Dark Gods Rising Page 2

  A small commotion sounded behind Glace. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw Mathew struggling to pull the ring from his finger.

  “It won’t come off.” Mathew’s whisper leaked tones of subdued panic. He tugged on the ring harder, but it remained firmly, magically, attached.

  Glace looked back toward the assassin and waved the knife he still held. “I won’t let you have her.” Daring a brief glance at Cass, he barely refrained from snapping when he saw she had stripped off the rest of her clothing. Cass had changed. Naked to the room, her head canted at a curious angle while she studied Tessla. Though still lithe and lovely, her once perfect breasts no longer existed. Instead, brown and gray fur covered her chest. A hot metal stench oozed from her body.

  Gulping, Glace struggled to keep his attention on both women at once. “Cass?”

  When she looked at him, thick fur oozed from her facial pores. Black lips stretched along the length of her muzzle. Cass grinned at Glace, displaying needle sharp teeth. “Sorry, lover, I never felt the time was quite right to tell you.” Falling to her paws, she flexed long claws, digging deep gouges into the wooden floor.

  “You’re a hellhound,” Glace said nonsensically.

  “She’s a changer,” Tessla corrected, “and she murders without constraint.”

  “Ah, well,” Cass stretched her hound’s body. “They wanted to lay their hands on me. They wanted to control me.” Her voice lowered. “Be careful, spawn, or I’ll eat your face just like I did theirs.”

  “Gods,” Mathew cursed in a voice too rough to be his own. “I can’t get the damned thing off!”

  Uncomprehending, Glace jerked his head around. Mathew’s once perfect face had elongated and was covered with gray fur. Panicked, yellow eyes stared furiously out of deep-set sockets while the crime lord jerked uselessly at the ring Glace had stolen.

  “You would have made a wonderful sire,” Cass growled. Her lips curled back, and her eyes glared at Tessla. “Do you remember me, thing? I ate your friend when you were nothing more than a spawn trapped in Hell.”

  “Trelsar’s mercy has made me no longer spawn,” Tessla warned. “Return to Hell, changer, or die.”

  “I could murder you.” Cass’s eyes glinted. “I like that choice best.” Turning her gaze to Glace, thick drool dripped from her mouth. “As you love me, help me kill her.”

  “It hurts!” Mathew cried out.

  Shaking, wanting to scream frustration, Glace raised his knife toward Tessla, lowered it, and raised it once more. Indecision tore at him. Biting his lip, he turned to the crime lord and then twisted back to look at Tessla.

  Cursing him, Cass leapt. Tessla dodged. Glace had no time to pay them any further mind. Decision made, he turned, jumped on top of Mathew’s table, beat the man’s hands apart, and stabbed down.

  Blood sprayed across Glace’s chest and face. Crying out, Mathew staggered backward until his shoulders struck a wall. Clenching his bleeding stub tightly in his right fist, Mathew fell to his knees as his severed finger rolled off the table and struck the floor.

  Wet with Mathew's blood, Glace spun around, jumped off the table. Tessla was on the floor with Cass atop her. Razor teeth savaged the assassin’s upper arm and shoulder, ripping and gouging while the assassin's talons sank deep into the changer’s neck and side. Tessla’s almost alien face showed only calm indifference while meat and sinew were torn from her body. With a jerk of her head, Cass ripped a large chunk of flesh free.

  Cursing, Cass jerked away. She whimpered, tried to stand, and fell prone to the floor. “It burns,” she gasped through bloody froth and blistered wounds. “Dear Athos, it burns.”

  “Dear Athos, indeed,” said Tessla, pushing herself half-erect with her undamaged arm. “My veins are filled with your master’s poisons.” Blood pulsed weakly from her wounds. The bleeding slowed, stopped, and without any sign of healing, the wounds suddenly closed. Tessla retrieved her fallen pipe, stuck it between her black lips, and smoothly rose, drawing in a lungful of smoke. Removing the pipe with steady fingers, she nonchalantly blew out a cloud of blue smoke and smiled. “Thank Athos for me when your soul once again resides in Hell.”

  Cass released a series of coughs so violent they twisted her body into the semblance of a knot. Bones snapped with solid cracks. First one, two, followed by a series of lesser snaps. Cass howled.

