The Destiny (Blood and Destiny Book 4) (11 page)

Larissa found herself blocked by two sets
of broad backs as they emerged from the cab station into the street above. The
two men stood side by side, scanning the area for any would-be attackers. She
pushed up on her tiptoes to try peering over their shoulders at the outside
world, a desperate longing for home flooding over her body. Instead, her eye
was drawn to the Colonel’s shoulder, a patch of dark red staining the material
of his shirt. He turned slightly with a grimace on his face, and as he noticed
her perusal of him, he forcibly wiped the grimace away.

“Which direction?” he
asked.

“That way,” she said,
pointing to the left.

“Which establishment?”
Holt asked without turning to look at her.

“Greyfort’s Clothing
Emporium. It should be just up…” She pushed up onto her toes again, straining
to see down the street. Though daylight was beginning to break in the sky, it
was still dim outside. Where she expected to see the large, ornate lettering
above her old workplace, the sign was no longer there. Two bolts remained where
the sign had once hung above the shop, and the windows were coated in some kind
of blackened substance, blocking the view inside. It was clearly abandoned.

“Oh.” She sank back
down again out of view and rested her forehead against Holt’s shoulder. They’d
come all this way for nothing, it seemed.

“We should still go
in,” Kerrigan said. “Get some rest.”

“Agreed,” Holt said.

“All right, is it
safe?” Larissa asked as she pulled away from Holt.

“As far as I can tell,
there is no immediate danger. The greatest risk is from the brothel, though at
this hour, most of the clients should be finished.”

“Brothel?” She pushed
herself between the two men. Kerrigan let out a grunt as she shoved him, which
she would have no doubt apologized for if she weren’t too busy staring at the
building opposite. It was hideous. Where once the street had been lined with
beautiful shop fronts, retailers of all sorts of fine wares, an antiques shop,
a charming café selling fine teas and dainty cakes, all were now either gone
and boarded up or replaced by truly awful sights.

The shop opposite—a
former clock and clockwork machinery shop—had been replaced by a seedy looking
establishment named
Cosby’s
. Gas lamps illuminated the sign, scrawled in
black and fake gold lettering. The windows had a reddish tint, and the view
beyond them was obscured by sets of thick red curtains. In the alley to the
side of the building, an almost nude woman balanced on a pair of high heels
while throwing up onto the cracked cobblestones. Her pale ginger hair fell past
her shoulders as she hunched over, serving as a catching net for what emerged
from her mouth.

“Are you sure we
shouldn’t go back tonight?” she whispered in Holt’s ear.

“As much as I admire
your stamina, I need to rest.” He set off across the street, not bothering to
wait or listen to any further argument against his action. She sighed, knowing
he was right. Her own body was suffering; the healing ability seemed to have
become sluggish, as a wound she’d sustained in fighting in the tunnel remained
unrepaired and painful. Her head throbbed with an indescribable pain, and as
she cast one last glance back down the stairwell, catching Kerrigan’s
attention, she decided going through that journey again would have to wait
until they had all rested.

“Miss.” Kerrigan gave
her a forced smile. He stretched one arm out, gesturing for her to lead the
way. Holt had disappeared behind the former clothing shop, acting as the
dutiful scout.

She approached warily,
paying more attention to their surroundings than she had ever done before. They
were within walking distance of The Hub, the building which had stood for
hundreds of years, the building that had exploded with her inside. Where once
it had held such promise for a bright future, now all that remained was a pile
of rubble, a few lengths of steel jutting skyward. The destruction of the
central dome had seemingly led to the downfall of the entire city. Her home was
now nothing more than a den of criminals and outcasts with nothing left to live
for. She didn’t notice the tears clouding her eyes until the door to Greyfort’s
opened as they approached, the trill shop bell ringing out.

