The Wicked Within (20 page)

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’s words taunted me. I rinsed my mouth, spitting out blood from a cut inside my lip, and then blew my nose, trying to get out the fine mist of blood I’d inhaled during the battle. Tears stung my eyes. I pressed my cold hands against my eyelids and drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Then I left the bathroom and sat down.

Kieran came back a few minutes later. She handed me a bag of chips and a bottled water. I devoured the chips and drank half the bottle. “I don’t suppose you speak French, do you?”

She shook her head. “Just Gaelic and English, why?”

“The journals are probably written in French.”

“There are tons of people around here who can read French. We’ll bring them back here, find someone to help us, and maybe by that time Sebastian will be back with reinforcements.”

If I didn’t move now, there was a good possibility exhaustion would win. I stood up, my muscles already stiff, downed the last of the water, and wrote a quick note to Sebastian.

K
IERAN AND
I
JOGGED ACROSS
Canal and cut down Royal Street. The power was out, and it was eerily quiet for a block or two. Then came the screams, the gunfire, and the magic. Packs of Athena’s creatures had broken off from the main battle to ravage homes and shops. We’d slowed to a fast walk, sticking to the shadows, passing harpies rifling through shops, throwing stuff into the street, eating what they found in the restaurants, and fighting over items they wanted. A few of those people holed up in their homes were making their stands and keeping the minions at bay.

A few times we were forced to duck into empty stores or alleys as Athena’s creatures passed by. In one alley, we tripped over the bodies of three disemboweled musicians. It was dark,
but not dark enough to hide the horror done to them. My stomach turned, and I tried to control my breathing so as not to be sick.

“My father says part of war is waged inside your own mind,” Kieran said in a near whisper as we crept down the street. “Being able to distance yourself from what lies on the ground”—she stepped over the body of a shifter—“to build a barrier between your emotions and the sights, sounds, smells of death, and let it go. Let them go,” she added quietly.

Seeing the carnage—the dead, the dying, those caught in the middle—I knew her father was right. During the fighting, it was easy to focus, to exist in your own little pocket where all that mattered was strike and counterstrike, and being aware of what was happening directly around you. But as soon as you stopped and looked around—even for just a moment—you made yourself vulnerable to the horrors. You made yourself distracted. So you learned how to distance your mind, to prevent yourself from fully processing the devastation, knowing you wouldn’t be able to handle it if you did.

After what seemed like forever, we made it to Josephine’s house. The mansion rose from the dark corner like a gray specter. The victims of our earlier fight still lay in the street, including the ghostly white pieces of the bear and what had once been Gabriel Baptiste.

Knowing the innocent victims of a mass murderer lurked inside made the house even more sinister than it appeared. At the south end of the house was the tunnel that led into the courtyard. One black sconce on the brick was broken, the other lit, a small gas flame flickering. The light should’ve been welcoming, but it only added another layer of eeriness to the scene.

“The journals should be just inside the front door, in the entry hall,” I whispered. “Ready?”

Kieran reached over her shoulder and slid her sword from its sheath. “Ready.”

We stepped away from the shadows.

“Shit,” Kieran whispered, her hand grabbing my shoulder. “There.”

We paused in the middle of the street. Shadows loomed in the courtyard tunnel. Two tall figures moved with confident strides, growing larger and larger as they approached. We backed up slowly as they passed through the dim light at the head of the tunnel.

Electric goose bumps stung my skin. I sucked in a breath. Sebastian was back.

The god who strode next to him with a cat trotting by his side made my insides shrink. Every muscle in my body went tight as some primal instinct said:
Run.

“Holy cow,” Kieran breathed.

The god’s skin was smooth and bronze. Head shaved. He wore a loose linen shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and linen pants of the same natural color. His toes peeked out from sandals. He was tall and his arms were strong, devoid of hair and inked with faded blue tattoos. I felt his power from where I stood, and it made my heart pound.

I couldn’t look away, too mesmerized by the predator. Kieran was frozen beside me. Holy hell. The eyes . . .
Look at the eyes.
And then it hit me like a thunderbolt. My knees went weak.

