The Wicked Within (19 page)

“You speak now through the Eye.”

When Horus instructed him to draw the eye over the god’s mouth, Sebastian went cold. He wanted to bolt, to get the hell out of there, but he didn’t move. As much as he didn’t want to touch Horus, he dipped his finger in the blue and, with a shaky hand, drew the eye around Horus’s lips, followed by two lines down his chin in the red and black.

Sweat rolled down his back. The eye around Horus’s mouth looked eerie and grim, almost violent in a way. Like war paint, something with meaning and power.

“I too speak through the Eye, and thus my words are binding.” Horus then repeated everything Sebastian had requested in exchange for the awakening, word for word. “Should I break this vow, my spirit will be pulled by the Eye, through my mouth, releasing me from my body once again. Now you must wake me or suffer the same.”

Sebastian’s heart was pounding so hard he thought he saw stars of a different kind. He gulped. The paint on his lips felt strange as he gave a sharp nod, wondering if this was the smartest thing he’d ever done—or the very worst.

Horus began to say strange and ancient-sounding names. Sebastian repeated them slowly. One after another. The air warbled. As he said the names, he felt the paint sinking into his skin and tingling around his mouth, then down his throat, and into his chest as though it had settled into his lungs. Sebastian felt as though he was breathing life into the names as they came out of his mouth.

Then, carefully, he reached up and felt his mouth. It was dry. There was no paint. It had disappeared.

Beyond Horus’s shoulder, one of the stars in the painted sky grew brighter. Slowly its light was pulled downward in a long stream, growing more brilliant as it touched Horus. The more names that were spoken, the brighter the light that filled him.

As the last name was spoken, Sebastian shielded his eyes. The light surrounded Horus, illuminating his form. Then, in a flash, the star was gone, and before Sebastian stood the tanned figure of a man with a shaved head, dressed in linen. Horus was just as impressive and intimidating now as he had been in his spirit form.

“Now let’s go get my child.”

“B
RAN!” I YELLED AFTER HIM
as we hurried down the stairs. “Damn it, what god is it?”

An explosion hit the apartment. Pieces of plaster fell from the ceiling as the building shook. We made it outside just as the stairwell collapsed in a heap of drywall, wood, and plaster.

Coughing, I ran down the street. All around me, the war raged on. Where people weren’t fighting, they were pulling the wounded to safety or evacuating families from the apartments. On the corner of St. Peter and Chartres, Bran slid to a sudden stop. Slamming into him was like slamming into a brick wall. With one final cough and spit, I stepped around him to see what had stopped him cold.

Athena’s army. Minions and creatures of lore spilled into
the square from the side streets. Harpies, Minotaur, one-eyed cyclops, sirens, vampires, a few arachnid/human hybrids . . .

My heart sank. It was over.

Kieran came to stand at my other shoulder. And I could tell from their silence, they felt what I did: defeat. Yeah, we’d fight to the bitter end, but inside we knew there was no way to beat them all. There were just too many against an already wounded, divided, exhausted foe. The Novem and New 2 as we knew them would end tonight unless Sebastian came through. Unless, by some miracle, I found the Hands and stopped Athena before things got worse.

A child screamed. Turning, I saw my father carrying a little boy and holding the hand of his young mother. We still had time to get the remaining families out of the square. “Most of the apartments are cleared,” my father said as he hurried past us. “Don’t engage unless you have to. Help whoever you can to safety.”

A small family of four clung to the shadows of a storefront, afraid to move. I went to help them, but the River Witch appeared and helped them cross.
What the hell is he doing here?
Once the family was on their way down Chartres, away from the square, I grabbed his arm. “What are you doing here? Where are the kids?”

He spun around, the hood of his cloak slipping. “Still at the hospital.” His withered old face held no emotion as he stared at
me and then said, “You’re all going to die, and you’re too stupid to save them.”

I blinked at him, shocked by the venom in his tone.

“Use your power, gorgon. What are you waiting for?” He shoved me in the belly with the end of his cane. I reacted without thinking, grabbing it and jerking it past my side, pulling him closer to me in the process. I had him by the throat.

