Dire Blood (#5) (The Descent Series) (16 page)

The wounds on his wrists had clotted again; there wasn’t enough fresh blood there to keep painting. He lifted his wrist to his mouth and bit. It didn’t even hurt anymore, although hot prickles spread down his spine at the discomfiting sensation of teeth sinking through the scabby, caking blood to the meat underneath. He had to bite a little harder than before to make himself bleed again.

Thick blood flowed out of the wound and dripped onto the floor. He scooped it up with his thumb and rubbed it against his finger as he returned his attention to the wall.

Though he had no way of tracking time, he had probably been drawing for hours. Maybe days. He had started painting in the corner opposite the door, focusing on the precise curlicues of the kinds of spells he usually considered to be too dangerous to perform.

Every line, every angle, had a meaning in the arcane language of magic. That first line meant a very specific kind of fire, pulled through the air in a very specific shape. The next line indicated where he wanted that lick of flame to travel before it was extinguished. The third line was a plea to fire spirits. And so on.

Without any of his usual shortcuts—herbs, crystals, stones, ink—he had to spell out, very precisely, everything he wanted to happen. It was like writing binary code. Ones and zeroes of James’s arterial blood drawn on stone.

He had been afraid of being discovered, at first—that someone would come in to find that he had covered the wall in his fluids. But nobody came. Aside from the occasional vibration of stone, as though something had shifted deep in the earth below him, there was no noise, no light, no sign that anyone lived beyond his six-foot cube.

James used the tip of his pinky to draw a short, half-inch slash through one line near the ceiling.

He had already covered two walls and half of the floor. He had probably used too much of his blood. He needed food and drink, sustenance, replenishment.

But nobody came. The lightless day wore on in Hell, and he continued to paint.

James lost himself in the rhythm of the magic, and his mind wandered as his hands continued to spread crimson symbols on the stone.

He thought of Elise sharpening her swords, and how amused she would have been to see him casting spells from scratch with his own blood. It was the kind of insane escape plan that she would have approved of.

He thought of Hannah, somewhere out there in the rioting city. He thought of rusty meat hooks and delicate legs that terminated in black loafers. He thought of the way she had screamed to him as the demons had hauled him away, and of the very first time they had made love on the grass in the Colorado forest.

And James thought of his son—or, at least, the amorphous idea of having a son. Someone who carried his blood. The legacy of it.

His thumb smeared another line. It was paler than the others. He was running out of blood again.

He touched his wrist and found the wound tacky. Was he healing with the speed of a kopis, or was he just running out? He felt so dry, so heavy, so exhausted.

James peeled the scab off of his arm. It caught at the edges and ripped. New blood trickled forth.

Oh God, did that hurt.

And still, he continued to paint.

N
ear the desert
temple, the floating demon descended upon Elise. A rope lowered, and the demons climbed onto its broad back one by one. “It’s called a kibbeth,” Hyzakis told Elise. “It’s one of the few old beasts still roaming about.” He caught the rope and offered it to her. “Join us?”

It was better than trying to carry Nathaniel across the desert. Elise scaled the rope easily, going slowly enough that the boy could keep up, and she reached the top in moments.

The body of the kibbeth was broad enough that the rebels had placed a three-story construction of bone and iron across its back, moored with spikes underneath the scales. It had open windows like the temple below, and the demons milled inside of them with no apparent concern for the fact that their vehicle was living and breathing.

But they did care about Elise’s presence. They pointed at her and whispered. She picked up Yatam’s name here and there, as well as “father” and “blood.”

“I’d rather walk,” Nathaniel whispered to Elise.

Hyzakis appeared behind them. “The third level will be empty. Let’s ascend and have a talk.”

He was right—the top of the building was unoccupied. Oil lamps sheltered in glass sconces flickered on the pillars; a mirror stood at the end, near another small altar. So it was some kind of mobile temple.

As soon as Elise set foot on the tiled floor, the kibbeth shifted into motion, and a hot breeze drifted through the open room. It felt a lot like being on a ship, but with smoke surrounding them instead of sea. “What do you want from us?” Elise asked, positioning herself between Hyzakis and Nathaniel.