Holt stood holding the
door and glaring menacingly at the bell. His lack of perception with the bell
told her that he was indeed flagging. His usual strength and clarity of mind,
sharp eyes which noticed everything with an uncanny ability, were suffering
from the entire trauma. She’d almost forgotten the fact that he’d technically
been dead not long ago. It was yet another mystery to be unravelled. She
couldn’t stop the tears from falling as she stepped inside the shop, Kerrigan
following. The door closed, plunging the inside into darkness. If she’d lost
her ability to heal, how was she supposed to heal Holt again if he suffered
another downturn from the
Anthonium
poisoning?

Nearby, Holt struck a
match. He plucked a candle stub from the floor beneath the fireplace mantle and
stuck it back into the holder, setting the flame alight. The shop was mostly
empty, abandoned. Her heart sank further still. Where once there had been racks
of clothing, all shapes and sizes for men and women, all that remained were a
few empty poles and hangers. She had been dreaming about finding some well-made
clothes to provide for their whole group, something to replace the tattered
outfit that had somehow made it all the way back from Eptora without falling
completely to shreds, though it looked as though it wouldn’t last much longer.
As perilous as their journey ahead promised to be, the thought of carrying on
naked was not something she wanted to face.

Kerrigan sank to his
knees and prodded the coals in the fireplace.

“No fires. The smoke
will draw attention,” Holt said.

Kerrigan fell down onto
his backside and grunted as he gripped his shoulder.

“You’re hurt,” Larissa
said, finally realising the fact. She sat down in front of him and lightly
pulled his fingers away from the wound.

“It’s nothing,” he
said. His face had turned pale, and his shirt was stained all the way across.

“Let me look.” She
pulled open a few buttons and tried to open the material. It was difficult to
see in the dim light, and in the end, she had to unbutton the shirt completely
in order to pull the material away from his shoulder. He slumped against the
fireplace as she inspected the wound, dark red blood oozing from a hole in the
middle of his shoulder.

“Can you heal it?”
Kerrigan asked her, a frown on his face.

She shook her head
silently, her lower lip quivering with the silent admission. She couldn’t bring
herself to tell him out loud. Instead, she pulled her sleeve up and showed him
the unhealed wound on her arm.

“Oh…this is not my
lucky day.” His head thumped against the fireplace, and he tugged the shirt
back across his chest with his free hand. “I was planning on cauterising it
with a hot poker,” he said quietly, gesturing slightly towards the fire. “But
not if it will draw attention to our presence here. I don’t think the three of
us can handle another fight any time soon. If ever.”

Larissa squeezed her eyes
shut and ground her teeth together. The whole trip had been an utter waste, and
to top it all off, Kerrigan was in an awful state. If she lost both him and
Holt for the sake of nothing, she wasn’t sure she could carry on after such a
loss.

“Can we remove the
bullet if I use a knife?” she asked through shuddering breaths, not really
enamoured with the thought of cutting him open and digging around inside his
body to find a bullet. She was no surgeon.

“You’d need something
to sterilise the blade, or I’ll be just as likely to die from infection. It’s
likely enough as it is. I can almost see the filthy hands of one of those thugs
loading the bullets into the chamber.” He glanced down at his own dirt-covered
hands, then grunted in frustration. “A hot bath wouldn’t go amiss, either.”

Larissa’s own hands
were filthy. Nails cracked, skin stained with an unpleasant mixture of blood
and mud. She glanced around the shop, a flood of memories washing over her of
days spent sorting through clothes and filling out ledgers. Her favourite
customers who always left generous tips—had any of them wondered where she’d
gone? Had they all presumed her guilty after reading the false reports about
her in the papers? Had Mister Greyfort cared that he’d lost his only member of
staff? He probably cared more about losing his richest customer. As soon as she
thought of the Professor, she shook her head. So much had happened since
leaving, and she was as changed in herself as the home she’d left behind. She
was simply unrecognizable any longer. To think, it had all been a lie; Greyfort
had known about her father all along and had seemingly been paid to hire her.

“Greedy bastard,” she
said out loud.

“I’m sorry. I was
kidding about the bath,” Kerrigan said.

“No, I didn’t mean you.
I meant the man who used to run this shop. My former employer, he was…” Her
mouth hung open, unable to finish the sentence.

