Bloodring (40 page)

To my right, a trail of blue mist rested on the floor, coiling slowly as if contained in an invisible tube. I lowered my weapons, too tired to sheathe them. My hands had gripped the hilts so long, they were cramped closed, skin of knuckles showing white through torn gloves, soot, and dried blood.

Every skin cell, every strand of muscle, every tooth, nail, ligament, and sinew hurt. My bones ached. My nerves thrummed with exhaustion. My pulse slowed to a dull, despondent, irregular beat. Each breath I took burned. Each wound throbbed. I looked down at myself, mage-sight showing me the dull glow of my own blood and devil-spawn blood, and dried daywalker blood and human blood and half-breed blood. Blood everywhere. My hair hung in straggles, caked with it. My dobok was a burned and slashed tatter, my skin showing through the scorched places, a fiery blistered red.

I sighed, and from somewhere, some deep inner spring of resiliency, found the strength to lift my right foot and take a step. After that, I took another, and another, all uphill, following the blue marker back to the surface.

I
stepped through the opening into the glare of noon-day sun, so bright it blinded me. And was shoved to my face in the dirt, cheek ground into the earth. I caught a whiff of human. A knee landed in the small of my back, driving my breath out with a grunt. My lungs wheezed as my cloak was torn away and my hands were twisted behind my back, wrists secured in handcuffs, ratcheted tight.
Seraph stones. Humans.

I was patted down with rough, crude, groping hands and yanked to my feet by my hair and my injured shoulder. I yelped. And came face-to-face with Captain Durbarge, AAS investigator.

With a balled fist, he ripped away my amulets. The other fist, he buried in my gut. I bent over, retching. Pain spiraled out, settling in each cut, each burn. My flesh glowed so bright even the humans blinked. Durbarge lifted the crucifixes from a fold of my dobok and stared at them, burned and crusted over. I had forgotten I wore them.

“A Christian mage? Not possible.” He let go the crosses and they bounced on my chest. They too were clotted with blood. He spotted the lump in my shirt and took a knife—one of mine, the bastard—and cut open my dobok. The amethyst fell out and bounced on the ground. It was pale, drained, almost colorless, like the quartz that filled the mountains all around. Had I used that much of its strength while underground? Yeah. Likely. Durbarge kicked it away, and it rattled a few feet down the slope.

“Lock her up,” he barked. I was lifted off my feet and half carried, half dragged to a helicopter. A cruel hand jerked me up inside by one forearm, wrenched behind my back to my shoulder blades. Pain spiked through my shoulders and chest. Inside the helo was a steel cage, about three feet on a side. The door swung open and I was thrown inside.

I landed hard, face on cold mesh. I smelled dog and cat and mage and human, smells mingled, full of waste and pain. I was in a dog cage. I was so tired, I slumped down and—amazingly, astoundingly—I fell asleep.

 
My world rattled, waking me. I opened my eyes to find steel frozen to my face. Cold had stiffened me into a tight ball. I tore surface skin on my cheek as I lifted my head and sat up, legs cramping as I scuttled upright. A foot kicked the cage again. Bleary-eyed, I craned my stiff neck up and met the face of a stranger, callous, fleshy features, blue eyes, blond hair. He squatted down to me, inspecting me like the dog he had made me.

“What's your name, mage?”

I tried to form words, but my throat was too dry to speak. Thirst undulated through me, snaking after pathways of pain. Shivers gripped muscles already tortured with combat. “Water,” I mouthed. When he frowned, indicating he had no intention of giving a neomage anything, I affected a shrug and rolled back down, closing my eyes. He stood and kicked the cage again and again, rattling my teeth, sending the dog cage bounding across the floor.

With my arms bound, I couldn't protect myself. The most I could do was brace my legs and shoulders. Gritting my teeth, I kept my eyes slit nearly closed, ignoring the treatment. If that was all I got from an assey today, I could count myself lucky. Red-hot pokers and sharp blades would be next.

“Stop that, Richards!”

I swiveled my head and watched through matted hair as Durbarge called off his toady.

“Give her some water. And leave her alone. I have plans for her.”

I was sure none of those plans called for treating my wounds or feeding me or letting me take a bath. A water bottle was passed through the food slot, a narrow space where a pet's food tray would normally have been passed. No one bothered to take off my shackles so I could drink. Bastards. As if hearing my thoughts, Richards laughed softly and walked away.