“You have the blood,” Hyzakis said, fluttering his fingers at her. “You must be Yatam’s daughter, I would think. Not one of the millions of watered-down bastards produced by his children’s children. You can get the Palace back.”

She frowned. “Back?”

“There’s been an upset at the Palace, and the administration has changed. We’re considered rebels, but in truth, we are loyalists. The judge presiding over the Council is a fraud, so you will enter the Palace and kill him.” Hyzakis said it casually, like assassinating the demon in charge was as easy as walking down to the street corner.

“I’m not interested in infernal politics,” Elise said. “And I’m not the daughter of Yatam.”

“Are you sure? Your blood smells like his.”

She glanced down at her arm. The lacework of veins under her wrist seemed brighter than usual, and she could see a blue line running through the heel of her palm and vanishing under the sole remaining mark. Elise clenched her fist. “A man has been arrested by the Council. All I want to do is free him.”

Hyzakis’s broad lips spread into a sly smile. “Arrested, hmm? We may be able to help each other after all.” He flapped a hand at her. “But you can’t walk into Dis like that. Human fashion on a demon? They’ll assume you’re from the Palace, and this is a terrible time to be seen as sympathizing with the administration.” His eyes skimmed Nathaniel’s body. “And we’ll need to make you look less…human. I’ll be back shortly.”

He waddled down the stairs, leaving them alone.

Elise went to an open window and leaned out. The wind whistled through her headscarf, warm and sulfurous, and she took a deep sniff of the air. As they drifted closer to Dis, inch by inch, she could smell more fires and grease and life. The writhing tentacles beneath the kibbeth occasionally flashed into view, then receded.

“What’s he like?” Nathaniel asked from behind her. “My dad, I mean. James Faulkner.” It was weird the way that he said James’s name—like he was a celebrity. Someone he would never dream of actually meeting. Elise ached a little to hear it, but she wasn’t sure why.

She turned to face him, leaning back against the railing. “Tall. Black hair. He’s going gray pretty fast now. He wears glasses, and he—”

Nathaniel interrupted her. “Not like that. I mean…what’s he
like
?” There was a hint of desperation to the question the second time around.

Although Isaac had never been the most affectionate father, she had still spent her childhood traveling with her parents most of the time. She had loved it whenever Isaac had guided her through exercises with the sword. She had longed for his attention and approval, and strived to earn his greatest compliment: “Good. Very good.”

She didn’t remember him ever saying that he loved her, but she could almost believe that it was true when he said that.

Nathaniel hadn’t been raised by James. Even those miserable, painful memories were out of his reach, and his only relationship with his father would have been through coven rumors.

His expression made something inside Elise fracture a little bit.

She leaned back against the railing, folded her arms over her chest, and frowned, trying to think of what James was “like”—and not the physical characteristics. “Sometimes, he’s condescending,” she said slowly. “Conceited. He knows that he’s the best at what he does, so he has reason to be confident.”

“Conceited,” Nathaniel echoed softly, wrapping his mouth around the word. And there it was again—she could see him assessing, evaluating, adjusting his expectations.

“But he’s warm and affectionate, too. When he cares about something, he’s very passionate. Music and dance and magic…it makes him radiate.” She felt a smile flit across her lips and then fade. “Most of all, James is resourceful. And smart. He won’t let anything happen to your mom.”

The cogs in Nathaniel’s head stopped. There was nothing there but uncomplicated hope. “Do you think they might get married after all?”

Elise frowned. “No.”

“Oh,” he said.

Hyzakis returned, climbing up the stairs with a bag over his shoulder. “You’re lucky,” he said. “We recently raided a colony out in the fringes, so we have more than enough clothing to choose from.”

He opened the bag and dumped a pile of clothing onto the floor. Elise picked through it. The texture felt like leather, but the colors were strange. Some of it was tan, some of it peach, some of it dark brown. It was threaded with a cord that reminded her of a softer kind of horsehair, too.

She lifted one of the items. It was a bustier, almost black in color, with a belt around the waist and silver buckles up the front. But that wasn’t cow leather.

