Page 45 of House of Dusk

Someone called a warning as the limbless mountain fell upon the center of the line.

It swarmed over a young red sister, enveloping her like a rising tide.

Then Sister Obelia was there, shoving gouts of flame at the monstrous thing, driving it back so that two other ashdancers could pull the girl free.

The rotting hulk turned on Obelia, surging over her.

Sephre’s breath caught. Her hands jerked up.

But she was still too far away. She could only watch as the other woman fell, crushed beneath the relentless tide of flesh.

“Fates have mercy,” murmured Beroe.

Sephre bit down on something much less holy.

But her body did not betray her. Or maybe it was a betrayal, how well she remembered this: the flicker of lightning along her nerves.

The quickening of her heart. Her mind slowing, clearing, focusing.

No sword now, but the flames were in her hands, and in her heart.

She threw herself down the steps and into the fray.

She took the place of one of the red sisters, holding the left flank. And then there was only the battle. The slap and groan of unliving flesh, the taste of ash coating her tongue, the dazzle of flame in her eyes.

And the weariness of her body. The strain of each step. The tremble in her arms. This is nothing, she told herself grimly. Remember the Scrimfang raiders? You held them off all night. You didn’t even go to the privy.

Granted, she’d also been twenty years younger.

At least this battle wasn’t likely to go on so long that she’d piss herself.

Thank the Fates for small mercies. The flames of the ashdancers were doing their job, destroying the smaller skotoi easily.

But the shifting hulk that had killed Obelia was proving harder to vanquish.

Sephre edged closer to the thing, chafing at the bite of wrongness. Of course this feels wrong. You’re surrounded by demons trying to destroy your home.

Except that they weren’t. The skotoi had taken the courtyard easily, and yet they weren’t advancing up the steps, into the temple.

Even that horrible boulder of flesh seemed to be.

..holding back? Were they simply conserving their numbers?

Were the skotoi clever enough for such things, without the Serpent to command them?

She remembered Nilos then. What he’d said to her, at Kessely. That the skotoi had found a new master. Was he the one who had sent this host to attack Stara Bron? To destroy the ashdancers?

The truth struck Sephre in the gut, driving out her breath. She understood the wrongness. Why the flow of the battle itched at her.

Because it wasn’t a battle. It was a distraction. A feint. But what was the true goal, if not to simply wipe out the ashdancers? What did the demons want?

To stop the return of the Serpent. But Nilos wasn’t here. Sephre considered her own fears that she carried a piece of the Serpent’s power. If so, it didn’t seem to be drawing the skotoi to her at the moment. At least, no more than to any other ashdancer.

Could the skotoi be after the dagger? Were they slithering up the mountain even now to claim it? Impossible. The Holy Flame would guard it. Only the agia could claim it. And the agia . . .

Horror seeped through her.

“Fall back!” she bellowed. “This is a distraction! They’re after Agia Halimede!”

Beroe turned toward her, face clouded by confusion. There was no time to explain further. She’d have to trust Beroe to marshal the defenses. It might already be too late.

Sephre spun on her heel and dashed up the steps, heading for the infirmary.

· · ·

The broad hall was echoingly silent. Dark, with only a faint glow from the brazier along the far wall. No movement. Nothing.

That was a bad sign. If nothing else, surely the bells would have roused Abas and the other retired elders. Well, aside from Sister Ketis, who could probably sleep through a second cataclysm.

Maybe not the best thing to joke about right now . Sephre padded deeper into the still room. Her breath strangled as a dim shadow along the ground resolved into a crumpled heap of cloth. A body.

A keening cry escaped her clamped jaw. Then the heap shifted. A groan. Sephre kindled flame in her hand, advancing quickly. “Abas?”

Fates, let them be alive, not corrupted into some soul-riven thing. She held the golden sparks before her. She could do this. If she must, she would.

“Sephre?”

Her legs melted. She fell to her knees beside the old ashdancer, finding an arm, a hand reaching for her. She gripped it, squeezing tight. Another groan, tinged with pain. “Are you—?”

“Only bruised and battered,” Abas replied, grimacing. “Skotos. It came through the window. I tried...it was so fast. It knocked me down. Ketis too. I think...I think it killed Jovan. He tried to burn it, when it went for the agia.”

Jovan. The oldest of the ashdancers. He’d told her a story once about nearly getting eaten by a sphinx when he was a boy. He’d tricked it into letting him escape by giving it a riddle with no answer.

“The agia?” she asked, bracing herself for the shattering.

“It took her. Carried her off.” Abas gestured toward the door on the far side of the hall.

The possibilities coiled cold in Sephre’s belly. Were they taking her to the summit even now? Did they think they could force the agia to claim the dagger for them? But how had skotoi known Halimede was here, in the infirmary? Nilos had suggested they served a new master now. Had he sent them here?

Lacheron’s absence was a seed in her teeth.

Could he have known about this attack? He always had plans within plans.

She shivered, feeling invisible hands shoving her across the game board.

Someone was directing the skotoi. It seemed ridiculous that it could be Lacheron. And yet, it would explain much.

“Stay here,” she told Abas. “Others are coming. Tell them what happened. I’m going after Halimede.”

Abas squeezed her fingers, nodding, then let her go.

She moved quickly, smoothly. No time for panic.

There was only the mission. Only the faint trail of ichor and ash that led out from the infirmary, along the corridor.

Her mind parceled up the questions for later.