At the sight of the water sloshing gently in the bottle, fury flamed in me, a tiny wick of warmth. Weapons. I needed weapons. Anything stone. I shivered in the cold, my entire body shuddering, teeth clacking. I looked down at the crucifixes bouncing on my chest with the motion. All were caked in blood and gore. One was partially melted and nicked. Another was charred and tarnished, crusted over with a white film. It was a tigereye and sterling Jesus on a wooden setting. I grinned, baring teeth at Richards' back. Stupid humans had left a stone mage a weapon. I looked at the bottle again and could tell it was well water. “Well, crack the Stone of Ages,” I whispered, swearing on Saint Peter's head, a branding offense, if an elder should ever hear me.

I bounced against the back of the cage once, and again, rattling the tiny cell, letting the silver chain twist and twirl with the motion. The crucifix bounced with me, flipping over. The body of the dead Christ landed on my burned and lacerated skin, squarely on a cut crusted over with my blood. The tigereye flared. I closed my eyes and sank into the stone, ad-libbing under my breath. “Body shaped and formed of stone, fill my flesh and ease my pain. Make the power from before time answer to my call.”

The tigereye warmed on my skin, the trickle of energy soothing a bit, just enough to take the edge off pain and thirst, like a handful of aspirin might take the edge off broken bones. But it was enough for me to think, and my shivers eased.

Neomages are smaller than humans. A lot smaller, in my case. The size of the dog cage wasn't as much an impediment to me as it would have been to a human. I turned onto my back and nudged my arms down, below my hips. Muscles abused in fighting, and then shackled in an unnatural position, tore and pulled, hurting like I was being beaten again. I ignored the misery and strained against the handcuffs. Muscle-ripping moments later, I got my hands under my backside and paused to take a breath. Though I couldn't see him through the mass of hair that had loosed from the braid, I heard Richards chuckle again. “She's a feisty one, ain't she?”

I shook my hair away and saw the man standing near a bench along the side wall of the helicopter. Beside him sprawled another human. I remembered him instantly from the dance, where his eyes met mine in challenge and heated sexuality. Eli. The miner. His mouth quirked down in a frown at Richards' words.

With a booted foot, Richards nudged my cage, staring at the slice Durbarge had made in my dobok, retrieving the amethyst. The upper curve of my breast was exposed, skin prickled in cold. He spoke so it wouldn't carry. “Durbarge has plans for you, witch. And when he's done, you and me are going for a little ride.”

I didn't think he meant a carriage ride through the park. I blew my hair from my face and grinned up at him, showing my teeth, spearing him with my eyes. “Good,” I said, voice scratchy with thirst. “Because I'll use that ride to turn you into a mule. And I'll eat the severed parts.”

Eli chuckled. Richards paled and stepped back, before kicking the cage with enough force to send it into the rear wall of the helicopter. I laughed and wanted to add, “With fava beans and a good Chianti,” but I couldn't remember the exact quote and I figured he wouldn't know the Pre-Ap movie reference anyway.

When Richards had left the chopper, and as Eli watched with a modicum of interest, I pulled my backside, hips, and thighs through the cuffs, bent my knees, and slid my booted feet through. Taking the bottle in my stiff fingers, I opened it and drank, finishing off half the bottle in three swallows. My wrists were bleeding, fresh trickles running down my forearms. Fresh blood, water, a nugget of stone. I was practically free. I drained the water except for a swallow I might need for a later conjure, and resealed it. The twist cap was made of thin metal and might make a good pick if I could figure out how to roll the metal small enough.

The helo began to shake, a fine vibration through my skin and teeth. I rolled to my side, face to the icy mesh, and looked out the chopper door. Seraphs burst from the mouth of the hellhole, scarlet Raziel in the lead. Five seraphs followed.