Elise traced a finger down the hem and realized what kind of animal it must have come from.

“Cool,” Nathaniel said, reaching out to take it from her.

She held it out of his reach. “Is all of this from the slaves?” she asked Hyzakis, keeping the revulsion out of her voice. She didn’t want Nathaniel to know what they would be wearing.

“Some of it. There is some from the fiends, too,” he said. “Slave leather is expensive.”

“What’s slave leather?” Nathaniel asked.

Elise held up the jacket. “What’s this?”

“Slave,” Hyzakis said. He looked like he was getting impatient.

“And these?” She lifted a smaller set of clothing that seemed like it would fit Nathaniel.

“Fiend. The shirt is woven from harpy wool.”

She gave them to the boy. He seemed delighted to pull on the leather pants, but he turned his back before shucking his shirt and replacing it with the harpy wool. There were also leather arm guards, like ones he might wear during archery. “This is awesome,” he said, pulling them on over his hands.

Elise didn’t respond. She turned away from him, removed her swords and shirt, and donned the bustier. As long as Nathaniel didn’t know that she was wearing human flesh, it didn’t really matter—refusing the disguise wouldn’t save anyone’s life. She still felt a little nauseous when she began doing up the buckles.

Between the boning and the buckles, the material held her snugly, like a fist wrapped around her ribs. It pushed her cleavage up to the window below the collar. But when she bent and twisted experimentally, she found the motion was good, and she didn’t feel suffocated—demons apparently didn’t need much room to breathe.

The leggings were made of the same black wool as Nathaniel’s shirt. They were snug and stretchy. All that was left were the boots—only the best of infernal fashion. She stepped into them and tightened the laces. Elise didn’t check her reflection in the altar’s mirror when she was done. She already knew that she would look like one of Neuma’s coworkers.

When she turned around, the boy was finishing dressing with his back turned, too. Hyzakis was watching her.

“And you say you’re not Yatam’s daughter,” he said. “Your skin is silken moonlight. You have no muscle. You are more beautiful than a succubus, and more powerful than the most frightening nightmare. You fought a dozen of the rebellion’s best and didn’t sweat, so you’re certainly not human. Maybe you’re too pure to be Yatam’s daughter. Maybe you’re the fruit of Nügua’s hands.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Elise said.

“You have the blood,” Hyzakis repeated. “You’ll kill the judge for us and restore the administration.”

They were above the edges of Dis now. Slums spread beneath them, filled with ancient, leaning buildings that were little more than sticks and cloth propped against crumbling walls. Elise could see that the streets became concrete as they moved closer to the Palace, and that the buildings became more human, more modern, on the approach, as well.

Elise pulled on her spine sheath over the bustier and buckled it. She felt better, more secure, with the falchions on her back.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said, taking Nathaniel’s hand.

Hyzakis hobbled toward her, leaning on a cane. “Daughter—”

Elise focused on the shadows, the looming darkness, the acid air, and wrapped her arms around James’s son.

She phased them off of the kibbeth, away from the rebels, and into the night.

VIII

T
he body used
to belong to a touchstone, but it had become the property of the gore crows now. They perched on its face and chest, carefully balanced by their leathery wings as they dug their shining steel beaks into rubbery flesh. The only way to tell it had been a touchstone was the tattoo on the inside of its wrist, but beyond that, Veronika had no way to tell if it had been male, female, human, or demon. Most creatures bled in much the same way.

“Damn birds,” Veronika muttered, flapping her hands in an attempt to drive them away. “Go, you bastards! This is a crime scene!”

They ignored her. One of them ripped the nose off of the touchstone and swallowed it.

“There’s not going to be any evidence by the time the birds are done,” said the coroner, stabbing at the crows with a long wooden wand. They snapped at the edge of it. A beak caught and broke the end of the wood off.

Veronika threw her hands into the air. “Great. Just fucking great. How did these things even get into the tower? Why didn’t the wards stop them?”

A new woman entered the cafe, clucking softly at the gore crows. A dozen exposed skulls snapped around to focus glistening black eyes on her.