Ward Against Death (27 page)

THIRTY

Celia sat in a dark hallway on the second ring, watching the stairs leading to the only way out Ward knew about, and waiting to see what she’d set in motion. If Ward really was working for her father or the Master, surely the location of the Tomb of Souls and the Nectar of Veknormai—whatever it was—was significant enough to warrant a trip to his contact. If he wasn’t working for them, she’d spend the night sitting on the floor and know she could still trust him.

Unless they didn’t really care about Nicco’s research or Ward suspected she knew about his betrayal. She wished his seduction had been a success, and yet a part of her was glad it hadn’t. She’d gotten too close as it was.

Still, she was missing valuable information, like the truth about Ward, even the truth about her murder. Missing details made her twitchy. There were too many variables she couldn’t account for, and that was dangerous. If she’d been thinking, she would have asked Ward about his test on her and Solartti’s blood. She’d wanted to, but the curiosity would be in contradiction to her previous behavior and she didn’t want to alarm him. In truth, she didn’t need to know who had killed Solartti or herself. It was the leaders of the Underworld: her fathermant>and she di, the Master, and Bakmeire.

No more wavering. She needed to do what she needed to do.

First, though, she had to catch Ward and dispose of him before she gave something away, something bigger than her secret haunt. And it had to be something bigger, something to do with Nicco’s research, or they wouldn’t have hired Ward to wake her. She just couldn’t figure out what that was.

The soft shuffling of feet along the ring drew her attention, and she peeked out of the shadows into the gallery. As expected, Ward, his rucksack slung over his shoulder, made his way to the stairs.

She let him pass, waiting for him to climb out of sight. Then she followed, lying low to the steps until she could see the floor of the first ring.

He set his rucksack down and pulled on a boot.

Her blood rushed in her ears and an ache grew in her gut, spreading to her chest and accentuating each beat of her heart. He couldn’t have betrayed her. She wanted him to be innocent, compassionate Ward, to be as perfect and blessed as his hands. Yet the evidence could not be disputed. He was putting on his boots to betray more of her secrets to the very people who had murdered her.

He pulled on his other boot and straightened.

She reached for the dagger at her hip. This time she wouldn’t miss and she wouldn’t stitch him back up. She’d stand there and watch him bleed.

“Where are you going, Ward?” she asked, standing, her arms crossed so her right hand could rest on the hilt of her dagger without appearing obvious.

He swallowed and ran his hands down the front of his shirt, looking every bit the guilty man. “I just need a little fresh air.”

“You got lots this afternoon.”

“Yes.” He nodded, his head bobbing up and down. Where was the consummate player now? Or was this just more of his games?

“Why don’t you stay in?”

He glanced at the door then back to her.

“We could open that other jug of wine and celebrate my findings.”

“Yes.” He made no move to take off his boots.

She raised an eyebrow, trying to elicit a response. Her mind screamed at her to kill him, end it, leave the cavern, and begin her hunt. She squeezed the hilt of her dagger. Now. She should do it now.

He shifted from one foot to the other.

She loosened the blade from its sheath.

He swallowed.

Yes. His death would free her to do what she was born to do and yet it was his spell that kept her alive. If his life ended, would hers? Would she cross back over the veil or would something else happen? If she killed him, she had no guarantee she would be able to finish her mission. And to top it off, her cursed heart didn’t want him dead.

“I really do need a little air.” He was pale. White as death.

She eased her dagger back into its sheath and forced a half smile. Perhaps she could play him for a little longer. Just until she knew if killing him would end his spell on her or not. “I’ll open the wine and let it breathe. When you return you can help me confirm the location of the Tomb of Souls.”

He nodded, but didn’t appear any happier at the prospect of wine and a puzzle. In fact, he looked even more nervous than before.

§

Ward stepped into the dim sewers. He closed the cavern door and pressed his hands against its smooth surface. His heart pounded, and all he could hear was its heavy thump and the rush of air that came with every breath. He was caught.

How had he managed to survive the encounter? He shoved that thought aside. It didn’t matter how it had happened. He should make the best of it and run.

With a quick inhalation that made him choke on the fumes, he pushed away from the wall and started down the pipe. First he had the Inquisitor to check on, and regardless of his Oath, this was the last visit. The Tracker would have to figure out the rest on his own. Besides, the incision seemed to be healing well. There was still a chance it would rot, but every passing day decreased that chance. The Goddess had been watching over him on that matter since many operations ended in tragedy. If only she’d been watching earlier.

He found an access pipe and climbed the ladder to the street, no longer caring if anyone saw him. He wasn’t going back. The Goddess herself couldn’t command him to return to Celia. The fact that she hadn’t killed him, he was sure, was merely a moment of weakness. If he returned, she’d surely regain her senses.

And what of him? Had he finally returned to his right mind? He was about to check on a patient who could arrest him and just as easily kill him. He wanted to run to the far reaches of the principalities, but the little voice of reason buried deep within the recesses of his mind reminded him that even the barren northern plains were not free of the Gentilica. Even if the Tracker let him go, and his spell on Celia ended before the Contraluxis and she turned herself into the shadow walker, there would still be the Dominus and the Master. Unless Celia took that matter into her own hands.