The god moved closer, a knowing quirk to his lips. “I take it no introductions are necessary.”

My heart leaped wildly. Even his voice rang deep with power. I shook my head. I’d studied the gods in school. I knew. I had no idea how I remained standing—standing there . . . with a supreme deity.

Bran was right, we were screwed.

Horus. God of the Sky. Son of Isis and Osiris. Falcon. Said to have one eye like the sun and one like the moon. I’d read that strange description in school, and those words, that image, had stayed locked in my mind. And now I was facing the real deal. One sun-colored iris and one as pale as a high full moon glowed faintly from kohl-rimmed eyes. Up close, I saw that the faded tattoos on his arms were all hieroglyphics.

My face must have shown my shock, my fear, my disbelief,
because Horus said in a voice brimming with ancient knowledge, “I mean you no harm. I cannot harm you, even if I wanted to.” He cast a glance at Sebastian, and I got his meaning. Sebastian had made his terms, and obviously the god had accepted.

Thank God for small miracles.

The cat weaved its sleek body between Horus’s legs. The light from the gas lantern bounced off its glossy coat, and I saw that it wasn’t entirely black like I’d thought. The tips of its hairs were black, but the color faded to a light brown at its roots. It had long legs and a wedged-shaped face. Its ears were larger than the average cat’s, and it stared at me with strange yellow eyes. It looked foreign and feral, yet sophisticated and graceful. The cat nudged Horus’s leg. He reached down and it leaped into his arms, then climbed onto the god’s shoulder, where it draped itself, its tail curling around his neck.

“Are you okay?” I asked, turning my attention to Sebastian. He appeared fine, less weary than before. His expression was solemn, though; his eyes gave nothing away.

“Fine. What are you doing here?”

“I came back to get the journals. We’re trying to find the Hands. My father has been captured by Athena. She’s—” The cat hissed and Horus’s eyes grew brighter, the power emanating from him pulsing out in an oppressing wave. It was brief, but holy hell was it strong.

The god lifted his head and looked around, his movements reminding me of a bird of prey. The falcon. “She’s here.”

“Yes. At the cathedral. She’ll tear the city apart trying to find the Hands.”

“And Crank,” Sebastian asked, worry making his eyebrows draw together in a frown. “Have you heard anything? And the kids?”

“The kids . . . I don’t know. They’re not at the hospital. Crank is in her room, loopy right now, but she’s going to be all right.”

Horus spun on his heel and strode down the street.

Shit.
“Wait!” Spurred, I ran after him. “What are you going to do?”

He stopped. “Stop Athena and reunite with my child. Do you object?”

“No. No, of course not.” I just hadn’t thought it would be so . . . simple.

Horus regarded me for a second, then dipped his head curtly and strode off with his cat. As I watched him, I wondered if this was truly the end.

Kieran and Sebastian came up to stand beside me. For a moment we just stayed there and watched. As the god passed through a swath of light, his cat transformed into a black lioness.

Then they were swallowed up by darkness.

Heart racing, I glanced at Sebastian’s profile, wondering if he
was changed. Had Horus already lifted his “curse”? He looked the same, had the same vivid coloring, the same magnetic pull. “He hasn’t changed you back,” I said.

“No, not yet.”

“What happened to Zoe?”

“Horus sent her back to her family.”

“Did he say anything about Athena, or the child?”

“Not really.”

“Okay . . . Well, we should stick to our plan,” I said, conviction settling over me. “Horus isn’t just going up against Athena. Artemis and Apollo are there too. If something goes wrong, we still need the Hands. I’m not losing my father or this city. The journals should be just inside the door. I’ll get them.”

“You don’t need to. I know where Josephine hid the Hands.”

I stopped, stunned. Sounds echoed nearby. Quickly we moved into the tunnel of the courtyard, snuffing out the gas flame.

“The last things she said to me,” Sebastian said, “were all about attending mass, making sure I kept with tradition and sat in the front pew. She never cared before whether I went to mass or not. It was her thing, not mine. It was a message. ‘Sit in the front row, like all the Arnauds, in front of the floor crypt of Andres Almonester y Roxas.’ ”

“I know that grave,” I said. “It’s marked by a flat stone in the floor of the church.”