  Dropping his knife like it was poison, Glace fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around the creature he loved.

  “Gods, Cass,” he whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have understood.”

  Cass released a pained laugh when her muzzle pressed near his ear. “Understood the killing?” she whispered with a voice thick and coarse. “Understood your flesh smells so sweet even now I want a taste?” She tried to draw in a deep breath. “I come from Hell, human.”

  Again, she coughed, and the coughing was so great Glace felt muscles jump beneath her skin. Pulling away, he watched dark ichors trickle from her eyes and ears. Bubbling puss and blood fell from her mouth.

  “I would have worn the ring,” he whispered brokenly. “I would have worn it for you.”

  “S-sorry,” Cass gasped between coughs. “It was my time. I had to breed…only I can’t…with a human, and the ring can’t be reversed. L–loved you too much…for that.”

  “Bitch!”

  Steel flashed, and Glace cried out when a knife buried hilt deep into Cass’s side. Horrified, he dropped his lover and staggered to his feet.

  Mathew, a half-changed thing, yellow glaring wolf’s eyes and a wolf’s face set above a man’s body, threw another knife into the changer, striking Cass with a solid, meaty thunk. Blood fell from where Mathew's ring finger had once been.

  “She loved me,” Glace protested. “She really loved me.”

  “No changer can love,” Tessla emotionlessly observed. “At best, they are fond of their human servants. In the end, those servants always become just one more meal.” Her black leather clothing was torn and covered with fresh blood, but the flesh showing through its rents appeared smooth and whole. Not even a scar remained. “Your time was near.”

  Drawing close, Mathew dropped his unwounded hand on Glace’s shoulder. His wolf’s face appeared horrid, but something about it, some quality, drew Glace's eye.

  “I was wrong about you,” Mathew admitted. “You showed judgment and saved me from completely turning. When you are ready, come to me. I’ll see you get the training Cass wanted.”

  Glace violently shook his head. “You murdered her.”

  “She was already dying,” Mathew replied. “In a way, what I did was a mercy, but I won’t quibble boy. I wanted her death on my hands.” He grinned a wolf’s grin. “Hate me all you like, but it won’t help you. Today or tomorrow you’ll come to me because you’re a thief, and every thief in this city eventually becomes mine. I’ll claim you, and I’ll train you to be the best this city has ever seen.” He looked at his bleeding hand. “I owe you a debt. I won’t let you escape until it’s fully paid.”

  Swallowing, Glace fell to his knees and cried over the dead thing on the floor.

  Chapter 2— Second Chance

  Late morning sunlight glared through the Dancing Unicorn’s dusty panes, causing undue pain behind Simta’s eyeballs. Her two orbs throbbed, feeling as if someone had plucked them from their sockets while she lay unconscious, and then kicked them about the room for hours. She was absolutely sure that same someone had added a dash of pepper before sneaking into her room and shoving the abused eyeballs back in her head; a head presently feeling like it needed to explode. Every time someone entered the inn, got up out of a chair, or set their tea cups onto their saucers, or hell, anytime someone breathed, it felt like thunder erupted inside her head, splitting her skull from the inside out.

  Simta jumped as a serving girl paused by her table and plopped a teapot and cup in front her, creating a loud clatter. Simta was sure the bitch did so on purpose. Slowly opening her eyes, she glared at the clumsy cow, barely resisting the urge to puke over the obnoxious woman’s dress and feet.

  Not recognizing her danger, the woman opened her mouth. “You want some breakfast ‘fore I go?”

  Gripping the table’s edge to keep herself from backhanding the insolent twit, Simta clamped her jaw tight and drew in a deep breath through her nose. Relaxing her jaw, she spoke slowly for fear of screaming. Screaming might finally make her head explode. “All I want is silence.”

  Smirking, the bitch gave Simta a pathetic excuse for a curtsey. “As m’lady wishes.”

