Ireth.
The beast stood taller than any horse he’d ever seen—it could eat a plow horse as a snack. Its long, lithe body was the color of tarnished silver and ash, though it glowed a dark bronze where the flames burned brightest.
The flames—Rone could barely look at the thing for the blaze. A wreath of white fire encircled the numen’s breast, and flames cascaded down its neck and back and formed a narrow, whiplike tail, like the appendage was made of molten steel. Its eyes were blacker than coal, and two sets of horns jutted out from the top of its head—two forking skyward, and two curving forward.
It was the most incredible monster Rone had ever seen.
And that . . . that was Sandis?
He bolted back behind the building, pressing his back to the bricks. Huffing for air like he’d swum from the bottom of the ocean. Sweat ran down the sides of his face and traced his stomach. The papers and cash under his jacket weighed like anvils.
He ran.
He’d do well to remember what Sandis was. A monster, a numen, a weapon. Kazen was a slug, but he could control her. Rone had done the right thing.
Yet no matter how fast he ran, the sound of her screams lashed back and forth within his skull, and that ball of guilt, growing heavier by the moment, churned relentlessly against his gut.
Full night was upon him when the first bullet glanced off his upper arm. Rone heard the sound of it first as it tore through fabric and skin. The sting came second.
Cursing, he ducked into the alcove of an apartment building; he was on the outskirts of the grungy neighborhood. Above his head, he heard shutters slam shut and momentarily wondered if the people here were used to grafters.
Breathing hard, Rone checked the door behind him. Locked. Of course it was locked.
He poked his head out of the alcove, then ducked down again as another gun fired. The brick behind him exploded, spraying dust in his eye. He rubbed away debris and tears.
He’d had a bad feeling something like this would happen. That Kazen and his lackeys would decide to kill him for the amarinth he carried in his pocket. Why take only Sandis when they could have both?
Nausea spiked through him. Sandis. No, he couldn’t think about her. Think about your mother, you sack of sludge.
Tomorrow, they’d be reunited. They’d have passage to Ysben, Godobia, wherever she wanted to go. Money to start anew. They’d forget about Dresberg, the Angelic, the grafters.
He’d forget about Sandis.
Wouldn’t he?
Pulling the amarinth from his pocket, Rone crouched and listened. He didn’t know how many pursuers were tailing him, but he needed them to get closer. He only had a minute.
The night was still and stale. He heard voices within the building at his back.
Chewing on his lip, Rone calculated which appendage he’d need the least, should his quickly forming plan go awry. His left hand lost the bet.
He stuck it out, fingers splayed, hoping the shadow looked more like a head than a hand.
A shot fired. It blessedly missed both him and the brick, though he felt the wind from the bullet. As soon as he did, he pulled his hand back and cried out, “Ah!” followed by as many pathetic noises as he could muster. He clenched his teeth and breathed hard through them, groaning and whimpering theatrically.
The footsteps came closer. Three, maybe four men. If there was a sniper, Rone would have to be especially fast and outrun him before he could get down from his perch.
They were almost upon him.
Rone spun the amarinth and let it float to the top of the alcove.
He leapt out, surprising the closest grafter with a punch to his face. The man fell back, and the two behind him raised their guns and fired. Rone felt the pressure of two bullets travel through him—one through his shoulder, another through his heart. At least it wasn’t the eye. Rone had never been shot in the eye, but he imagined it would be mightily uncomfortable, amarinth or not.
He launched at them, all his years of study with Kurtz flowing through his veins, powering his muscles. He ducked under a gun, roundhouse kicked it out of the grafter’s hands even as two consecutive bullets passed through his neck and torso. He rammed the palm of his hand into the grafter’s nose, crunching it before turning his attention to the third man.
The repeating rifle fired once—neck. Twice—heart. Three times—gut. Each bullet passed through him painlessly.
The clicking trigger of a gun free of ammunition was sweet music to his ears.
Rone slammed his fist into the grafter’s face, and as the man dropped, Rone jerked up his knees and hit him square in the nose. Another roundhouse knocked the man over.
The length of a gun barrel pressed against his neck; Rone wasn’t sure if it was from the first man or an unseen fourth. His air choked clean off, but Rone didn’t feel the desperate need for oxygen. As long as that trinket spun, he wouldn’t.
But his minute was almost up.
Rone slammed his head back. He didn’t have a lot of leverage, so the blow was feeble, but it distracted his opponent enough for Rone to find the grafter’s foot and stomp his heel into the guy’s instep. The grafter’s grip loosened. Dropping out of his hold, Rone swung his foot around and knocked his opponent’s legs out from under him, grabbed the rifle, and smashed it against his head.
The man lay still. That might have been a killing blow, but Rone couldn’t hang around to find out.
He heard the soft clank of the amarinth hitting the ground just as he got to the alcove. Grabbing the spent artifact, Rone shoved it into his pocket and ran deeper into the city, thinking only of his mother.
Thinking only of his mother.
Only of his mother . . .
Chapter 22
Sandis’s eyes shot open, and she gasped. She stared ahead, her memories slow to return to her. Her shoulder ached fiercely from being pressed against the concrete floor for . . . she didn’t know how long. Her mouth tasted like bile, and her throat burned. Even as she thought it, her stomach clenched, forcing her to dry heave. The smell of vomit burned her sinuses before she saw the puddles strewn over the floor.
A fire-laced memory surfaced. She remembered looking at Kazen, from above. From Ireth’s eyes. Remembered stepping over the burned body of a teenager, walking back to— The rest cascaded onto her like an avalanche. The grafters. The alley. Rone.
Rone.
Rone.
Tears clouded her vision. They burned her dry eyes and provoked her thirst. She remembered shadows and hands pressing her into the grimy earth. Her blood flowing out of her. Ireth had come in his full glory, erasing Sandis and doing Kazen’s bidding.
Rone.
Rolling onto her back, Sandis pressed both hands to her mouth and sobbed, squeezing her eyes shut as if she could hold back all that sorrow. As if she could cage this awful, twisting feeling inside her, so much worse than a summoning.
Betrayal.
She choked and rolled back onto her side, pushing off the concrete with one hand. Her head swam, and her arm shook with the effort. Kazen must have given her something to make her retch—making her too weak to summon Ireth and break out of this cage. He needn’t have bothered. She would have passed out moments after breaking down the door.
Even though she was parched from both summoning and vomiting, tears ran down her face. Her sinuses swelled shut. Her body shook and ached.
He’d been there for her, almost from the beginning. He’d helped her. He’d held her.
He’d traded her for money.
Was that it? Had he kept her around in the hopes Kazen would offer the right price? A pathetic, blunt sound ripped from her throat at the thought. Dizziness took her, and she leaned forward until her forehead met a cold concrete wall. She wept against it for several minutes before pulling back and staring at it in the cool gray light. Light that filtered in from a narrow window in a heavy door three feet from her.