Authors: Erica O'Rourke

Bound (8 page)

BOOK: Bound

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Working for Billy was risky—even more than Colin realized, since he didn’t know about Ekomov. If the Russians found out the truth, I’d end up at the bottom of the Chicago River, or in a landfill somewhere outside of Gary. I’d banked on the idea that Jenny Kowalski and Nick Petros could help me take down both organizations. And I’d bought time to figure out how to save Colin and his sister.

But with my dad’s return, my plans were in jeopardy. I’d built a house of cards and he kept jostling the table. I didn’t know his motives, his loyalties, or what he was up to. All I knew was, if he kept interfering, Colin would find out the truth. Everything would come crashing down, and I’d be left with nothing.

I’d learned to live with risk over the last six months—my interactions with the Arcs and the Mob had given me little choice—but the idea that Colin would discover what I’d done still made my skin slick with sweat. Even now, setting down glasses of Guinness and plates of curry fries, my hands shook.

“Go take your break,” Charlie said as I bobbled my tray. “I can drop these off.”

I pushed damp wisps of hair away from my face and smiled, but the expression felt as unsteady as the tray I’d nearly dropped.

“Go on,” he said firmly, and shooed me away.

“I’m fine,” I said, loudly enough for the Quartoren’s guard to hear me. “Back in ten, okay?”

He dipped his head in understanding, and I made my way into the back. There was no reason to be worried. Billy wouldn’t tell Colin, or he’d lose my cooperation. My dad wouldn’t tell, because he’d lose me. But the panic wouldn’t subside. Images flitted through my mind—Colin’s file from social services, Verity in the alley, the fire at The Slice—and the room felt stiflingly small.

My uncle called my name as I grabbed my coat from its hook. “Charlie said you’re ill.”

“Just getting some air. I’m on break.” I yanked on the gray metal door, gulping down icy air.

I let the door swing shut behind me with a solid thunk. The alley was dark, a single streetlight casting a weak glow onto the snow piled at its base. One of the parking spaces had been reserved with a couple of folding chairs, a time-honored Chicago tradition, and I made my way toward them. A few more minutes, I told myself, already feeling the cold penetrate my heavy coat. The magic trembled in response to my own anxiety, and I tried to think of something soothing—the ocean, with gulls wheeling overhead, a cup of hot cocoa during a gentle snowfall—but the images were interrupted by the same ones that had crowded in earlier, all terror and loss. I took slow, deliberate breaths, anchoring myself with the sting in my nose and lungs. A few minutes to wrestle down the fear, and then I could go back in and pretend everything was fine. I’d had practice at pretending, after all.

I never saw the attack coming.

The streetlight flickered and went out with a pop. In the next instant, the bare lightbulbs flanking Morgan’s back door went dark, and the air filled with shadows and rustling.

Darklings.

I sprang up. The street behind Morgan’s was narrow—barely wide enough for a delivery truck to squeeze through—and the creatures coming for me swarmed across the pavement gracelessly, a feral cluster. A screech rang out as one of them dragged a talon across a Buick, sparks bright against their black robes.

Two options: I could try to outrun them—Darklings rarely hunted in populated areas, especially if there was no raw magic to draw them. If I could make it to Western Avenue, with its lights and traffic and witnesses, they might call off their pursuit.

The second option was to duck back into Morgan’s—but that would mean running directly toward them.

And there was a third choice. Luc. Concentrating on the faint tension of our binding, I eased away, toward the far end of the block. Better to try and lose them, I thought. They were moving slowly now, keeping pace with me as I edged backward. Any moment, they would attack, and I needed as many escape routes as I could find. The end of this block—with its cross-streets and Dumpsters and cars—was as good as it was going to get.

I stretched one arm out to the side, feeling my way down the row of cars, never taking my eyes from the horde. I envisioned my free hand curling around the chain that connected me to Luc, trying to focus enough to summon him. Before I could, someone spoke.