  If the effort of throwing the teapot at the girl wouldn’t have caused herself more pain than it would the barmaid, Simta would have hurled it at the arrogant lowborn’s backside. Sucking in a lungful of air, Simta tried to calm down. Past episodes had proven anger only made matters worse. Rubbing at her temples, she thought back on the past three days of the Evertrue Wine and Whiskey festival, which celebrated the newest batches of liquors coming out of the storehouses. Once again, the wine seemed to have gotten the best of her, not surprising considering it had won their private battle for the last five years. The festival was a week of endless parties consisting of hundreds of gallons of the best alcohol in Yernden spread among gatherings of the utterly rich and snot-nosed aristos. True, the lowborn also celebrated but not like the overbearingly wealthy. They were given the dregs, which their supposed betters figured was good enough for them. From the rate they drank the swill, the lowborn seemed to agree.

  “Can’t believe you’re drinking that freaking tea,” one of the patrons called from the far side of the room. He raised a tumbler. “Hair of the dog is what you need, and it’s free. Why don’t you come over here and join me?”

  Simta squeezed her eyes tight shut. Yeah. Free. Which was part of the reason she felt so shitty. Free drink, lots of food, and music on every corner and in every bar. During this festival, most of Yylse enjoyed the festivities. Nearly every adult below a certain age became a walking repository for debauchery. Since Simta was of the upper class, she enjoyed the very best of the debauchery. No dregs for her, but not many friends or family, either. Her father’s friends and other close relatives considered her a waste of breeding due to her shameful ways, suggesting more than once she be disowned. For his part, her father was more than ready to comply, but not yet. Appearances had to be kept. She must be caught red-handed disgracing the family before he could safely ask Lord Calto to strip her from the family book without risking social censure. So far Simta had managed to just squeak by, but knew her luck could not last.

  “Hey, bitch, I asked you a question. Get your sweet ass over here and be nice to one of your betters.”

  Ignoring the order, Simta lowered her forehead to the table. The man’s voice sounded familiar. Hopefully, it didn’t belong to one of the shadier acquaintances she’d met while hanging out with Selnac or Harlo. Hopefully, she knew him from here in the Dancing Unicorn where people of her social stature often came. If ever revealed, her shameful lifestyle would not only get Simta erased from the family tree, it would also see her imprisoned and then sent over the Sea of Whispers to some ungodly horrible land like Illian without so much as a fatherly hug. Simta knew her crimes were many. Several were of the worst while others were almost encouraged. Among her peers, being a slut was acceptable. It was quite common among the highborn to see who could seduce a rival’s husband or wife, but seduction was the least of her crimes. Once this was discovered by those who couldn’t be blackmailed, her privileged life was finished. Thieving rare baubles and priceless art was her specialty, but she also dealt in hidden secrets and stolen knowledge. If word of this got out to those she was not already blackmailing, her life was over.

  Opening her eyes, she turned her head on the table to peer at her heckler with blurry eyes. Good. He was too well dressed to be a blackguard. She blinked several times to clear her vision, and smiled. It was the oh so respectable Sir Lord Halfrass, one of her father’s most influential friends, and Simta’s most vocal critics.

  Simta’s ire started to rise at the thought of Halfrass and the rest of her parent’s social circle. Who were they too judge her? She had tried other, more respectable ways of getting money. She had even opened and run her own businesses, but those endeavors hadn’t lasted after her father found out. It seemed women of breeding never engaged in business, especially when those businesses competed against his friends. He had been almost as ashamed of her then as he would be if he knew of her present escapades.

  Grabbing at her throbbing head, Simta silently cursed, raised it from the table, and fastened a hard stare on Halfrass. “My better, Lord Halfrass? Tell me, do you think my father will be amused when I tell him you’ve placed yourself above our family on the social ladder? Perhaps almost as amused as when he hears about you demanding sexual favors from me across the Unicorn’s commons room?”

  “What? Oh hell, Simta, is that you.” Rising, Halfrass shook his head. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Go ahead and tell your father what you will. He’s more likely to believe me than a do nothing daughter who’s too stubborn to spread her legs for a husband and give him grandchildren.”

  Tossing a few coins on the table, he headed for the door, paused, and turned to face her. “Tell him what you want, just be sure, if you ruin me with him, I’ll sour you with Charmaine.”