“He was…”

“Wait here,” she said,
scrabbling to stand up. Kerrigan didn’t look like he was fit to argue with her.
She grabbed the candle and raced into the storeroom at the back of the shop. A
few boxes remained stacked up at one end, though the room had once been piled
high with stock. The small station used to make minor repairs to shoes and
buttons still remained. She clambered over the boxes and stumbled toward a
panel on the wall, the panel where Greyfort kept his private stash of items. He’d
thought she hadn’t know about them. She’d seen him often enough with a bottle
of liquor pressed to his lips when he thought she wasn’t looking.

She dug into the panel
with the fingers of one hand and yanked it out from the wall, half expecting it
to be empty. A large spider raced out from the hole and disappeared up the
wall. She would have no doubt screamed the place down at seeing it if she
hadn’t been so intent on her purpose. One lone bottle remained. She picked it
up and held it up to the light; there was barely a dribble left of clear liquid
at the bottom. She dared to hope it was enough.

Larissa stumbled and
fell out of the room, her heavy legs protesting loudly, body begging for rest.
When she returned to the shop, her heart skipped a beat. Kerrigan lay on the
floor, his eyes closed. Holt stood above him, dagger in hand, glaring down at
the Colonel.

“Holt,” she whispered,
gripping the bottle in one hand, the candle wobbling in the other. As he turned,
she saw he held the gun, pointing it down at Kerrigan. “Please, tell me you
didn’t…don’t…stop.” The tears fell once more. The bottle slipped from her hand
and thudded on the floor. She dropped the candle too, all strength disappearing
as her head swam in spirals. It felt as though she were back on an airship,
floating up into the sky, lifting away from the world. Some part of her mind
registered the pain as she fell backwards and smacked into the floor, but the
rest of her succumbed to grief and exhaustion, and there was nothing she could
do to stop it.

A laboured sigh escaped Holt’s chest. He
would have ordinarily rushed to catch Larissa as she fell, but his body was far
beyond peak condition. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure how much longer he
could go on before he too would join both Kerrigan and Larissa on the floor. He
laid the knife down on the mantle and flicked the gun chamber open, pulling a
bullet out. She’d assumed the worst of him, yet again, and though he couldn’t
blame her for it—he had made no secret of his desire to kill Kerrigan, after
all—it struck his heart to think she assumed he’d broken his promise to her and
killed the Colonel.

He pushed the
sentimental anxiety aside and collected both the candle and liquor bottle from
the floor, bringing the knife down with him as he glanced between Larissa and
Kerrigan. Her chest rose and fell with ease. As much as it repelled him to
admit, Kerrigan was in need of assistance more than Larissa.

He dragged an empty box
over beside the Colonel’s body and placed the candle on top, giving as much
light at the best angle he could get. It was growing light outside. The
blackened stains on the windows kept the inside of the shop dark, and though it
was a benefit to them for the sake of secrecy, it made his task even trickier.

He pulled Kerrigan’s
shirt open and inspected the wound. A steady stream of blood still oozed from
the hole, and although the edges had begun to clot, it was too wide to heal quickly
by itself without assistance. He perched the bullet between his teeth and
unscrewed the liquor bottle, giving it a sniff. The alcohol was potent enough
even though there was only a small drop left in the bottle.

“Dig it out,” Kerrigan said.
His eyes opened and locked onto Holt.

“There is insufficient
alcohol to sterilise the blade and clean the wound,” Holt said after he took
the bullet from his mouth.

Kerrigan took a deep
breath and squeezed his eyes shut. “Dig it out,” he said again. “Please.”

The courtesy was said
through gritted teeth. Holt almost laughed. The idea Kerrigan that hated to ask
nicely as much as Holt hated the thought of helping the man at all was comical.
Almost as comical as the thought both of them being courteous to one another
for Larissa’s sake, and she wasn’t even conscious to witness it.

Holt ripped a patch of
fabric from the Colonel’s shirt and soaked it with alcohol as he held the blade
of the knife above the candle flame, turning it over until the metal blackened.
“It will hurt,” he said.

