Heath walked Lyta and Shannon, who was wrapped in a long shawl, up the stairs at Freedom House to their rented suite. Their view wasn’t as nice as his, but the suite had newer furniture, and it was obvious from the clothing scattered about that two women lived here, although Lyta didn’t seem like the kind who was into fashion.
Shannon let her shawl drop and stood in front of the mirror. “I look ridiculous with no hair.”
Heath laughed. “There are limits to what even Ohan can restore. Time or blood magic will help, but there’s nothing to be done now.”
“How do we know that thing won’t reappear?” Lyta asked. She held her arms tight against her chest.
“We don’t,” Heath said. “But we know it can be defeated. I can stay here if it makes you feel safe.”
“Thank you,” Lyta said. “Again.”
Heath yawned. “You’re welcome. I need to rest. Shannon, I need you to write down everything you have on the Houses that I can use as leverage.”
“Sleep well.” Lyta draped a blanket over him.
T
WENTY-
E
IGHT
Rescued
S
OREN
Incubi & Succubi:
Extinct Patrean creations. The incubi were able to steal magic from others and use it toward their own ends. It’s unclear what the succubi’s powers were, but they likely involved some level of influence or control.
They were rare before the Long Night, a later advancement in Patrean biomancy.
There have been two encounters with juvenile pairs, born to a Patrean parent and a human. Their abilities don’t manifest until adulthood, but they were identified through physical descriptions in the ancient texts. They had normal vulnerabilities, but it seems likely they would develop enhanced physical stamina.
They are always born in pairs, a male and female. The pairs were bonded in some way… the records aren’t clear.
—THE INQUISITION BESTIARY
SOREN AWOKE TO
the soft feel of silk sheets on his skin. Sunlight poured through the latticed window shutters and warmed his cheek. The room was well appointed with gilded paintings and a well-populated shrine to the Host above a cold fireplace. The songs of birds mixed with the shouts and bustle of early morning street traffic. He stretched his arms and legs, noting they were pale and bony. He felt exhausted and weak.
The Sword no longer enslaved him.
He shut his eyes and thought back over the past couple of days. It was like a dream. After Sybil broke his neck, he awoke in a horrible pit filled with death. He grabbed the Sword, and then it was like he was no longer in control. Although all of his memories felt as if he were the one actually saying and doing the things his body experienced, he knew they were alien. He navigated an ancient dungeon with a customer from the club, spouting information and glibly conversing with a crazy woman who showed him visions of an impossible past.
He smirked at the memory of beating the crap out of Keltis. Then he remembered the fire at the Palace and the fact that the asshole was probably burned to a crisp. It was an awful fate. Maybe one he didn’t deserve, regardless of the cruelty he’d shown Soren as a boy.
His pulse quickened as he remembered his final moments with Maddox and breathing in the deadly scent of the century orchid. He bolted up in the bed. The windows didn’t have locks, and a fresh set of clothing was laid out on a small bench by a heavy armoire. It didn’t look like the apartments at Freedom House. A woman’s portrait greeted him from the nightstand—someone clearly lived here.
He slipped out of bed and reached for the clothes. His hand paused. They weren’t his clothes, but they had been laid out in plain view of the bed. He was pretty sure they were meant for him, so he tried them on. The green silk tunic and black velveteen breeches were baggy but comfortable and served to cover his nakedness.
He was powerless and feeble, like he’d felt for so many years of his life. But now at least, he knew what he needed. He needed to find Rebekah or Maddox, someone who could give him strength.
He didn’t slip on the boots but padded barefoot to the door of the bedroom. He tried the handle, and to his surprise and relief, it opened to reveal a narrow hallway with a set of stairs leading down to a room with black and white checkerboard tile. The stairs groaned loudly even as he tried to step gingerly.
He emerged in a dining room. A long mahogany table set with fruit and bread dominated the room. Gilded mirrors hung on wallpapered walls. It was not typical décor for Dessim or Baash; it looked Velrasian more than anything, with frilly patterns and intricate crown molding.
Daphne, the scarred dark-skinned woman from the bar, sat at the end of the table, dipping a biscuit into a cup of tea. “Soren. I apologize I wasn’t there for your awakening, but I assumed you’d reanimate at the same hour as Maddox. It looks like you’re an early riser.”
Soren backed away, falling on the steps and bruising his arm and back. He begged, “Please don’t kill me.”
He knew some of what the Sword had recalled while they shared a body. This woman was the mentor of Creation’s deadliest assassins, not to mention the woman who had killed both Sword and Maddox.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Daphne assured him as she sipped her tea. “You look hungry. Come and have breakfast. I apologize for the lack of meat; I told the kitchen we had a few more minutes.”
“You killed me,” Soren whispered. He had none of the confidence he’d had as the Sword when he sucked the theurgy out of her mouth at the bar. The Sword was a fearless killing machine. He doubted he would get within five feet of her before she killed him for good.
“I freed you,” Daphne said. “No one besides Maddox has ever survived severing the merger with one of the Arsenal before. Do you miss it?” She pulled the Sword off a chair beside her, holding its hilt in a rune-inscribed silk cloth, and put it on the table. She placed her leather-gloved fingers on the mirror-like blade and slid it toward him.
Soren scooted back.
“No.” Daphne smiled and lifted her hand off the blade. “I suppose you wouldn’t.”
“Why am I here?” Soren asked.
“You’re here,” Daphne began, “because I believe you’re an innocent who was caught up with dangerous people in something he had nothing to do with. The Inquisition doesn’t maintain a strong presence in the Mirrored City, but we serve all Protectorate citizens, regardless of faith, who fall victim to dark magic.”
“Earlier, you knew my name. How?” Soren cautiously approached the table.