“I know it too,” Kieran added. “Only problem is Athena’s there, in the cathedral.”

And that was the rub. We could waltz right in, go through the blood-bound vows she’d offered to make me, and then hope the Hands were really there in the cathedral. If they were, I wouldn’t be able to turn back. I’d have to resurrect her child. And she would have to leave the city.

Unless Athena was dead by the time I got there.

“Come on,” I said. “Either way, we’re going to the cathedral.” We began the short hike toward the square, keeping to the shadows and ducking out of trouble when we needed to.

T
HE FIRE THAT HAD ENGULFED
Presby was out, but flames raged through the Pontalba Apartments along St. Ann. The inferno lit up the square and the battle. It looked as though some of the Novem had pulled together, presenting a united front against Athena’s minions. We paused at the corner of the Cabildo, gazing through the wrought-iron gate that ran from arch to arch along the building’s ground-floor gallery. Spikes topped those fences and had been put to gory use by minion and Novem alike.

“We’re going to have to run for it,” Sebastian said. “Ready?”

We ended up fighting our way toward the steps of the cathedral. Bran was on the corner of St. Ann, cutting through minions. Kieran let out a sound of alarm, wanting desperately to
leap to his defense. But she stayed by my side, knowing he didn’t want her in the fight—and knowing her presence might distract him. Michel was in front of Presby, battling three hideous crones. Sebastian started for his father, then stopped. “Go,” I said. “We’ll be fine. I’m the safest one here.” And that was the truth. I was Athena’s hope, after all. Every minion I’d taken down, every creature that had come at me had orders not to kill—I was sure about that.

“No, I’m not leaving you. Just hold on one second,” he said, gathering power to him, building it and building it, then letting it fly at the crones. They were struck hard, the force lifting them off their feet and sending them smashing through Presby’s broken ground-floor windows. Michel swung around, his gaze finding Sebastian’s. With a curt nod, he was off to help Bran.

As we hurried to the cathedral steps, a dark-haired figure sauntered out and stopped with a carnal smile on her face. Her gaze skipped over me with a slight roll of insignificance and then zeroed in on Sebastian. “Bastian. Finally we have a chance to . . . reconnect. I so enjoyed our time together the other night. I’ve missed you.”

Hate burned through my chest. My power uncoiled, making my pulse leap. Zaria was a user and a liar and a malicious soul. Sebastian’s hand on my arm distracted the serpent inside me. It calmed, grudgingly. He glared at her, his profile cold and dark.
The spark in the air, the heavy weight of energy, was coming from him.

“Oh, come now.” Zaria pouted. “I’d hate to have to kill you.”

He looked at me. “This won’t take long. I’ll see you inside.”

I continued to stare daggers at her. “Make her pay, Sebastian,” I said in a tight voice. “And make it last.”

Zaria snorted and braced for attack. They advanced. Kieran and I ducked as they slammed into each other, grappling and shooting straight into the air. It was hard to pull myself away, but this was his battle and his right to deal justice to one who unequivocally deserved it.

Three harpies swooped down from the church’s steeples to land in front of me. They were over six feet tall, with black eyes ringed in yellow, leathery skin, and wings tipped with razor-sharp claws.

“Move,” I told them.

“You may pass,” one of them hissed in a high-pitched voice. She peered at Kieran. “You, little girl, may not.”

Still hyped up from the fight moments ago, Kieran lifted her sword. “And how would you like my sword shoved up your—”

“Let her pass,” I cut in before things got serious, “or we can add three more statues to the square. Your choice.”

The harpies screeched at us, but they moved aside with threats to peck out our eyes, nibble on our entrails, and make coats out of our sweet young skins.

I walked into the vestibule. The gift shop to my left had been ransacked. The votive stand with its burning candles had been upended. The prayer room to the right was occupied by a huge, troll-like creature, sitting on the floor with its legs stuck through the busted-out entryway. It was crunching on something bloody. Kieran made a soft grunt of horror. My gag reflex kicked in. Quickly I put my hand on one of the nave doors and pushed.