“I’m aware of that,
Captain.”

Kerrigan’s eyes hadn’t
opened. Holt wasn’t sure what had prompted the man to refer to him by his
former rank. Perhaps it was a simple slip of the tongue. All the same, he
couldn’t deny feeling a sense of satisfaction at being called Captain once
again. It was something he missed and wouldn’t mind hearing again, even if it
had come from the disagreeable Colonel.

He pulled the blade
away from the flame and wiped the rag over it quickly, allowing as much of the
alcohol as possible to seep over the skin of his fingers. If he was going to
have to stuff them inside the cut to pull the bullet out, having a clean blade
wouldn’t count for a thing if he had dirty hands.

Before the knife cooled,
he jabbed it into the Colonel’s shoulder. Kerrigan shouted out behind gritted
teeth, and his body bucked and rolled along the floor. Holt moved one leg,
pinning his knee across the Colonel’s chest to keep him in place, using his
free hand to hold the man’s shoulder to the floor as he twisted the knife in
the wound to open it.

An eruption of blood
squirted upwards and splattered an artistic pattern across his own arm. Holt
kept pushing, digging the tip in as quickly as possible until it knocked
against something hard. Kerrigan lay growling through gritted teeth. His body
had stilled but it was no doubt painful. Holt pushed farther still, using the
sharpness of the blade to cut away the flesh and muscle surrounding the bullet.
More blood poured from the gaping hole, and the pink inside glistened in the
candlelight. He finally spotted the foreign object lodged deep in the middle of
the messy wound. His grip on the Colonel’s shoulder tightened, his knee pressed
deeper into his chest as he shifted the angle to wriggle the tip of the blade
underneath the bullet. With one final twist, it popped free.

Another deluge of blood
filled the hole he’d made. The bullet dropped to the floor. Kerrigan had turned
pale; his eyes seemed glassy and covered in a layer of tears. Holt grabbed the
fresh bullet he’d pulled from the gun, quickly pinned it to the edge of the
fireplace, and worked the casing free with the tip of the knife. He tipped the
powdery contents into the pool of blood.

“Do it,” Kerrigan
grunted as he grabbed the knife from Holt’s hand and stuffed the handle into
his mouth to bite down on it. Holt struck a match, took a deep breath in, and
jabbed the flame into the powder.

A flash illuminated the
room with a short, small detonation as the flame ignited the gunpowder. Kerrigan
screamed out and bit down on the knife handle, his face contorting with pain.
Holt held his shoulders down, pinning him to the floor. The wound turned black,
a line of smoke rising up into the candlelight. Holt picked up the liquor
bottle and tipped it up, allowing the last dribble of liquid to run over the
wound. Not that he expected it to do much good, but it was the very least he
could do.

Quiet minutes passed
by. Holt took the knife from Kerrigan’s mouth, and the Colonel lay still, face
curled up into a permanent grimace, eyes closed.

Holt sat on the floor
beside him and wiped the rag over his fingers as he looked at Larissa. She was
awake, lying on her side, watching. She smiled slightly, then closed her eyes,
slipping back to sleep.

He sighed. He wasn’t
strong enough to stand watch—a fault he could admit to himself and would
probably admit to the others too if they weren’t already resting. Daylight
streamed in past the gaps in the black window paint. His mind attempted to will
his feet to stand, but as he moved, a lightness swept over his limbs and he
crashed straight back down to the floor. Hand over hand, he crawled toward
Larissa. His head felt as though he were bobbing up and down in an ocean,
rocking side to side, the sickeningly false movement lulling him to sleep.

As he reached her, a
thump seemed to echo in the room—the sound of his head hitting the floor,
though he didn’t feel it. He wasn’t sure if he would wake again. Surely his
luck in surviving death had run out? He tried to will his mouth to open, to
speak, to wake Larissa and ask her to stand watch—or at least sit on watch
while he rested for an hour—but as he felt his mind slipping away, he knew it
was too late. He could only hope no one else had seen them enter the shop.