He tried to laugh, but could only wheeze. “So rudimentary. Only by touch. You’re not a true god-killer until you can do it with your
eyes
. There’s a reason they look the way they do, clear and reflective. . . . ” The witch lifted his cane and power erupted from it, hitting a line of minions running at us. They burst into a shower of ashes. A powerful staff, not a simple cane.

I stared hard at him, my grip softening. I’d always thought I had to touch in order for my power to work. Could he be right? Could I do it now?

“Ari!” My father’s shout jerked me back into the here and now. He was fighting his way to me, swarmed by minions. I started for him. He swung to behead one minion, but a harpy flew in and plucked his sword from his hand. His bloodied hands couldn’t hold on, and it slipped from his grasp. I shoved away from the witch. My father leaped, grabbing the harpy’s ankle, kicking the minion coming at him and then grappling with the harpy. Its leathery wings beat frantically, unable to gain upward momentum.

A sword buried itself in the harpy’s chest, the creature’s shriek so high-pitched and loud, I had to cover my ears. It was Bran’s sword sticking out of its chest; I’d recognize it anywhere. I tracked back and found him across the street. My father and the harpy dropped as Bran began hand-to-hand combat, shouting at Kieran nearby. He urged her to run, to get the hell out of the melee.

I grabbed my father’s blade from the ground and clotheslined a minion running toward me, then dropped to my knee and stabbed it in the heart. After that came another. And another. With every kill I made, with every use of the blade and my power, my hopes sank. We were getting nowhere. And I was getting no closer to my father’s side. The witch’s words echoed in my head as I fought, and I tried like hell to connect my power to my gaze. It was a move I had never practiced, and my attempts were pathetic. There just wasn’t time to concentrate. Opponents were coming at me with blistering speed, keeping me too occupied with staying alive.

As I destroyed another minion, a bright flash appeared in the wide mall in front of the cathedral. In its wake stood Athena, Artemis, and Apollo in their shining armor. Grim faces assessed the battle. Athena’s statuesque form surveyed the scene with a critical eye. The sides of her raven hair were braided in two small war braids, beaded with bone, and pulled back behind her head.

She smiled at Presby burning and gestured for the others to follow her inside the building. Menai and Melinoe were there too, and they took up positions to guard the entrance, as Athena and her brother and sister disappeared inside.

I darted through the violence, dispatching any comers as I went. In the park, I edged close to one of the dark corners. Suddenly the windows in Presby blew out, sending a shower of glass onto those below. The force was so great, glass pinged the iron fence bars in front of me. A few shards sliced my forearm and shoulder, my scalp, too, as I ducked and dove behind a nearby tree.

Looked like Athena had discovered that Anesidora’s Jar was gone.

Seconds later the goddess stormed from the building, saying something to Menai. Menai notched two arrows and aimed into the melee. I looked for her target, wondering how she could make out anything in the chaos. She must have found it because she stilled, her gaze sharpening.

I followed her line of sight to where it rested on my father fighting Athena’s minions like a hero of old.
No.
Dread washed over me, cold and swift. Heart in my throat, I ran. “No!” But the arrows were let loose.

I shouldered my way to him, turning anything I touched into stone. But it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t outrun those arrows. They flew with divine precision through the melee and hit my
father, one in each shoulder. The force sent him flying into the air, the arrows pinning him to a restaurant’s door.

I yelled his name, trying like mad to get to him. Somehow he heard me and went still. “Stay back!” He struggled, cursing and kicking at two minions who tried to approach him. Then he was swamped.

Oh God. No.

“Dad!”

I stabbed a minion who challenged me, sweeping him off his feet with a low roundhouse and then stabbing with all the anger and horror I felt. I’d cut through every damn one of them if I had to. Tears stung my eyes, desperation making me crazed. I darted forward only to be pulled back. I swung around with a frustrated growl, slicing with my blade. A hand grabbed my wrist. Kieran. Dear God. I’d almost stabbed her.

Heart pounding, I stayed there locked with her for a moment before stepping back. The arrows were torn from my father’s shoulders, then he was being led to the cathedral where Athena waited. Kieran and I moved into the shadows, in the corner by the fence, its trees and bushes giving us enough darkness to hide.

