Chapter 13 Inkletter
Inkletter
“And now, another lamentable landmark,” Ink said as he released Nadje.
At her direction, he had traced her to the demon crossroads between Grimrock and Rhun, a place that leeched cold straight into his bones, even with a bowl of lava hissing beside him.
His own sire had died here, during the ancient wars that had left the land steeped in blood.
Now, millennia later, the crossroads served as a place of punishment and as a meeting area where demonic deals stole souls and extinguished hope.
How many who’d met here wished they hadn’t? The old wisdom seemed to whisper from the stony ground: Make no bargains with demons.
He scowled down at the vampire. “Why would your client specify this place?”
“I don’t know. Some do.”
Ink took in the scene: weather-gnawed gravestones on one side of the road; on the other, a hanging tree that refused to die.
From a thick limb dangled a ravaged rage demon, neck cinched with a bermetal chain.
His wrists were bound behind him, his face a ruin.
Crows hopped and tore at it, taking turns.
When a gust scattered them, a sound escaped the demon’s mangled mouth, something like a moan dragged over broken glass.
Nadje didn’t move to help him. Neither did Ink. The demonarchies reserved this punishment for those who’d committed heinous crimes.
Still, best to eliminate a demonic threat completely instead of torture. Another old wisdom: Enrage not a demon for their vengeance is immortal.
Nadje tilted her head, attention shifting to the far side of the trunk. Ink followed her look.
Another immortal hung there, a woman in mesh. A sorceress. Her body fared as poorly as the demon’s, her organs consumed one peck at a time. In addition to the chain around her neck and the one binding her hands behind her back, she wore a sign that read:
THE SKEIN PUNISHES SORCERI WHO MADDEN KINGS. FEAST, MURDER, FEAST.
A murder of crows did feast. A dim, rounding light appeared where the sorceress’s heart should have been—regeneration and magic still struggling to save her—but her body was too weakened, her sorcery as bound as her wrists.
Who had she trespassed against, the king of Rhun or of Grimrock? Ink had heard no reports of such a crime. “Nothing good comes from this place.”
“Maybe.” Nadje’s gaze darted to the female and back, and Ink spied sympathy.
“Tempted to help?” he asked.
“The sorceress,” she admitted. “But—made beds. And I have no idea what her powers might be. Besides, I’ve spent all my altruism.”
“At risk to yourself.” Ink lowered his voice. “What makes you think you haven’t already been tied to a certain crime?”
“Because I’d currently be in a situation like the one that sorceress is in.”
“They might yet discover your involvement.”
“I’ll dig up more on them before they ever sniff me out,” she said, then clearly wished she hadn’t.
“What does that mean? You’re not spying on them?”
“It’s nothing. Forget about it.”
“You’d tell your partner,” he pressed.
Him, a partner? He’d never sought the sustained company of others. Even when he’d bedded females for food, he might as well have been alone.
A loner alone is never lonely, he’d told himself for eons. While most incubi yearned for a mate, Ink suspected his fated one had already lived and died—never found by him in all his millennia. Quiet contemplation and study had become everything to him.
“First job’s not complete, is it?” Nadje pointed out. “The buyer said midnight. Which is right now.”
“How did he find you anyway?”
She shrugged. “Word of mouth.”
“You’d think he’d be worried that the lava would cool.”
Her gaze flicked away. “You’d think.”
So the buyer knew the liquid would still be churning. The thought sat ill.
Silence stretched, broken only by the soft rip of beaks working. A crow dove deeper into the sorceress’s mouth, going for her throat. Perhaps their feeding could separate her head from her neck and free her.
Even more tension crept into Ink’s shoulders. “I don’t have all night.” But he actually did.
“Look, this job is important. I need this win and payout. But the warlock offered more than gold: a lead to a sorceress who can answer any question. Imagine what kings would pay for that.”
“Which kings?”
“The Lykae’s,” she said. “Thane has stopped drinking and taking lovers. My source says no one has called a physic.”
A source in the wolves’ stronghold? Ink had given up trying to breach that pack ages ago. “You think King Thane has found his mate?”
She tilted her head, and her knotted hair came loose in a cascade of curls.
“It’s the season. So why wouldn’t he be with her?
Seems like he might pay a fortune to pose a question to the queen of them.
I can’t get an audience with a Lykae, but you can.
And you can dangle this tasty treat to a motivated wolf. ”
“Could I?” Ink said, skeptical and intrigued at the same time.
“Yes. But first we need to execute this deal.”
“Is that all life is to you? Complete one job just to chase the next—on and on, forevermore? Perhaps no amount of gold will ever be enough for you. You might die with a treasure in hand.”
She shot him a look, as if he’d just missed an obvious lesson even a child could follow. He’d never had that look turned on him before. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of thinking like that. Gold is survival—”
The air blurred. A male materialized out of a cloud of noxious smoke: black hood, corpse-pale skin, eyes rimmed red. His gaze cut from the fire bowl to Nadje, then to Ink. “Who’s he?”
