Chapter 56 Critical Window
Critical Window
For one vertiginous moment Erik thought he was wrong, that they’d taken a bad turn in the tangle of tunnels, that the strong, certain, but inarticulate imperative beating behind his breastbone and filling his arms and legs with wine-dark strength had failed him.
Failed them all.
Then he realized he’d simply outdistanced the others, even Grigori—the Father was quick and ruthless, dealing efficiently with scattered rearguards in the tunnels, freeing an Elder Brother to forge ahead.
Consequently, Erik burst into a knot of scuttling hellspiders and was almost past the rancid bulk of yet another shoggoth when the pulse came, spilling through him from crown to sole, lighting up the battlefield.
The cavern was a temple-deep, of course, stalactites and their reflections corkscrewed by foul, ancient exhalations as underside creatures gathered to worship the god who promised them food and power.
That terrifying, insane intelligence also twisted the creatures of the dreaming lands’ healthier corners, whispering promises, rewarding their service—when it did not consume them.
Some, like the stranglers, had probably evolved in terrestrial spaces; others, like the sarnaki with no need to clothe themselves in flying snow now because no sunlight could possibly reach them, were of a different order entirely.
All largely loyal—or, barring that, simply hungry. The slow torture and eventual death of a lirai would strengthen them immeasurably, give them a feast long spoken of afterward in hellish, chittering tongues no human mouth could pronounce.
None of them mattered, because he could see the stairs at the far end, a dais rising in sickening, nonhuman angles, its flyblown steps crusted with effluvia both old and fresh.
The shadowbeasts and nightmare creatures preferred lirai, of course—but potentials would do handily, and the lingering death of normal humans would grant a short-term boost as well.
This place had seen many such banquets.
The altar reared, stone like obsidian warping and shimmering as the sacrifice fought. A sticklike figure stood silhouetted against that glow, one wasted arm raised high; the creatures around Erik began to notice his presence, the chance of sating murderous hunger blunting their response.
A critical window, Ignatius would call it, and Erik understood the entire charade now, didn’t he?
Elder and Younger out running sweeps at night, leaving a Father to his own devices.
When had Ignatius murdered his first potential?
Had it been an accident? Had the god been whispering, prodding, poking, enticing?
Oh, yes, Erik knew. Because he’d heard the same promises and blandishments from that terrible lipless mouth, and still did. Thrumming in his chest, creeping through his subconscious, claw-tipped nails scraping lightly at the folds of his mortal brain.
Let it happen, the god whispered. She deserves it, the little maggot-whore. Look at what she’s done—look at how she’s treated you.
It would have been easy for Ignatius to give him and Jake the right sectors of Islington to clear, safely away from noticing a potential. Many of the gifted moved frequently, anyway, minor precognition keeping them one bare step ahead of the monsters.
And if Erik and Jake returned early to find empty halls, Ignatius could always say he’d sensed something outside the temple.
After all, they were a small frontline outpost, forgotten, perhaps discarded.
Which meant he’d probably murdered his first potential well over a decade ago, before the war heated up and the frontier temples were ordered to fall back.
Maybe there was even a treacherous control liaison somewhere, but at the moment that wasn’t Erik’s problem.
This was, now that he saw the whole pattern, very much what Ignatius would do. Waiting with unholy dry patience, year upon year, biding his time and clearing potentials—or, even worse, simply tagging them for the shadowbeasts, standing back, letting the inevitable proceed.
And Erik and Jake had suspected nothing, even though Sons were to watch a Father carefully—and he was supposed to return the favor.
Had Ignatius thought he might actually be able to bring Liv in and escape examination, somehow redeem himself?
Erik hoped that was the case and that the entire charade back in Islington hadn’t merely been the spider humming softly as he readied the web, knowing a stronger potential was a better, more pleasing meal to the god.
A full lirai was best of all, of course, a ticket straight to the Mad God’s forgiveness and high esteem.
Erik drove forward, slipping between nightmarish unclean, clearing a surprise-clicking patch of jana-spiders with a single leap, extending again to spring between two musk-rotten goatmen already baying with excitement, a group of dagoi suddenly realizing danger had found them and raising a thin warning scream.
His lirai’s pulse came again, but it was fading, as if she were wounded. The god gibbered inside Erik’s head, trying to slow him down, distract him.
No, fuck no, just let me get there, just let me get to her—
Both knives out, rising like a hawk and a deep coughing sound of effort escaping his chapped lips, Erik soared…
…and a sarnaki, with more presence of mind than its fellows, hit him from behind with a shattering crunch.