Athena’s voice carried, projecting over the square, as she grabbed my father’s chin. “Where is the jar?” she demanded.

“The jar doesn’t matter. The Hands aren’t inside.”

“Where are they?”

“The only one who knows that is dead,” my father answered.

Their voices dropped, and I could only pick up bits and pieces. They spoke about Josephine, her death. Sebastian’s name was mentioned. Athena thought that as her grandson, he might know the location of the Hands. Athena drew Melinoe aside, and I had to wonder if she was giving orders to the ghostly goddess to seek out Josephine’s soul, if she had one. Mel gave a sharp nod and took off, disappearing into thin air.

My father was taken into the cathedral, followed by the gods. Athena stopped on the steps, looking out over the square. Her head turned our way, and I got the feeling she knew exactly where I was.

“What now?” Kieran asked as Athena went into the cathedral.

“I need to get the Hands. Without them, I have nothing to bargain with when I get inside that church and, hopefully, get my father
out
.”

“I’m coming with you,” she announced with a stubborn expression that reminded me of Bran. “I’m not running away with the rest of the children.” That thought obviously appalled her.

“He just wants you to be safe.”

“I’m safer with a sword in my hand and a foe to fight. I’ve been training since I could walk. My great-grandfather is a war god; I’m not running away like some coward. I’m coming with you. If you tell me no, I’ll follow you anyway.”

She was arrogant and demanding like her father too. “Suit yourself.”

Kieran and I snuck away from the square toward the river. Once we made it to the Riverwalk, we hightailed it along the waterfront, then to Canal, and finally to Charity Hospital. Josephine was dead, the Hands . . . who knew. My only options were to wait for Sebastian or to go back to Arnaud House for the journals I’d dropped in hopes I’d find a clue about the Hands within the pages.

The hospital was packed with the injured and the scared. We muscled our way inside, getting some strange looks because of our bloodied state. The waiting room was filled, but the kids were nowhere to be seen. I went to the front desk but found a nurse on my way, stopping her to ask about Crank. Then we were taking the stairs to the third floor to find her room.

The room was peaceful and quiet, such a sharp contrast to the chaos of where we’d just been and the things we had done to survive. Stepping into the room was like stepping onto another planet.

Crank looked so small in the bed. Her eyes were closed. The monitors beeped steadily. I picked up her chart, noticing the blood on my hands, the way it had filled in the creases and wrinkles and lines in my palm, and crept under my fingernails. . . .

“Ari,” Kieran whispered.

I jumped. Crank’s eyes were open. “Hey,” I said, immediately going to her side.

“Jeez. You look like shit,” she murmured in a sleepy voice. “Who’s that?”

“Bran’s daughter, Kieran. Has the doctor been in yet?”

She nodded and swallowed, the action taking some effort. “All’s well. Going to be A-OK.” She gave a limp thumbs-up. “The guys were here. They left a little while ago with the lady.”

“What lady?”

“The witch,” Crank answered, closing her eyes. “So pretty.”

“Where did they go? Did they say?”

She didn’t know.
Damn it.

“So the witch is bad?” Kieran asked, confused.

“I don’t know. I think it might be the drugs talking. The only witch that was here before was the River Witch, and
he
is definitely not pretty. He also said he left the kids here at the hospital.”

“All right,” Kieran said, obviously having no clue who I was talking about. “Now what?”

“Well, we can wait for Sebastian to show up or head back into the Quarter for Josephine’s journals. It’s a shot in the dark, but it’s the only thing I know of that might give us a clue on the Hands.”

“How about I round up some water or something? Then we
can leave Sebastian a note, tell him where we went and to wait for us to get back.”

I slumped on the chair. “Okay.”

Kieran washed her hands and face in the sink in the small bathroom before leaving. When she was gone, I did the same, watching the blood swirl down the drain. It was even in my hair, staining the white red and black. Tiny spray patterns of blood stuck to my neck, my face, ears, and hands. I scrubbed my face, hands, forearms, and neck, before retying my hair and studying my reflection in the mirror. I looked bruised and drawn. After all I’d seen and done, I understood the solemn expression in my eyes. It was in my father’s eyes at times. In Bran’s. In Sebastian’s and Michel’s. “Haunted” might be the right word.