She stopped once, leaning out from a window to try to see whether the fighting continued below, but the bulk of the lower temple hid her view of the courtyard.

She pressed on. No time to wait for reinforcements.

The dark spatters did not lead her to the mountaintop, as she’d expected. Instead, they took her to the Hall of Doors. Good. The chamber had no other exits, no windows. No way out. The skotos was trapped.

Sephre paused at the threshold just long enough to kilt up her skirts and roll back her sleeves. To limber her shoulders and settle the knot in her chest. Then she stepped within, hands wreathed in flame.

The tiled walls reflected her light into a thousand watchful eyes. There were no other lamps or braziers. She held herself still, poised, ready.

A shadowy bulk shifted against the gold. A voice whispered.

You failed, baleful one. We know where you hid it. And now, our master will claim it.

“You’ll burn to ash first, demon.” She raised a flaming hand, spreading the pool of golden light. But what it revealed made her breath catch hard and sharp.

This skotos was not some shambling corpse.

It was lean and powerful, smooth white bone wrapped in tendrils of darkness.

Human-shaped, and yet there was something inhuman in the way it held itself.

Skull too broad, jaws overlong, the eye sockets narrowed to slits.

The teeth sharpened to fangs, split wide as it spoke.

A horrible rasping formed without lips or tongue.

No closer. Or we destroy the blue one.

It shifted, showing her the agia, caught under one bony arm, limp and thin and undefended. Halimede gave a faint groan. Fates, was she awake?

Sephre held her ground, groping for a plan. The thing was smart enough to speak. She could take advantage of that. Keep it talking until the other ashdancers found her. “Why do you need Halimede?”

The skotos cocked its head. Our master promised us a feast.

“She’s the agia of Stara Bron,” Sephre scoffed. “She’ll turn your stomach. If you have one.”

It snickered. That was a bad sign. Something was wrong.

Not the blue one , whispered the skotos. She dies, as he commands. She has served her purpose.

It happened in a blink. So fast Sephre stared, the image making no sense, a jumble of white robes and sharp black spines and crimson splatters.

Then it resolved into Halimede, hanging loose as a bit of washing out to dry, the front of her pale robes dark with blood, and a strange sharp, black flower bursting from her belly.

The skotos hissed, retracting the sinuous arm that had sliced into Halimede, then cast the agia aside like a bundle of rags. Fury burst from Sephre, a wordless cry. She hurled herself at the skotos.

The air around her filled with slithering shadows.

Too late, she realized that the demon had been playing the same game she had.

Keeping her talking, as it wove its tendrils close enough to strike.

Now they snatched out, one coiling around her midsection, another catching her arm.

Then tightened, squeezing her breath away.

She scrabbled at the thing, calling the holy flame to her palms. But she felt only the faintest flutter of heat. It was hard to think. The skotos shook her, making her body snap. Pain exploded along her side, through her skull. It must have slammed her into the wall.

Stars spun, an entire constellation filling her vision.

So much pain. So much shame. And this . The shattered heart of a dead god.

Do you even know that you carry it? And why?

Perhaps we will tell you the truth, as we strip the flesh from your bones and flay every sorrow from your soul.

Something cold wrapped around her arm. Prickles raced over her skin.

Not pain, but a shifting, sand under her feet, melting away.

She tried to scream. It was like being underwater.

Bitterness filled her mouth, her throat. If she breathed, she would drown.

Then the world burst into crimson flames. A wrench, and she was free, falling, caught in warm arms. Human arms that lowered her to the stones gently. She blinked, and looked up into a pair of familiar brown eyes, in a familiar brown face framed by dark braids.

“Timeus!”

He smiled. It was brief, and sweet, and she could not bear it. “You shouldn’t be here,” she croaked. “You’re a novice.”

“No,” he said. “I’m a red brother now.”

Crimson flames sparked in his eyes. Sephre’s own flame blazed in answer, filling her with hot pride. Of course he was. Brave, wise boy.

“Come on,” he began, gripping her shoulder. “We need to—”

The words cut off as a thick, oily tendril of shadow lashed around Timeus, tearing him away. Sephre shoved herself upright, cursing.

Timeus dangled in the air just beyond her reach, coiled in the grip of the skotos. The demon gave a sharp shake, making the boy flop. Sephre bit down on a shriek of outrage. It was like watching a hound with a baby rabbit.

“Let him go!” Fire wreathed her hands, snapping to match her fury.

You only delay the inevitable , the skotos hissed . We will consume you, baleful one. You will be nothing but dust and dying memories .

“If I’m the one you want, then fight me,” snarled Sephre. “Not that boy!”

The skotos only snickered. You care for this one? Good. Then come and claim him.

Damn right she would. She flung a handful of flame at the skotos, aiming low.

The bolt spattered against empty stones. The demon was retreating. Where? The only door was behind Sephre. Surely it couldn’t—

A frail gray light split the darkness, somewhere along the western wall.

The Serpent’s wall. She blinked, vision foggy, barely making out the shape of an archway.

And beyond, nothing but mist. Or was it a river?

A lake? A darker smudge loomed over it. Walls.

Endless maze-like walls. A place she had only ever seen in ancient carvings, in nightmares. The Labyrinth of the Dead.

The skotos plunged into the apparition, with Timeus still struggling in its grasp.

And then it was gone. Winked out of existence. Sephre was alone, with a handful of golden flames, a dead agia, and her apprentice stolen.