The Wicked Within

Page 27

“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.
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.
TWENTY-ONE
KIERAN 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.