There was the catch. Even if he ran, his life was still tied to Celia’s. If he ran he was dead. If he stayed he was dead. No matter what he did, it heralded his end.

Well, if he was meeting the Goddess, he would go down fighting. He would stop Celia, and—

A calm settled within him for the first time in days. The answer was so simple he couldn’t believe it had taken him so long to figure it out. He had picked the wrong demon to make a deal with.

He would visit the Tracker to check the Inquisitor’s health and barter with his knowledge of the Gentilica. Surely the identity of the Dominus would buy his freedom for a lifesaving surgery. They’d even be grateful Ward—Edward de’Ath the Fourth, eighth-generation necromancer—had, in one swoop, brought down the head of crime in Brawenal. He imagined them taking him to the prince, who would shower him with titles and riches and proclaim that surgery was for the better good of all men and not an abomination in the eyes of the Goddess. There would be a small keep with a library full of books in his future, and he would never have to ner the fear for his life again.

But first, he had to destroy his Jam de’U and kill Celia. And he couldn’t do that from a distance. He turned around and marched back to the sewers and the cavern. He wasn’t certain how he’d destroy his spell. What he did know was that he needed to meditate to focus his concentration, then sever the magic keeping Celia from crossing the veil. And, as with any necromantic practice, he needed more blood. It was best to have physical contact to break a spell, but he’d take close proximity as another, probably safer, option.

He reached for the door, pausing to regain an outward appearance of calm, and swung it open. Someone screamed. It sounded like Celia, but she’d never struck Ward as a screamer. If trouble was bad enough to warrant screaming, she’d just pull out her dagger and kill it. Whatever it was, it had to be beyond bad.

Without considering the possibilities of what
beyond bad
meant, he leapt through the doorway and was jerked off his feet. Bakmeire grasped the front of Ward’s shirt with a thick hand, shook him, and tossed him against the wall.

Air burst from his lungs and he sagged to the floor. Celia barked a string of curses, and over Bakmeire’s shoulder, Ward saw her struggling against her father’s grasp. He stood behind her, his height and bulk dwarfing her.

Beside them, Karysa glanced Ward’s way, letting her bloody hand fall away from Celia’s forehead. It left a dark smear, reminding Ward of the ceremonial face paint worn by the warriors in Worben. Now that Ward finally got a good look at her he didn’t like what he saw. The rumors were true. Five gold rings in her right ear reflected the multihued light from the ceiling. The sign that she was powerful enough to have successfully created five vesperitti—creatures that were half-alive and half-dead, kept on this side of the veil by human blood.

“Two for the price of one,” she said.

“Get back to your spell,” Carlyle said, his voice the deep growl Ward remembered from their first meeting when he’d hired Ward to wake Celia.

Karysa grabbed Celia’s face in both hands and began to chant. Her voice was low. She rumbled harsh, guttural words. Pausing, she sucked in a quick breath and pressed her forehead to Celia’s, repeating the chant.

Ward wasn’t certain what was supposed to happen. He didn’t recognize the spell, and because of his mystic blindness, he couldn’t see how she manipulated the energy around her.

Karysa stopped and turned to Ward, her eyes narrowed.

“What’s wrong?” Carlyle asked.

Celia twisted, squirming in his grip, and Karysa backhanded her across the face. The impact echoed through the cavern and Celia froze, her expression dark.

“I can’t impress my will on the boy’s spell.”

“You said you could,” Carlyle said.

“Yes.”

All eyes turned to Ward.

Carlyle pursed his lips. “Well?”

“Kill him.”

“I thought you said I shouldn’t.”

The Innecroestri shrugged. “I’ve changed my mind.”

Ward scrambled to his feet. He still wasn’t sure what was going on, but it didn’t appear as if Celia was a willing sacrifice for her father’s plans. Bakmeire drew his sword and hobbled forward, blocking the entrance to the sewers.

A part of Ward’s mind screamed at him to run and save himself, but another part, a louder part, told him to rescue Celia. But she was more capable of taking care of herself than Ward, and no matter how he tried, there was nothing he could do dead. Celia would have to wait.

He turned and ran, praying Bakmeire’s injured leg would slow him down. It should. Ward hadn’t known a hamstring to heal so fast, if it healed at all. In retrospect, the man should still be bedridden. There wasn’t time to contemplate all the implicationse iTim of that. All he could do was hope for a set of stairs on the other side of the gallery, or reach the set he knew of before Carlyle or Karysa.

Celia yelled something, and Ward risked a glance over his shoulder. Bakmeire had fallen behind. For once Ward’s long legs were good for something. Celia had broken free of her father and faced him, fists raised. Ward couldn’t see Karysa. He scanned the landing, trying to see into the shadowed hallways that branched away from the cavern.

“Ward.”

He turned back to Celia, who dodged a strike from her father. His heart swelled, and he picked up his pace, unsure how he could help her, but knowing he had to.

The shadow of an enormous man suddenly appeared before him and Ward slammed into him. Lights danced before his eyes, and he fell back onto his rear end. Before he could clear his vision, large hands grasped the front of his shirt and hauled him up. He couldn’t fathom how Bakmeire had gotten in front of him. He clawed at the hands, but knew it was futile.