Myths and Mortals (Numina Book 2) Read online

  They went down another set of stairs—Sandis remembered these. The man then guided them through a maze of corridors, some of which she was certain they crossed more than once. Finally, they stepped into a large room; the door was guarded by two more men with very large, very shiny shoes.

  Rone pressed Sandis forward until they stood in the middle of the room, which was covered by a long maroon carpet. Peering up through her eyelashes, Sandis saw the space was filled with at least two dozen people—all men, except for one woman in the corner, whose lips twisted into a mean scowl. All of them wore black. All of them were armed.

  Three forward-facing chairs sat at the front of the room, almost like thrones. An older man, a little younger than Kazen, sat in the middle one. “Jase Kipf, we meet at last,” he said. “I’ve heard of you from some of my . . . colleagues. Though I can’t say I’m impressed.”

  Sandis had guessed right on the name, then, unless the speaker was playing them. She lifted her head a little more to get a better look at the man. He was dressed well, his suit hugging his thin waist and broad yet bony shoulders. His pale hair was cut close to the scalp.

  Grim Rig. He looked exactly as he had in her memory, pointing at the charcoal corpse.

  He looked right back at her, his eyes hard as marbles.

  “We all have our ways of getting things done,” Rone said, and Sandis felt him shrug. “But you, my good man. Let’s talk about what you can do. I want to make a deal.”

  Grim Rig laughed. “You want to make a deal, yet you didn’t use any of the normal messengers, and you brought that thing into my home?” He waved his hand—or Sandis thought he did—and the weight of two dozen aimed guns pressed into her skin. “I’ll shoot you down before you utter a single Noscon word.”

  Rone lifted his hand, and Sandis took the opportunity to straighten a little. He held his hands out in mock surrender. “My good man, I would not expect you to hire me without a pistol in your pocket. Do you expect me to meet with you without a weapon of my own?”

  The scent of smoke—no, sulfur—filled Sandis’s nose. She tensed, feeling heat bloom across her back, as if someone held a lamp too close to her skin. But no one stood by her other than Rone.

  She bit down on the inside of her cheek. Not now. Not now.

  Celestial help me.

  It’s just a bad dream. A bad, waking dream.

  “That weapon,” Grim Rig continued, “has been a menace to this place in the past.”

  “Mm, yes.” He sounded so frighteningly calm, just like before, but he shifted his hand. Could he feel the heat in her skin? Please, no. If Rone could feel it, then it wasn’t all in her head. “So I’ve heard.”

  Grim Rig snorted. “Not even in chains.”

  “Oh, she’s very well trained. Sit, pet.” Rone squeezed her neck.

  Sandis forced herself to sit. Fold her legs beneath her. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed. Go away. Go away. Go away.

  A few men chuckled softly. At her? Or had Rone said something?

  The scent of sulfur slowly receded. Sandis’s back cooled.

  “You know her previous owner, I presume?” Grim Rig asked.

  “I know what his nose feels like under my knuckles, yes.”

  Sandis’s skin prickled, but Grim Rig smirked at the joke. “Is that so?”

  Another shrug from Rone. “Kazen is quite fond of his vessels, and it turned out, so am I. We had an argument.”

  Grim Rig barked a laugh. “And you got out alive? You expect me to believe this story?”

  A few gun hammers cocked, though one of the men sitting beside Grim Rig mentioned something to him, and the mobster’s expression relaxed. Mobsmen and grafters ran in different circles, but even they must have heard about grafters infiltrating the city, looking for something. Or, rather, someone.

  “Do you expect me to put my neck on the block just to lie to you?” Rone sounded angry now. “The fact of the matter is that I have her, and he doesn’t. But I’m not done with Kazen, and I have a feeling you’re not, either. So let’s strip him of what he has left, shall we?”

  Grim Rig paused. Glanced to the corner, then back again. “Explain.”

  “I know where Kazen’s lair is.”

  “We know as well.”

  Sandis carefully leaned against Rone’s leg. He’s lying, she tried to tell him.

  “Why do I not believe you?”

  Grim Rig set his jaw. “So what? You want to tell me? If you know Kazen, you know it will be meaningless. That man is unassailable.”