Daphne reached to a chair beside her and threw a leather folio filled with sheets of loose parchment onto the table. “I’ve done my research. I know that as recently as a few weeks ago you were living on the street, begging for coins. I know that you took a job in the Palace of Keys and had a relationship with one of the faculty at the Magesterium when your body first started to change.”
“How do you know this?”
Daphne beamed with pride. “I’m an Inquisitor. This is what I do. I knew from the Inspector’s reports of the fire that Maddox had attained new seals. There’s only one location in the city where he can properly bind them, which led me to Rebekah. She was able to fill in the details for me this morning before you awoke. I didn’t need to harm her, so don’t worry. Please. Sit and eat.”
Soren’s stomach growled. He hadn’t needed food when he was drawing on Maddox’s power, but that was long gone. He grabbed a sweet roll off a platter and tore into it before she could stop him. She didn’t try, but he had learned to be quick on the streets.
“Your nation needs your help, Soren,” Daphne said.
“Thank you for the food, but I just want to go home,” he said as politely as possible.
She leaned back, her eyes measuring him. “What home is that, Soren? The Palace is a charred husk. You have nowhere else to go but the streets. You need magic in a regular supply. You won’t find it by begging.”
“What am I?” Soren asked. Maddox and the Sword had discussed it—Soren had those memories—but he knew little about what those words actually meant. The Sword gave him immediate facts without deeper understanding to pull them together.
“An incubus,” Daphne explained. “In the Second Era, the Patreans designed a number of living weapons to infiltrate and destroy their enemies. An incubus could absorb the magic of any person he touched. This was useful in turning an enemy’s power against them.”
“Your body is like a leaking wineskin. You can store reservoirs of power for a time, but they bleed off quickly. In the old empires, the ambient levels of theurgy might have been enough to sustain you, but growing up in the orphanage, you were starved of the power your body so desperately craved. Your sickness hid your true strength.”
Soren grabbed an apple and bit into it, still ravenous.
“You want to use me, like you used the Sword and Maddox. That didn’t work out so well for them. You’re not a good person.”
“To be clear: you are free to go.” Daphne indicated a door. “You can walk out with the clothes on your back and as much of this food as you can carry. You could go far in this world on your own if you learned to master your talents. We’ll keep track of you via blood magic, for public safety obviously, but you won’t ever see us unless you want to.”
“But I could leave?” Soren clarified after gulping down another bite of apple.
“Of course. There are reasons you might wish to stay. There’s a position for you here.”
“I don’t want a place,” Soren said. “I never wanted any of this. I just want to have…” He trailed off.
“A home to call your own and a family who cares about you,” Daphne finished his sentence. “I can give you that. Did you know you had a sister?”
He froze. “No. I was an orphan. They said my parents left me on the doorstep. There wasn’t even a note.”
Daphne smiled. “The Inquisition has encountered your kind twice before. You and your sister were born to Patrean parents, twins, an incubus and a succubus. The incubus drains magic. The succubus’s power is… more subtle. We’ve never encountered any who made it this far into maturity. I believe she is still alive.”
He shook his head. “Who is she?”
Daphne produced a ledger from under her chair. “Shannon Ibazz. Blonde hair, blue eyes. She was left on the stoop outside the Baash orphanage on the same day you were rendered to Dessim’s. Unlike you, she was a healthy child and was charitably adopted by one of the Great Houses. She’s presently missing.”
Soren’s mind reeled. He had always been too trusting of people’s intentions, but his newfound skepticism couldn’t deny the gnawing sense that Daphne was right. He reached for the ledger and examined it. A child had been admitted to the Baash orphanage the same day as he was left in Dessim. His trembling fingers brushed over the page.
Daphne said, “Your sister Shannon is in danger. One of the Proteans is working with a Stormlord, and they are hunting her. He’s the same Stormlord who assassinated the Grand Patriarch.”
Soren nodded. “Heath.” He remembered the name from when he was possessed by the Sword. “You want him dead.”
“I
need
him dead,” Daphne corrected. “If there were another way, I would gladly take it. He’s been like a little brother to me, but he has been corrupted by the Tempest and her false god. I’m not strong enough to fight him, Maddox, and his Protean ally by myself. But you, Soren, are.”
Soren shook his head. “I’m not a fighter.”
“You’re a Patrean,” Daphne snapped. “Fighting is in your blood. The Fathers gifted you with every advantage they gave their foot soldiers: strength, reflexes, and, most importantly, fearlessness. Your ancestors stood tall against the Harrowers when the most powerful cowered in fear. You just need something to make your body remember.”
Daphne peeled off a leather glove and slid her bare hand toward Soren.
Soren reached toward her hand. She grabbed his fingers and squeezed. The power that flowed into him felt warm. It was like standing in the sun on a spring day. Strength radiated through his muscles, and his pale skin turned golden tan. He moaned in pleasure and gripped Daphne’s hand tighter.
“That’s enough for now,” she said. She pulled away.
Reflexively, he leaned across the table, trying to grab her. He was hungry for power, and she had given him nothing more than a taste, like Keltis giving him the white powder.
Soren asked more confidently, “When can I get more?”
“In the inner circles of the Inquisition, we are a family. We take care of our own. If you help me in this, you become part of
my
family. We have a myriad of warlocks of every arcane persuasion in our custody. Their powers are useful, but they were gained through traffic with unclean entities. You could own those powers without making the same compromises.”
He looked down at the jeweled Sword on the table. “What about that?”
Daphne shrugged. “I haven’t decided. The relic has been part of the Inquisition, off and on, since we started. We used to be partners. Seems like ages ago. I’ll find it a new home after I deal with Heath. For now, the safest place is on my person.”
Soren looked at the Sword for a long time. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
Daphne stood. “Let’s get you ready. Follow me into the study if you want to find your sister.”