“My…associate,” she said.
Ink met the stranger’s stare. “And you are?”
“Baelor the Unraveler.”
Ink had heard the name. Archwarlock. Malevolent. “Why do you want this lava, Baelor?”
Nadje stiffened at the question; the warlock’s eyes narrowed.
“He’s new,” Baelor said to her.
“I am,” Ink replied. “I’m also curious.”
“Then you won’t last long as a hired concierge.” Baelor laced the word with contempt. “You’re paid to turn off your memory. And your questions.”
The warlock’s barb couldn’t penetrate Ink’s own arrogance. “Then perhaps you want a different concierge.” He adjusted the staff over his shoulder.
Nadje’s smile was tight, practical. “He’ll hire the competition. Our competition, Inkletter.”
Baelor stilled. “Inkletter?” Something like interest sparked. “The studious incubus. Whisperer at kings’ ears. Reduced to fetching.” He clicked his tongue. “How embarrassing.”
Ink ignored him, telling Nadje, “You know this feels wrong.”
“Know nothing of the sort.” She turned to Baelor. “Do you have the gold?”
“Of course.” A chest thumped into being at his feet. He lifted his hand and smoke swirled thicker. “I have bound your teleportation, incubus, so you have two choices. Leave with your gold or remain here without it. The lava goes with me.”
Ink attempted to half trace, felt an invisible snare. Frustration tensed his muscles. This warlock had just placed himself in Ink’s sights.
Nadje quickly said, “The name of the sorceress. Where do we find her?”
With another look at Ink, Baelor answered her. “Pemphre, the Queen of Questions. Highest peak in the Helter.”
The Helter? Even Nadje blanched.
“Whoever you sell this information to must tell her I sent them. That is our covenant once you take your pay. She demands lone supplicants and an offering of the oldest gold coin one can find.”
“Fine,” Nadje said, dragging the chest out of the fumes. Over her shoulder to Ink: “You heard him.”
Ink considered fighting free with the bowl. But the calculation ended with too many ways to fail and not enough to win. Especially since his fighting style utilized tracing. When more magic began to swirl, Ink unstrapped the staff and passed the sloshing vessel to Baelor.
Hellfire glowed in the warlock’s eyes as he peered into the bowl. “Our business is concluded.” He lifted his chin toward Ink. “Formerly great Inkletter, I’ll see you soon.” He opened his portal, stepped through. The smoke imploded as if a black hole had sucked every trace of it, and he was gone.
Ink felt the binding on his teleportation snap loose. He exhaled a breath. “Are you ready to be done with this place?”
“Yes,” Nadje said, but her gaze had returned to the hanging sorceress. Sword already in hand, she marched to the tree.
Ink watched, bemused, as she hacked at the tree limb. Once, twice, thrice. The crows scattered, at least from this victim. They alighted on the rage demon, who roused even more.
“Why help her? I thought you’d exhausted your altruism.”
“Because I”—hack—“feel like it.” Hack.
“You’re frustrated,” Ink intoned. “Because you know what we did was wrong.”
“I’m not frustrated!” she snapped and hit harder. “I like my job. Even when it’s wrong, it’s mine!” Hack!
The limb gave; the sorceress dropped onto her face, a limp sack of ruined flesh.
“In for a penny…” Nadje muttered and swung again, grimly severing the sorceress’s hands with her dulled blade. She stripped the bermetal chain free and tucked the bleeding stumps beneath the female’s torso, out of beak reach.
Those hands would regenerate and now the sorceress had no restraints to bind her magic. For better or worse, Nadje had given the female a chance to become empowered once more.
In theory.
Ink said, “The crows may outpace her healing.”
Pressing her lips together, Nadje eyed the growing black tide on the next branch.
Ink glanced up at the demon. He thrashed, jerking and straining. Whether to drive the birds away or reach the fallen sorceress, Ink couldn’t tell. Either way, the crossroads felt more…aware.
“If you’re committed to your rescued criminal,” Ink said dryly, “I could trace her to your lodgings.”
Reality flashed across Nadje’s face, reminding Ink that she was still a very young immortal. “The sorceress could be as evil as Prince Co?tin. I’ll keep my distance.”
Ink noted Nadje’s improvised mercy—its rashness, its risks—his mind already calculating consequences far down the line.
He didn’t act on impulse. He avoided the unpredictable.
Yet when Nadje hefted the gold and said, “Let’s leave, partner,” the word landed like a spark in his chest, and that earlier kernel of protectiveness flared.
He crossed to her with his shoulders squared. “Very well, little flame.” He traced them away, the crossroads dimming behind them.
And though he would never admit it, the echo of that single word—partner—followed him all the way home.