  “I know far more than that. But if you want to hear it, tell your minions to lower their weapons.”

  The mob leader tapped his fingers on the armrest of his chair. After a few seconds, he nodded, and the tension in the room lightened a fraction as his men pointed their barrels toward the floor.

  Rone rolled his shoulders back and popped his neck. “That’s better.”

  “Explain,” Grim Rig demanded.

  Rone ruffled Sandis’s hair. “My little prize here isn’t the only quibble I’ve had with Kazen. I’m, hmm . . . a little upset with him. And I have it on good authority that Kazen is weak right now.”

  Grim Rig raised an eyebrow. “Weak? Sick?”

  “Oh”—Rone laughed, and it rang false in Sandis’s ears—“he’s in splendid health, I’m sure. But he recently went on a bit of a goose chase and lost some men. A lot of men.”

  The man in the chair to Rig’s right leaned over and whispered something once more. Surely the Riggers knew Kazen had hired Straight Ace’s men. Was that what they spoke of, or something else?

  Grim Rig turned back to Rone. “And you know this how?”

  “Because I killed some of them myself. As did little dearie here.” He rubbed her head like she was a good dog, but the truth behind his words bit at her like fleas.

  Yes, she had killed some of them. Both when Ireth had turned her body into explosive flame and when she’d been cornered at Helderschmidt’s with a rifle. She didn’t regret those deaths, not truly, but before her escape, she had never—unpossessed—so much as hurt a person, let alone killed one. Celesia preached against murder. Were she not already an abomination, would the Celestial condemn her for those deaths?

  Rone pulled his fingers from her hair. “I know where he is. I know his numbers are poor, and I know he’s down at least two vessels, possibly three.”

  Sandis’s breath hitched. Alys. But Rone was only fibbing. He had no idea what condition the vessels were in.

  It had been just an arm wound.

  “If you want revenge, my good man,” Rone carried on, “now is the time to get it.”

  A few whispers rose up around them. Speaking over them, Grim Rig said, “And what is the endgame, Jase? What benefit do you get from this?”

  “Revenge, the same as you.” He rubbed his scruff. “And our mutual friend has something of mine, and I’d like it back.”

  Sandis perked. They hadn’t discussed the amarinth at all in their planning. A worm wriggled its way into her gut. Was that why Rone was helping her? To retrieve his amarinth?

  She didn’t have much time to dwell on the idea before Grim Rig responded, “Something of yours. Care to elaborate?”

  “It’s small. It’s sentimental. It shouldn’t be a problem for you. The fact is, Kazen is desperate and floundering. If revenge doesn’t suit your palate, then perhaps something else will.”

  The man to their right whispered, “Vessels.”

  Panic raced up Sandis’s spine. No, Grim Rig couldn’t have the vessels! Mobsmen didn’t deal in the occult. That was what distinguished them from the grafters. She forced her breathing to stay even. Grim Rig could have all the treasures he wanted. But he couldn’t have Alys. Kaili. Rist. Dar. No one could own them after this.

  Her brands itched. They felt so solid, so there, like she was a part of them and not the other way around. She thought she could feel a hot claw—or maybe a hoof—run down her back, and she shuddered.

  The man on th
e right continued to talk. Sandis concentrated as hard as she could and thought she heard him say, “Probably has that gold.”

  What gold?

  Maybe this had been a bad idea.

  “I’ll tell you where the lair is. I’ll even give you the layout, but in return, I need your men and a promise that my trinket will be returned to me. The rest is yours.”

  Grim Rig frowned. “Tell me what the trinket is, and—”

  “Agreed.”

  The word flew in from the corner of the room, from the woman with the small, tight lips. She strode forward, just as tall and broad as any of the men. She’d been holding the rifle attached to a strap across her chest, but she slid it to her back as she approached the carpet.

  “We’ll take your deal, Jase Kipf. But I choose the day of reckoning.”

  Sandis rose to her feet, confused. Rone turned back and forth, splitting his attention between Grim Rig and this newcomer.

  Then he whistled. “You’re Grim Rig, aren’t you?”

