Chapter 9 #2
He clasped hands on the shoulders of his cousins. “Go with Keteng.” He tilted his chin toward the mammoth shifter who was waiting impatiently at the pen’s entrance. “She’ll get you and the others to Zephyr’s portal. We’ll go after the children.”
His cousins nodded their acceptance and passed by Keteng to follow the others. She gave Tanner and Avelunne a speculative look, but said nothing as she, too, exited.
A moment later, Avelunne marched toward the same exit, but turned left instead of right. Tanner followed.
Avelunne took a convoluted path that seemed to double back on itself, a disorienting journey through the guts of some monstrous creature.
She left way markers like Rumnaan had. Her dragon magic pulsed with every touch, leaving scorch marks where her fingers touched the fleshy walls.
With every intersection they passed, a new and foul gust of air wafted over him.
The metallic tang of old blood, the eye-watering ammonia of an overflowing outhouse, and the sickly rot of forgotten fish made him want to wipe his tongue off.
His nose hairs might be permanently damaged, even with shifter healing.
The muffled silence was almost as oppressive as the stench, broken only by the squelch of their bare feet on the yielding floor.
“Why no guards?” He spoke quietly. “No patrols?”
“Complacence. Limited autonomy.” Her soft words seemed muffled by the fleshy walls.
“Tippizoars are constrained by Surasa’s rules, and they trust the demesne’s magic too much.
They are understaffed. We’re avoiding the main routes, but we’ll be in trouble if they let the necros out to hunt.
” She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes dark pools in the gloom.
“If you hear a sound like a rusty hinge yipping, that’s them.
And they’ll be close. We don’t have immunity charms or weapons, so our only chance will be to run. ”
He gave her a sharp smile as he unhooked an innocuous-looking bead woven into the end of one of his braids. He whispered the activation word. A faint shimmer coalesced in his hand, solidifying the hilt of a slightly curved, razor-sharp sword. The talwar felt good in his hand.
Avelunne stopped, one eyebrow raised in silent inquiry.
“Experimental charm.” He dropped the tip of the blade toward the floor.
“The sword is from my collection. Iolo Maxen made the charm to hide it, and Tinsel helped make it invisible to fairy magic. I’ll have to tell them it worked.
” He tilted his chin toward her ankle. “Your armor charm has the same protection. You should probably activate it.”
“Oh.” Realization dawned on her face. “Iolo’s gift was your idea.” She bent, her back a pale, elegant curve, and touched the nearly invisible chain around her ankle. She muttered the activation word, and for a fleeting instant, he felt a subtle brush of magic.
“The gift was his idea. I just told him what you might need. I have one, too.” He tapped the necklace, and a similar wave of protective magic washed over his skin.
He couldn’t see the armor on either of them, but could feel it like the edge of static electricity.
He much preferred the unique electricity of her dragon magic.
That sensation sparked a sexy response in his far-too-susceptible human body at amazingly inappropriate times.
He moved his sword to the center to cover his growing interest.
“If Rumnaan is right,” he said, forcing his mind back to the mission, “the demesne will try to siphon the magic. These charms might not last as long as we’d like.”
“Good to know.” She started moving again.
“If we run into keepers, they each carry a cattle prod.” Her hands shaped a slender cylinder a little narrower than her rib cage.
“It burns and delivers a powerful electric shock. Most shifters can only take one or two hits before they’re out.
” She waved a hand. “I pretended to pass out when they used it on me so they wouldn’t know I’m immune. You probably are, too.”
They emerged from the tunnel into a wider, cavernous space.
It was the perimeter of the central hub, a squishy clearing surrounding a wide, rounded wall that looked like it was made of gristle.
The area she’d chosen obviously served as a dumping ground.
Heaps of rusting appliances, broken metal furniture, and a stinking array of plastics made it look like a low-rent drug dealer’s backyard.
Avelunne pointed to a grimy, hexagonal metallic plate set low in the gristle wall.
“The lab managers use this door to dump things the demesne has a hard time absorbing,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“I can use it because trash collection was one of my jobs. I think you could handle the electrical field that keeps the necros from escaping, but the security spells would freeze you as solid as the supply portal after you used that charm. I’ll find the children and bring them out this way. ”
Her gaze flickered to his sword, then back to his face, her expression grim. “Necros have good noses but bad hearing, and sound doesn’t travel well in here. They jump poorly but can climb. And there is never just one.” She met his eyes. “Go straight for decapitation, or they’ll overrun you.”
She took a deep breath, letting it out fast, then framed his face with her hands.
Her palms were cool against his skin. “Your presence here means more than I can put into words. But please,” she whispered, her voice tight with tightly reined emotion, “I beg of you, run to the portal rather than die here.”
Not trusting his voice, he gave her a single, sharp nod.
She turned and put her palm flat against the center of the hexagonal door.
A sharp flash of electrical discharge hit her hand, but didn’t seem to bother her.
The metal plate slid sideways with a sucking sound, revealing a more brightly lit opening.
Without a backward glance, she climbed up and in. The door slid shut behind her.
He had a predator’s patience for waiting, but he didn’t have to like it. No way was he leaving her.
Not ever, rumbled the thunderbird part of him.
An intake of breath brought him the whiff of fresh, rotting meat.
Moments later, he heard voices — not the rusty yips of necros, but a guttural, wet-sounding conversation.
They had to be keepers, the mouthless, tentacle-fingered undines.
He couldn’t assume they’d avoid the trash heap.
He needed a place to hide, somewhere that wouldn’t stab him, suffocate him, or make him sick.
Holding his sword tight and his breath tighter, he waded into a nearby gelatinous pond that smelled like a fetid cesspool, the murky liquid closing over his head as he sank under a thick floating mire of discarded plastic.