Chapter 37 | Sephania
Sephania
Truehearts save me, I wish we had Vallan and Garroway with us. Just where in Damnation did they go, and why did they have to take the carriage?!
It’s dark and dreary on the Floorboards—the surface of Nuhav above the underground. A thin fog has swept in from the mountains beyond, which may be helpful.
I still have a bad feeling about this.
A normal walk through the southeast district of Nuhav to the northern gates leading up to Olhav takes around two hours. I fear it’ll take longer now, having to avoid the militia we call the Bronzes and whatever crazed citizens have taken to the streets.
The sky is stained dark purple, telling me we have hours left until sunlight. Barring any catastrophes, we should make it to Olhav before the sun rises and burns Skartovius to a crisp.
After carrying Palacia up the ladder to the ground level, he tries to hand her off to me. It’s not that I worry she’s heavy—even as dead weight, she’s not—but someone has to stay alert with their weapons drawn while we travel.
“It should be me,” Skar debates. “I’m stronger and faster.”
“You’ll also kill anything that moves.”
“I don’t see the problem here.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re a vampire with marble-white skin in the pitch-black night. It’ll draw the torches of this witch hunt to us. Keep your hood down and keep Palacia close. I’ll make sure we stay out of trouble.”
His frown deepens. “I don’t like it.”
“What, are you saying I’m not good enough to protect you for a change?” My hands white-knuckle on the pommels of my longsword and shortsword.
“I said nothing of the sort, brat princess. I simply—”
“Your reticence has been duly noted. Thank you, Lord Ashfen. Now get your stronger, faster ass behind me and let’s go.”
With that out of the way, and a seed of satisfaction growing inside me for putting Skar in his place, we take off down the road.
After rounding a few corners hesitantly, noticing many houses and windows shuttered, I feel like I haven’t been entirely fair. “I want this to be bloodless, Skar. I don’t want to kill my kind. Slavers are fine. Rebels are not.”
“They won’t give you the same quarter, little temptress. Not if they see you with me.”
“Which is why you’re carrying Palacia and staying out of sight.” I stop at the mouth of the alley we’re plodding through, turning to him with imploring eyes. “Please, love, don’t kill any of my people. Don’t give them a further reason to hate you, Skar.”
The hard, angular planes of his face soften as he reaches out to cup my cheek. Though his touch is cold, I ignite with fire inside. “The humans don’t need a reason to hate me, my dangerous girl. There’s hundreds of years of precedence already for that.”
With a sigh, I nod into his touch, wishing we had the time so I could melt deeper into him. I pull apart, clearing my throat of the lump, and look down at Palacia in his arms. “Hold her head up while we walk, please. I don’t want her neck bobbing around like that.”
Three streets later, we find the first fracas. We’ve made it all of ten blocks past the Firehold—passing the Temple of the True and the House of the Broken along the way. I didn’t give my house of upbringing or the house of worship a second glance.
Blocking our path, a gaggle of about ten men stand outside the doors of a dimly lit tavern. They’re brandishing weapons, checking their sharpness, speaking in hushed tones. A few of them wobble where they stand. I can practically smell the drunkenness wafting off them, even from this distance.
I duck back in behind the wall. “Fuck. Lots of them.”
“I could make this easy.”
“I’ll handle it. Stay behind me.”
I march out from the building, with Skar keeping to the moonlit shadows on the edges of the road. He’s visible but muted, which will have to be enough since he can’t use his shadowwalking with Palacia in his arms.
The grizzled men turn to me as one. I’m silhouetted by the moonlight, which works to my advantage, though I know my wide hips and build isn’t fooling anyone.
“Hoy, lads, what do we have going on this pleasant evening?” I call out. “Nice breeze we have—”
“Not a good time to be roaming the streets, ma’am,” says the front-most man. He’s a stocky fellow with a thick neck, and I instantly imagine the ways I would bring him down if it came to it. “Ain’t you know what’s going on in these parts?”
I cock my hip. “I’m just trying to get through. Way I hear it, the Silverknight’s bringing madness to the streets.”
“Madness? You mean liberty, woman?” He spits on the ground at his feet.
“Hoy, what’s that creepy fellow doing behind you, lass?” one of the men asks, pointing past me.
Shit. I said to stay hidden, Skar! Of course the arrogant ass is bringing up the rear, ten feet behind me, no longer on the shadowy fringes of the road.
In his most ridiculous twanging voice, which sounds neither Nuhavian or Olhavian, Skar says, “These misters bothering you, Mistress?”