  The whole room laughed, the woman included. Once the volume died down, she said, “Grim Rig was my husband. Kazen burned him to a crisp months ago with this girlie you have at your side.”

  Sandis’s lips parted. The corpse . . . that had been Grim Rig? And now this man, the one on the “throne,” was a decoy for the mob boss’s . . . wife?

  Sandis found herself in a strange sort of awe.

  “We follow special regulations now,” the woman said, squaring her shoulders. “Your information seems sound to me, and I know what that bastard did to Straight Ace’s numbers. He’d only depend on the mob if he was desperate or playing at something. Now we know it’s the first. Do you accept my terms?”

  “Do you want the slaves?” Rone countered. “You’ll be demoting yourself to Kazen’s level if you do.”

  The woman raised a thin eyebrow—brows that seemed too small for the rest of her face. She glanced at Sandis. After too many heartbeats, she answered, “If the loot is good, then no.”

  Rone nodded. “It will need to be soon. I don’t want to give him much more time to recuperate.”

  The woman’s hard eyes scanned the room, seeming to touch every face within it. “Very well. Tomorrow night it is.”

  Sandis and Rone didn’t emerge from the Riggers’ maze until just before dawn. The smoke towers turned the predawn light a pale brown, which made Sandis think of the sewers. She was exhausted, yet incredibly awake. They’d spent the rest of the night drawing and tracing maps, making plans . . . Grim Rig’s wife, whom everyone called Sherig, had even asked Sandis’s opinion near the end. Sandis had lived with Kazen, after all.

  Rone kept his hand on Sandis’s neck until they left the smoke ring. When he let go, he wiped both hands down his face. “We need to go to bed if we’re doing this tonight. I can’t believe . . .” He shook his head, not finishing the statement, but he didn’t need to. Neither of them could believe what had transpired below that boardinghouse. Sandis was incredibly grateful for all of it.

  He turned toward her. “Are you all right?”

  Her steps slowed. “Just tired,” she answered.

  But Rone shook his head. “When we were talking in there . . . you looked like you’d seen a demon—”

  “I didn’t.” She pushed past him.

  “It hurt, Sandis.”

  She stopped.

  Rone caught up to her. Buried his hands in his pockets. “It hurt to touch you.”

  She whirled toward him, stomach sinking. She stared at him, at the sincerity and worry etching his eyes. He had felt it. He had felt it.

  Not a dream. Not a dream.

  Sandis dropped into a crouch and lowered her head, trying to find air.

  “Whoa, it’s all right. You’re in one piece.” Rone crouched next to her right in the middle of the street. Touched her shoulders. “See? Cool as spring rain.”

  Sweat grew sticky in her elbows and knees. “It touched me,” she whispered.

  Rone tensed. “What?”

  “Kolosos.” She closed her eyes. Inhale, exhale. “Before you came that day . . . I felt it. In the back of my throat. In my hair, my skin. I felt that monster coming. Kazen failed, but I still feel it.” Her throat closed around the words.

  “Oh, Sandis.” He moved closer to her.

  She stood suddenly, putting distance between them. Her head spun for a moment, anchorless. Kazen. She had to focus on Kazen. The only way to stop Kolosos was to stop him. Destroy the summoner, lock the beast in the ethereal plane forever.

  She would destroy him.

  Sandis focused on the cobblestones. On Rone’s shoes. On pushing back the fear and the confession. “I need something. I’ll pay, but I’m not sure where to go.”

  Rone didn’t answer for a moment. “Anything, Sandis. Just name it.”

  “A gun,” she said, looking him directly in the eyes. “I want my own firearm.”

  Chapter 9

  Seven days. The number presented itself in the back of Rone’s mind as he crouched on the half-sunken rooftop of an abandoned apartment building. Its demolition had likely been postponed because the grafters lived in these parts. Whether they bribed inspectors or threatened them didn’t matter. They were here, and one wrong move would land Rone and the others either five stories down into a rotting basement or with a bullet in their heads.

  His legs began to ache from crouching, and his mind wandered. Seven days, it whispered. Seven days and one night until his emigration papers expired.

  His mother was waiting for him. Had she received his letter yet? He doubted it.