“Predictable.” The word was singsong, pitched high enough to scrape along my nerves. “Do it, and they’ll attack. By the time Luc arrives, he’ll find what’s left of you on the ground, well past saving. Déjà vu for the Heir.”

“Anton?” I tore my gaze away from the Darklings, who had halted at the interruption. Where was the guard from inside? The ones monitoring the wards? Why hadn’t they noticed something was wrong? And then I realized—Anton hadn’t triggered any magic. He’d snuck in, disguised as a Flat, just like before. No one was worried. No one was coming.

He stood at the end of the alley, his suit so dark he seemed to be made of shadows, his skin so pale it nearly glowed. He glanced up at the streetlight, and it flickered back on, turning his complexion jaundiced. “They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but wouldn’t you prefer to be an original?”

“Take me Between,” I said. Crazy to be asking him, of all people. But there was no reasoning with Darklings. They’d kill both of us. “Please. Get me out of here.”

He chuckled, ambling down the alley, skirting heaps of snow, lightly skipping over slush-filled puddles. “Why should I help you? Flat girl. Interloper.” He paused as he drew even with me. “Murderer.”

The Darklings were pressing forward. Still not attacking, just prowling, too loose-limbed to be human. Their joints moved in the wrong direction—too many directions—I couldn’t tell which. Tattered hoods covered what was left of their faces. Their words sounded as if they were missing parts—guttural, sibilant noises that must have meant something. But all I understood was that both my nerves and the magic were screaming at me to run.

“You need me alive,” I said, voice cracking. “You need some magic to make the Ascendency happen, right? If they kill me, you’ll lose, too.”

He appeared to consider this. I could sense water lines nearby, the power swelling within them. If I could get him to use that power, to let some of it leach out, it might transfer the Darklings’ attention to him. I could escape, at least long enough for help to arrive.

There was no need to pretend terror as I took another step, trying to position him between me and the Darklings.

“We do need you alive,” Anton mused, stroking his chin. And then he smiled, expression clearing like he’d just solved a particularly tricky riddle. “But not
very
alive. Only partly.”

“I don’t think they do partly,” I said as the Darklings picked up speed, coming toward us with fresh intent. If Anton didn’t act soon, we’d both be dead in the next couple of minutes.

“It’s all in how you ask,” he said, and threw back his head, calling out in the same horrible language the Darklings used. Two of the four leapt overhead and landed with a scraping, clattering noise, blocking my way out of the alley. He turned to me. “If I ask nicely, they should stop just before your heart does. Which will give me exactly what we need.”

“You can talk to them.” The words sounded heavy and stupid as I said them, as pointless as all my plans to flee.

“Even better, I can control them. Do you see what a favor I’m doing you? Without my command holding them back, they’d be feasting on your marrow by now.”

My heart lurched, my vision turning grainy with fear. No wonder he wasn’t afraid. He’d been sending them after me for months—at the park, when I’d put on Verity’s ring; at the Water Tower; at the Allée; even at the golf course where Pascal had tested my connection to the magic. The Darklings weren’t just drawn to magic—they were his own personal death squad.

“You should thank me, Flat.” There was no cruel humor in his voice this time. He meant it. He
expected
it. He took another step toward me, grabbing my wrist. The connection to Luc went cold and inert, pain shooting up my arm. “I’m waiting.”

“Thank you.” My lips formed the words, but no sound came out.

“Better,” he said with a nod. “I want to know about you and the magic. There’s something there you haven’t told anyone. Some truth that no one knows but you.”

I shook my head in frantic denial. Inside me, the magic writhed, and I closed my eyes, trying to calm us both. But all I could see was the Darklings, attacking Verity in the alley, remembering how easily they’d thrown me aside. Anton grabbed my chin roughly, forcing my face up to his, and my eyes snapped open again.