Each seraph shouted a victory cry, and each carried a body. Raziel carried Lucas, fulfilling his promise to Ciana and to the memory of Benaiah Stanhope's sacrifice. The second seraph carried a dark-haired mage, as did the third, and the last. The fourth seraph carried a human child. No one carried the many-eyed being trapped in the heart of the mountain. No one carried the seraph with clipped wings. My shoulders slumped, my eyes on the sky. Six seraphs. I was certain of my count by the smell of Lucas' blood and by the mage-heat beginning to swell on the breeze. And by the gibbering insanity that pierced me as the neomages' minds thrust into mine. “
Fear, rescue, healing, death, horror, horror, horror, rescued, saved, saved!”
I curled into a ball, hearing a thin mewling.
No. Not again.
The thought was swept away, into the minds of the mages in the sky.

One mind was lucid, still sane, and I followed her thoughts. “
High above the pit of hell, we hover, wings beating the earth with wind. Seraphs throw back their heads, shouting in a language of tinkling cymbals, the gongs of church bells, the blare of a ram's horn. With a sweep of wings, we tear straight up toward the sun, the glorious sun. We fly a complicated pattern, a Celtic knot in motion, dizzying, euphoric. We separate, dive toward a city low on a mountain, a city with a river running through it. We are cradled like babies in their arms. . . .”

And they were gone. I returned to myself, remembering that cry, that paean of victory. And I remembered Raziel, his beautiful face, the feel of his smooth arms and his down-covered chest beneath the battle armor. His smell, like honey and chocolate. I remembered being carried, a child, safe in his arms, when he rescued me from the deeps. Raziel, the revealer of the rock, the seraph who most often went underground, taking the war to the Darkness in its lairs. He had saved me once, when I was a child, lost underground. Now he deserted me.

The sky cleared. Durbarge jumped into the helo, landing on a bent knee, the other out behind him. I watched him, waiting.

“We're done here. Let's get going.”

“What about Zadkiel?” I asked.

Durbarge's face was colder than the air. “Don't sully a seraph name with your mouth, witch. All the seraphs are back to the surface. All of them.”

“Six of them. He's still below. He came through first, didn't you see? And where did you ever hear of seraphs doing anything in groups of six?”
Fool
, I wanted to add, but didn't. Maybe I was finding wisdom before I died.

Eli quirked that fast grin at me and slouched deeper into the hard wall of the chopper. “Lady's got a point,” he said. “I counted six.”

Doubt flashed across Durbarge's face before he turned away. “Belay that. Get me a sat phone.” And he was gone. Which was a good thing. I needed time to get away. Once I was in a secure cage, a real jail cell, back among the asseys, I was dead.

The helo emptied except for Eli. The miner let his amber eyes trace over me and settle on the crosses against my chest. His lips pursed with amusement and he met my eyes once as he swiveled along the bench, lay down, and settled his hat over his face. Cocking one leg against the chopper wall, Eli laced his fingers across his chest and released a deep breath. “Next time we meet, think about whipped cream and a saddle. It could be fun,” he said. “Long day. Think I'll take a nap.”

Whipped cream and a saddle? I was too tired to laugh. I took the small cross in my hands, pressing the charred tigereye against the cage lock. The spit of energy that had followed the water and the use of the tigereye was gone, and I couldn't think of a single incantation to open the lock. I wasn't even sure that there was one. How did you tell a rock to stick its head into a tiny opening and turn the tumblers?
Were
there even tumblers in this tiny lock? Or only in a combination lock? There was too much I didn't know to risk an incantation.

“Okay,” I said, abandoning words. I focused my mind on the tigereye. It flared, hot against my gloves, and melted into the locking mechanism. Hissing followed. I was glad the back of the cross was wood and not metal, or I would have been forced to drop the setting. As it was, the wood backing heated and charred again, smoking. A moment later, liquid metal dripped to the floor. And the lock clicked open.

When I pulled the cross back from the padlock, the stone and silver Christ were gone. Only scorched wood was left, still smoking in two places. I waved the wood until it cooled, and then tucked it into my shirt against my skin. As a memento, I'd make another tigereye cross and would place the setting into this damaged wood. If I lived.

I pressed the door of the mesh cage open. Rolled slowly out, into the body of the helicopter. It wasn't graceful, but it was sufficient. I was free. Eli snored softly, though I thought it sounded strangely like laughter.

Mind-skimming, I set all the locations of the humans firmly in my mind. I paused, body drawing up in surprise, at the scent of kylen. On the periphery. Thaddeus Bartholomew. I'd know his smell anywhere.
Coward
.