Chapter 35 #3
The pirate captain tugged a chained man behind him, stumbling, bare-chested, and shoeless.
Mettius Labienus Triarius was bruised and bloody—but not broken. He held his chin high even as his body struggled to stay upright. Blood crusted his thick beard, and his nose sat askew.
Augustus choked on the depth of relief crashing through him. His father lived. Despite the weeks of hoping that would be the case, he hadn’t let himself truly believe it. A part of him had been preparing for a world without his father in it.
Above them, the air shifted, and the presence Augustus had been sensing on the outskirts appeared like fury incarnate. The bone-crowned beast landed on his beam, and the wood groaned in protest.
Was it here for him, anticipating his death? Here to feed on his agony and rage?
The Vorash’s wings flapped on the breeze like torn sails, and its tail curled and uncurled like a noose in waiting.
Thorne strode within reach, and the bird-beast hopped to the ground. Its bone scythe talons clicked on the cobblestone.
And Thorne didn’t look surprised. They stood side-by-side. Thorne reached out and casually scratched beneath the beast’s jaw, like a man greeting an old friend. “Easy now.”
Thorne then turned his attention to Augustus’s torn back. Each line burned like a scorching blaze.
“Take a look, Mettius,” Thorne said.
At the end of his chain, Mettius flashed his teeth and met Augustus’s eyes. If not for the chains, they would only have to reach out to touch.
Augustus pushed back onto his feet. He would take this as he was taught to bear everything else in his life—with dignity and strength. His father might be forced to watch, but he would, at the very least, see the man he’d raised.
Thorne forced Mettius to his knees and bent to speak into his ear, fingers digging into his shoulder. “Watch his blood flow, knowing there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
Only two steps away, Taran Phya gave Darian a nod. “Continue.”
The Bladesworn pulled back and let the leather fly forward.
Blinding pain ripped through Augustus, and this time, the heat of blood seeped from his back. In a distant world, his legs sank against his will, and hot tears spilled from his eyes.
“Augustus,” Mettius growled, and maybe he was crying too. Augustus couldn’t see. “It’s all right, son. Hang on.”
Augustus let the words strengthen his legs and spine, and he put one foot on the platform, then the other. He stood and dragged in a breath. “You b-better hope I don’t s-survive this, Phya.”
Phya took those two steps to Mettius’s side, his face mottled with red and his voice shaking with rage. “Or what?”
Mettius ever-so-slowly swung his chin up, up, up—
Mettius leapt to his feet, a blur of chain and fury. He wrapped the shackle chain around Phya’s neck, gripped him in a headlock, and—
Snap.
Taran Phya dropped, legs at crooked angles, arms splayed.
The Vorash pushed the man’s head with its large beak. Phya’s head lulled to the side, eyes open and staring forever at nothing.
The Vorash gave a short, piercing wail, then hopped to stand on the dead man’s chest.
Thorne yanked on Mettius’s chain, tripping him away from the body. “Think you’re clever, don’t you?” he spat out.
“I think”—Mettius met Darian’s eyes—“Phya never neglects to add a null and void clause to his contracts upon his own demise.”
Darian tossed the whip and stepped away from Augustus. “That he does.”
Thorne shook his head. “Too bad, Triarius, because this doesn’t help you at all.”
The pirate’s cutlass sang from his scabbard and rose toward the sky.
Augustus screamed as the blade came down.
The Vorash did not flinch.
It smiled.
Selene had underestimated her recent outfit change. Tomas didn’t find her—or didn’t reveal himself, at least—until she was nearly outside the poor district.
He announced himself with a whistled tune. Again, back on the rooftops.
She paused to follow the sound, heart skittering. The piercing song continued, though he remained hidden from view, following her every step.
“You may as well come out,” she shouted. She allowed sincere fear to leak into her tone. Her throat burned from unshed screams, and Petrina’s name pulsed behind her clenched teeth. “I’m tired of running.”
Tomas appeared, crouched, and hooked an elbow atop one bent knee. His black cloak filled with wind and fluttered away from Petrina’s head, dangling at his side. “But we were having fun.”
“This isn’t fun.”
“Are you sure?” He gave her a mock frown. “I was going to allow you one more disguise. You almost fooled me with this one. I even lost you for a while.”
Selene stepped toward the building where he crouched, maintaining eye contact. “Why are you doing this?”
Tomas paused as if considering. Finally, he waved a hand. “I may as well tell you. Thorne paid for your heads.” He gave Petrina’s head a hard pat. “He wasn’t happy about your escape, and we worked out a very lucrative deal.”
“You had a deal with Augustus, too.” One step. Two. “He paid you a lot of coin up front.”
“And if he survives, maybe we’ll give it back. We’re men of honor—wouldn’t want to sully our reputation.”
Her fingers curled into fists. “No. Wouldn’t want that.”
Tomas sighed and shifted as if preparing to stand. “It’s not our fault that bigger and better offers were made. It’s what we do, Selene. We go where the money is. I won’t apologize for it.”
Selene held his dark gaze. “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to.”
The wind gust came in from the sea at Tomas’s back, and the building groaned. He didn’t lose his balance, but his attention went to the roof as the structure leaned.
Selene sprinted at the pole right in front of her and heaved—the wood, like everything else around here, was weathered and salt-rotted. The bottom was only hooked into the cobblestone. One good push freed the pole.
The building whined and moaned as she ran into the second support pole.
The structure pitched toward her, and the rust-colored roof tile slid off, bringing the Bladesworn with it.
Tomas landed with a grunt on his back. The building was coming down atop him. His eyes widened—
He rolled, and not easily—Petrina’s final fuck-you as her head hindered his progress before spiraling free of his body.
Selene sprinted into the center of the road as the locals screamed. She pulled two long-bladed knives from her sheaths.
The building splintered and crumbled in a cloud of dust and a ricochet of splintered wood.
Tomas, gray with dust, lay on his stomach just outside the rubble and began pushing to his knees.
Selene straddled his body and crossed the blades at his neck. She yanked each blade back, slicing through his neck, and his blood sprayed across the cobblestone.
As he lay gasping for breath, she bent toward his ear. “I was always the hard one to kill.”