn’t as secure as the outside. After they spent a few minutes shuffling along through the darkness, they found a doorway that recoiled from their touch and shrank into its housing like some sort of organic crustacean.

  They moved through the door and into a series of halls and short staircases made out of pale metal and bone, all of it brightly illuminated by glowing silver epitaphs that had been carved into the walls. The halls were long and wide but low, and they were lined with tusks and the ancient rib bones of unknown animals. The floors were covered in smeared blood and arcane markings cast in white paint and crusts of gray salt.

  Danica motioned, and the team followed her. Cross had his spirit move about fifty yards ahead so that she could move around corners and determine what lay beyond the intersections.

  Grissom had the foresight to drop signal flares on the ground to mark the way back, as they quickly passed at least a dozen four-way intersections that just led to just more junctions. They moved through a maze of ice white corridors.

  The air grew sticky and hot, and it smelled of dead animals. They heard distant spirit moans and grinding machinery through the walls, as well as a constant disembodied roar, like some sort of infernal furnace or a dismal engine. That sound muffled the team’s boots as they moved down the hall, using the curved bone support beams that lined the corridors for cover.

  Now and again the entire structure seemed to rattle, as if the tower was being blown by a heavy wind.

  They pressed on. Cross’ nerves were on edge. They were too exposed there in the hall. The support beams wouldn’t provide a great deal of protection if they ran into a patrol.

  They came to another intersection, and knelt down. He looked at Black. She had a confused look on her face.

  “Interference,” she said.

  “What kind of interference?” Cross asked.

  “It’s heavy thaumaturgy. We must be close to whatever they’re working on, but their interior shields are keeping me from locking on.” She held the eye up, and she and Cross watched it spin. Kane moved up and peeked over their shoulders.

  The eye spun and spun, almost out of control, until it stopped and pointed down an east-bound corridor. A few seconds later it swung to a north-facing corridor, but then it spun back to the east again.

  “See what I mean?” Black said.

  “Shit.”

  “That’s great, guys,” Kane said over their shoulder. “So do we get to ‘Scooby-Doo’ it, or what?”

  “I don't see as how we have much of a choice,” Cross said. He still wasn't entirely used to this part: leading, making decisions for others who’d put their lives in his hands. When he'd asked Black and Kane to form the team with him, he hadn't really envisioned them becoming a full-on military unit complete with a chain of command. He thought they’d be more of a loose group of friends working together, a collective.

  “Kane, go with Grissom and Black and head east,” he said. “Ronan, you come with me. We’ll rendezvous back here in five minutes. Keep your sending stones active.”

  “We should stick together, Chief,” Grissom said. His voice was like a bass drum, even when he whispered.

  “There’s no time for that,” Cross said. “Now...”

  His spirit screamed back to him like a shooting star. His skin went cold, as if touched by a freezing rain. Her ethereal breath filled his lungs with dark ice crystals. Whispers carried round him, then again from down the hall.

  Cross put a fist in the air to signal that they were about to be attacked. The vampires rounded the corner just seconds later. Bulky blood red armor and thick leather cloaks covered pale and muscular bodies. The vampires carried snub-nosed shrapnel rifles and wore serrated bone blades in heavy scabbards. Their black hair and eyes cast them in stark contrast to the milky halls. It was a small Creed, probably part of a standard Claw: four vampires, each of them armed and armored identical to the next.

  Black’s spirit had extended down another hall, but she called him back and sent him barreling down the corridor as a missile of steam and sound.

  Kane pulled out both SIGs and dove to a prone position as he fired them in tandem. They were enchanted pistols, hexed for a hefty fee, but those enchantments were the only reason that Kane was able to fire the pistols simultaneously and hit anything smaller than a building. Eldritch-laced bullets engraved with crackling runes soared through the air and raced ahead of Danica’s arcane blast as it screamed down the hall.

  The vampires fired hard shells of steaming razor shrapnel. Rounds exploded against each other in a cacophony of deafening sound. Cross locked his gauntleted hands together and formed a sheer wall of semi-translucent crimson force directly in front of his team. It blocked off the vampire bullets in a chain-reaction of smoking explosions.

  Kane’s bullets plowed through vampire armor as Black’s cone of sound and fire swirled into the first two undead and ripped them into smoking shreds. Their cover already blown, Grissom stepped up and fired his AA-12. The thunderous blasts that rang out of the large weapon nearly knocked Cross off his feet. Explosive thunder shattered the stone walls and turned the last two vampires into smears.

  “So much for being QUIET!” Kane shouted.

  Four more vampires appeared, two from each the left and right-hand corridors. They flanked the team.

  Cross moved in a blur. He sent his spirit out behind him, into the two vampires down the western corridor, while he unloaded his hexed HK45s at the vampires to his right.

  Bullets tore around the corner even as the vampires leapt back, and his shots took one in the upper chest. The arcane fields around his bullets rendered the vampire body armor useless as the rounds bore through to its black-blooded heart.

  Meanwhile, Cross’ spirit took the form of a whirlwind of icy hooks and tore the second vampire in half.

  Two vampires remained, one in each direction. Cross had killed one of each pair.

  “Almost,” Ronan smiled. The bladesman drew a pair of curved katars that had been forged from frosted white steel, and he threw one in each direction. Wisps of white steam trailed the magic blades. Each weapon landed in one of the last two standing vampires: he skewered one, and split the other’s skull open.

  “We have to move fast,” Cross said, and he called his spirit back. She burned inside of his gauntlets, a layer of cold steam that scalded his skin. “Same teams as before. Go! Go!”

  Black, Kane and Grissom moved straight ahead and reloaded as they went. Cross reloaded his HKs as he and Ronan moved down the northern c
orridor.

  Cross let his spirit recuperate for a moment. Her proximity warmed and shielded him from the dismal air of the Bonespire. Her whispers tickled his throat and his face.

  She’d been acting more intimate lately, and he wasn’t sure what that was all about. There was always some different challenge with his spirit, some behavior of hers that took him aback or just flat-out confused him. From what few married couples he knew, what he had to deal with in regards to his spirit sounded suspiciously like being a parent.

  Once his spirit’s form regenerated he sent her ahead as a cloud of transient vapors. She scouted the area.

  Ronan had drawn one of his katanas, which he held ready in both gloved hands. His booted feet moved with near silence, and his gray eyes surveyed the air.

  There was little question that Ronan wasn’t right in the head – combat was an adrenaline rush for him, and he seemed to revel in the act of hacking things apart with his incredibly keen blades. Still, he’d proven his loyalty to the group more than once with his willingness to enter dangerous situations and place himself in harm’s way in order to keep a comrade safe, and there was little questioning his bravery (few humans had the gall to stand toe-to-toe with a vampire) or his skill. He didn’t have much of a personality outside of his desire for combat, but so long as he did his job, Cross saw no reason to be concerned.

  The hall narrowed and darkened. Cross had to light a flare and cast it out ahead of them. His spirit picked up no direct sign of sentries or traps, but the area ahead was thick with magic, a gritty and condensed aura of shadow that drifted across the open corridor like a waterfall of soot. His spirit sensed a series of interconnected hallways ahead, as well as a much larger chamber beyond. Cross guessed that what they searched for lay in that chamber, and he nodded to Ronan to be ready.

  Cross pulled his spirit back to shield them as they passed through the drift of black dust. She withdrew from the edge of the massive chamber, which for some reason was difficult for her to penetrate, and she arched her form over Cross and Ronan’s heads as they walked into the new series of corridors.