“Same can be said about you, boy!” yells the stocky man. “Why you got that hood pulled so low, huh? Show us your—”
“That skin,” adds his buddy. He chokes a sound. “So bright.”
“Vampire!” shouts a third.
Skar sighs. “Fuck this.”
The men charge us—a huge swaying blob of humanity and sour scent. They raise clubs, daggers, and a few nicked swords, and shout to the sky.
“Over here, lads!” one yells. “Get ‘em out the tavern—we got a live one!”
“Rotten slaver shit-stain!” shouts another.
My swords come out in a blur and I move to the thick-necked man in front, spinning, knocking his club aside, elbowing him in the sternum.
His body deflates, clearly not expecting to get the wind knocked out of him while in his drunken stupor. It sobers him up fast. His red-rimmed eyes roll when the pommel of my longsword connects with his temple.
He collapses, leaving two men in his wake.
The first gives an awkward, errant slash with his dagger, and I crouch low to meet him. The second tries to flank me—
Before his own shadow begins strangling him from behind. He shouts in a gurgle, dropping his weapon and pulling at the black band around his neck. His legs kick and his arms flail.
“Skar, no!” I shout.
The man’s face turns purple. He writhes, his friends scream. “Black magic!”
Four men run in the opposite direction, wailing like cowards. Two of them come to help their friend, only for their own shadows to begin attacking them too.
I move in quick spurts at the awkward dagger-wielder, noticing his crooked nose, and I decide to crook it the other direction. One punch to the face when he’s focused on my blurring swords straightens him up and knocks him on his ass.
I hold my breath as Skar casually walks toward the purple-faced, struggling man. I expect him to plunge his silver saber into the man’s exposed chest . . .
Skartovius simply walks past him. He looks over his shoulder. “You coming, brat princess?”
Letting out my breath in a great heave, I hurry to my mate. The two remaining drunkards not being accosted by their shadows give us a wide berth. Their weapons tremble in their hands. One of them pisses himself, mingling a new scent to the sour one.
I stop when I recognize one of them is looking squirrelly, ready to attack me. “You’d be smart to lower that toothpick, sir. I’m not your enemy.”
“F-Fucking Hellwhore.”
“So you know who I am.”
“Bloodsucker slut is what you are. Spawn of the Damned and the Bitch-Queen herself—”
A black blur flies in from the side, blanketing the man in shadows that engulfs him completely. His screams are muffled, his friend takes off running, and I half-expect the bulging shadow blanket to disappear and show the skeleton of a man underneath, picked clean.
I know that won’t happen though. For all his irksome tendencies, Skartovius has showed he is going to listen to me. Just this once.
My mate is already halfway down the street, keeping Palacia cradled in his arms, while we leave the drunk men scattered and in hysterics.
I tail after Skar, jogging with a smile on my face.
Halfway to our destination, we meet an actual threat: the Bronzes.
It’s a group of six plate-armored men, their cuirasses gleaming gold in the moonlight.
They march down the street in three rows, two abreast. I glance right, noticing we could careen through an alley.
The detour would add a lot of time to our trek before it spits us out near our destination.
Skartovius decides the best way past them is through them. “Hold her,” he says, handing Palacia to me.
I open my mouth to argue—
There’s no timer to argue with that face. By the bent of his jaw, I know he wants these six for himself. Besides, if I don’t take Pala, he’s ready to plop her on the ground.
I groan and hold my friend. “Remember your promise to me, love.”
“Yes, yes, don’t slaughter the weak humans.”
The two leading soldiers take a knee and draw bows. Unlike the drunkards at the tavern, they’re shooting first and asking questions later. Over their shoulders, the middle duo draw spears. Behind them, the final team take out shields and shortswords.
Arrows whip toward us.
I instinctively show my side in a protective stance for Palacia. Skartovius ripples his cloak wide, tossing his shadow from across the ground, raising a wall of blackness with a grunt of exertion.
The arrows snap home, breaking on the solid inky wall. When Skar lowers it, the other four are charging us.
Fuck. He might need help with them. I cringe, look down at Palacia’s peaceful, pretty face, and frown. I can’t leave her. An errant arrow could hit her.
My head lifts to find Skartovius drawing his thin blade. He becomes the shadows, dashing to the enemies in a feral crouch that makes him seem more wolf than vampire.
With a howl of glee that makes my skin crawl, Skar skitters between the four soldiers and begins his dance.