His breath was sour and hot against my face. “You like free will, and now you get to exercise it. I want to know about the magic—what you can do with it, why you’ve survived. And you are going to tell me. But I will let you choose. I can work a Rivening—you sit quietly and let me drag those secrets out of your clever little brain—or I can let the Darklings at you. Slowly, because you’ll need enough breath to tell me the truth.” His hand slid down to my throat and he squeezed. Black spots bloomed before my eyes. “It would start the Ascendency, but that’s fine. What’s that saying? Killing two birds with one stone?”

He released me and I fell to the ground, gasping for air, the slush soaking through my coat and jeans. The Darklings shuffled closer, the scent of blood, like scorched metal, thick in the air. I scrambled away, but one reached out and snagged my coat. The fabric ripped wide open, and I fell again.

I swallowed down the bile flooding my mouth. Inside me, the magic thrashed, and I willed it to burst free, to incinerate Anton and the Darklings. I’d seen how much damage raw magic could do. Surely now, when we were both in danger, it could protect us.

But even as it battered against my veins, I couldn’t find a way to release it.

Anton reached for me with both his hands and his magic, and I wanted to scream. I started to scream—sucked in the night air, felt my throat ready itself—but the sound died before it reached my lips, because there was another, inhuman shriek, and the head of a Darkling flew above us, landing heavily on the lid of a nearby Dumpster.

“Touch her again, it won’t be birds I’m killin’.”

Luc stood at the entrance to the alley, the body of a Darkling at his feet, ruby flames dancing along the edge of his sword. The symbols inscribed along the flat of the blade seemed to burn golden white, and I could sense the power within, a hunger fueled by rage. He stepped forward, ducking under the reach of the second Darkling, and buried his sword to the hilt in its chest, yanking upward until the rotting flesh cleaved in two. “Mouse?”

I bit back a sob. “I’m okay.”

Anton whirled to face him, face twisting, shouting orders at the remaining Darklings. They bounded past, intent on Luc and his blazing sword, forgetting I was even there.

I’d never seen such berserker fury on Luc’s face, but the numbers still weren’t good—especially when I felt Anton draw on the nearest line, power surging up, centering a deep blue light in the palm of his hand.

It was instinct that propelled me forward, coming out of my crouch like a sprinter off the blocks, shoving Anton the instant before the energy left his hands. The bolt went wide, blowing the door off a car and knocking down a telephone pole.

“Stupid little bitch,” he snarled, and reached for me, but I scrambled away, scooping up the chair I’d sat on earlier, swinging it wildly. I managed to get in one blow, knocking him back again, and then he spoke a word and the chair disintegrated in my hands.

“Luc!” I shouted. He looked up from the fight. Blood was running down his arm, and he shouted something that knocked both Darklings back several yards.

“Behind you!” he called. I glanced back, expecting to see some new, horrible threat. Instead, there was a gash in the air—a pocket of emptiness I’d seen him use before, and I thrust my hand in, hoping I wasn’t going to fall through and find myself lost in Between.

Instead, my fingers found something wrapped in cloth, slightly larger than a football and heavy for its size. I pushed past layers of linen until I felt metal, burning with cold, against my palm. Anton grabbed my hair and yanked me toward him, tears springing to my eyes.

The magic rose up, vengeful, as I grasped the handle and whirled, blade extended, and felt it slice Anton’s arm. He cried out and let go, and I ran toward Luc.

“Down!” Luc cried, and I dropped to the ground. He sent a bolt of energy along the sword, aiming for Anton. There was only one Darkling left, but I could feel Anton gathering magic—huge swaths of it, readying a strike. Luc was chanting; the Darkling was making wet, sucking sounds as it stalked around him; Anton was muttering incantations of his own; and my breath was so loud and ragged in my ears, I shouldn’t have been able to hear anything.

But when the back door of Morgan’s flew open, the sound of the metal door smashing into the wall was louder than a rifle. And for an instant, as my uncle strode into the midnight-dark alley, we all fell silent.

“We’ve a bar full of—” He broke off as he took in the scene before him. “What in the name of—Mo?”

“Go back inside,” I shouted. Anton flashed me a grin, shifting his stance toward Billy as Luc and the Darkling continued to battle.

BOOK: Bound

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