  “Please do,” Simta said to his back as he left, simmering through her pain and wondering if it was time to slip a discrete word into a few ears about Halfrass’s shady connections. A do nothing daughter? The phrase pissed her off, but so far as they knew, she was exactly that. It was all they expected. She was supposed to do nothing, to want nothing, to have no dreams or ambitions of her own simply because of her sex. Damn it, she was more than just a woman waiting to be set on a man’s arm, a pretty bauble waiting to be traded away. She had things she wanted to do, places she wanted to go but absolutely no way to do them or get there. Theft and blackmail with a touch of whoring were the only ways she could supplement her father’s miserly stipend, and to be honest, the stipend only came her way when he remembered. A woman of her needs and desires had to make a living somehow since she sure as hell refused to be married off like some prized possession. True, a few of her peers knew of her exploits outside the polite world of the Morthanhi family, but not one dared speak a word to her father. Doing so would send them down in flames. Simta had made it her job to find out their secrets, to discover their dirty perversions, their petty indiscretions, and with whom they did these things. Upper society’s secrets were hers to use as she saw fit. The famously pious and overbearing nobility didn’t just pay her with the coin of their silence to keep her lips sealed, some also paid gold rugdles on a weekly basis or with more interesting material items. Either method of payment was fine by Simta as long as she could continue to drink, steal, and bed whomever she wanted. She would keep their hidden affairs, ruinous family gossip, and secretly failed fortunes to herself as long as doing so kept her heading in the right direction, which was out of her father’s house and into her own status as head of a family.

  Reaching over, Simta poured a cup of chamomile tea. The gentle scent drifted upward like a soothing balm, gentling her head’s pounding. The tea would help restore some semblance of civility to her raw nerves and aching body. After three or four cups, all would be right with the world. She could then check out of the inn, go home to her own wonderfully soft bed, and forget about prigs like Halfrass for a few short hours.

  Before she even got her first sip, a hand rested heavily on the chair across from her. Thunder rumbled in her head as the chair scraped across wooden floor planks. Simta groaned when the one man in the whole of Yernden she most dearly did not want to see dropped into the chair like a sack of oats being thrown into the back of a wagon. In truth, she wished he would disappear into the depths of Hell. She hoped he would get eaten by a hellhound, trampled by a horse, or kicked in the head by an arvid. Any disaster would do just so long as the sot ceased to exist.

  “I thought I would find you here my dear. How is my beautiful wife to be?”

  Charmaine, the Charlatan, the man who would be her betrothed, if she was stupid, blind, and ugly, but she was none of those. Even so, after one mistaken bedding when she had been so drunk and the carriage so dark she didn’t realize she had climbed into the wrong one, the fool had decided she had become his. The reasoning, as best she could determine, was that Charmaine figured once a woman bedded a priest of Trelsar, the two became betrothed. Pure crap, of course, but the theory fit well with their bullshit line of honor and purity, and she didn’t know what else. A good many unmarried priests, she knew from personal experience with Charmaine and several others, were nowhere near virginal in mind or body. All of it was just creative noise to make people think they had a right to be holier than thou and judgmental. Most were satisfied with a hit it and run affair, but not Charmaine. He saw her as a way to solidify social connections and make his pockets heavy. By the Seven Gods and Two, the man wasn’t even good looking. He was a dog-ugly common born lout who attempted to ape his betters. The gods only knew how such common trash had gotten into the priesthood. She’d heard he’d bought his way in with misbegotten monies. Another rumor said a priest had gone in debt to him in a poker game so had no choice but to bring him into the priesthood to keep him quiet. Another story claimed one of the under-priests admitted him so Charmaine would shut the hell up. Those rumors and several others all seemed viable to her, especially the last one.

  Big hawkish nose, beady brown eyes, and salt and pepper hair looking like it had been cut by a drunken barber, Charmaine stared at her from across the table, oozing false sympathy and cloying love. The smarmy bastard’s entire demeanor was appalling. He possessed no social graces what-so-ever. Charmaine looked and walked like a scarecrow that had lost all its straw. If a tailor had personally fitted him, it still wouldn’t have mattered. His sharp angles and elbows would have made any attempt at fashion a horror to be near. Not to mention their height difference was abominable. Simta stood barely five-foot-five while Charmaine was several inches over six feet tall. How many inches were hard to tell since he always seemed to hunker. The only thing to possibly make the man more appalling would be if he had had big buck teeth. Fortunately for the world at large, he didn’t. Charmaine had one of those bright beautiful smiles with even white teeth Simta had observed on more than a few confidence men, and this frightened her even more.