  Cold fingers with long, blunt nails spidered over his neck. He shivered as Sherig lowered her head to his. “If you’re wrong, you’re dead.”

  Rone shifted, pulling out of her grasp. “Kazen has nowhere else to go. He’s here.” Please, please, please let him be here. He wasn’t sure he could weasel his way out of this one.

  Unless he’s actually dead. But that was too much to hope for.

  Sandis crouched at his other side, her chin hovering above the edge of the roof as she peered into the darkness. A cool wind tousled her hair; she didn’t seem to notice it. Rone wanted to smooth it back, tuck it behind her ear. He didn’t move.

  Footsteps below. They all tensed, including the two Riggers huddled close to Sherig. One of them pointed a gun at the top of the dilapidated stairs that led to the street. Sandis balanced on her knees and reached back for her own firearm.

  Rone had purchased the sleek rifle that morning. It was a high-end firearm polished to a dull silver gleam. A small scope perched atop it. It could fire seven rounds before needing to be reloaded.

  Sandis had been adamant that she buy the gun herself, though even with Talbur’s allowance, she wouldn’t have been able to afford this model. She also didn’t have identification papers, a requirement for legal firearm sales. Even so, she’d been reticent to let Rone buy the gun for her and peeved when he wouldn’t let her pay him back. She didn’t give up the fight until Rone pointed out that if she spent all her cash on a decent firearm, she’d be completely dependent on him for living expenses. It stung a little, knowing that was what had persuaded her. Being forced to stay close to him.

  Once they defeated Kazen, and Rone could somehow guarantee that she’d be all right . . . he could go. After that, he wouldn’t have a reason to stay.

  Seven days.

  Footsteps neared, and the faint sound of a buzzing fly thrummed over them. Everyone lowered their weapons. That buzz was a signal from one of Sherig’s scouts.

  The scout’s shadow added to the darkness of the roof, and he carefully picked his way toward them, careful to circumvent rotted boards. Crouching in front of his boss, he said, “The entrance is there. Only two guards watch it. I didn’t see or encounter any others within a three-block radius.”

  Despite the lack of light—the half-moon was covered by polluted clouds—Rone saw Sherig’s eyebrow rise as she turned to him. “We might be friends after all, Jase.”


  All I ever wanted. Let’s celebrate. Rone simply nodded.

  Sherig spun her fist in a circle near her shoulder, a signal to begin moving out. A stricken expression crossed Sandis’s face, and she reached forward and touched Sherig’s elbow. “Don’t hurt the vessels,” she reminded her. “Please.”

  That was the first place to strike—the vessels’ room in the main hall of the lair. Kazen kept his vessels locked in there, every one, at night. If they could get to that room first, they could keep the vessels away from their summoner. Kazen wouldn’t be able to use them as weapons.

  Unless Kazen already had one with him. They had no way of even knowing if he was home. A risk, but one they’d all agreed to take.

  Sherig swatted her hand away. “I’m not that coldhearted. I get how it works. I know the uniform—open back. What do you take me for?”

  Sandis didn’t reply.

  The mob mistress and her followers toed their way to the stairs first. It was part of the deal; Grim Rig’s men would enter first, overwhelming the place with their sheer numbers and taking out any lingering grafters . . . as well as getting first dibs on any valuables they found. Sherig had begrudgingly agreed to let Rone look through any gathered treasures for his “trinket,” but with luck, he would find it himself. On Kazen’s fresh carcass.

  They just had to shoot Kazen sixty-one seconds after they found him.

  Sandis turned back toward the road below them, her rifle at the ready. She was supposed to snag any escapee grafters. The Riggers presumed she’d do it as a blazing stallion, but given that Ireth was gone and Rone wasn’t actually a summoner, she would instead serve them as a sniper. Two Riggers had set up with rifles at the ready in adjacent buildings. Rone couldn’t see any of them through the night’s cloak.

  Slowly, gracefully, Sandis pushed out her firearm’s lever, readying a shot.

  They waited. Rone’s legs cramped more. After several minutes, a single muted light gleamed on the road below. Shadows rushed together like bandits converging on a carriage, only the carriage was Kazen’s front door.

  The gunshots erupted seconds later.