Husk: A Maresman Tale (22 page)

Jeb took a step toward her, but she held up a hand to ward him off.

“I lost…” she said. “I lost…”

The stygian had said she’d lost something, when he’d infused her with sorcerous power at her request. But what? What had she lost?

“I can’t…” She ground her teeth, as if her jaw no longer fit together. “Oh, Jeb!” She hugged her arms about her shoulders and shuddered as wave after wave of sobbing wracked her frame.

“There was another husk,” Jeb said. “Over at Boss’s place.”

She managed to nod through her torment.

“A stygian.”

She groaned, building to a wail within which the word “yes” was barely discernible.

“It said it helped you. Helped you to gain control of the blood trail.”

More nodding.

“So that you could hunt the hunters?”

“Lure them,” she said through her sniffles. “Then hide the trail so I could take them by surprise. It worked, Jeb. It definitely worked!”

“But you lost something in the process, the stygian said.”

A low keening escaped her lips.

“What was it?” Jeb asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “What did you—?”

She stopped trembling and sank to her knees, letting her hair fall back over her face. “You are my last, Jeb. My only.”

Jeb frowned in confusion, and then the realization hit him. “You’re barren?” How was that even possible? “You can have no more children?” The very thing that defined her, her sole purpose, her tenuous grip on existence.

She dropped her head to the floor and swept her trailing hair in circles over it. She tried to speak, but nothing came out except inchoate cries.

“So, all that’s left for you…” Jeb started to say, but there was no need to voice it, no need to tell her what she already knew. All she had left was rage. It wasn’t just about revenge upon the Maresmen; she had a vendetta against the living, the tangible, the truly existent.

In that moment, Jeb knew the question had been answered for him. What choice did he have? She might have been his mother, in some unfathomable way, but she was a husk—a crazed husk with nothing left to live for but the death of others. If he’d had his saber—

But would he? Could he really?

He let out an anguished howl and turned away from her. Maisie grabbed him by the ankle. He froze, torn between kicking her off and yearning for more of her touch—Maisie’s or his mother’s, pleasure or comfort, it was hard to tell which. Her fingers crept up the leg of his britches, but she wasn’t trying to arouse him. Inch by inch, she pulled herself from the floor, until at last she stood behind him. She spun him round, caught his face in her hands, and looked right into his eyes.

All he saw was madness.

“I wanted Sweet to frighten you off, Jeb,” she said in a voice like a child’s. “So you wouldn’t have to choose. So I wouldn’t.”

“I know,” he said. “I worked that out for myself.”

“I have nothing,” she said. “Nothing left. I am nothing.”

That was something he could understand. His cheek began to twitch, and he dropped his eyes from hers. Was that part of what she’d given him, the sense of his own emptiness, the insatiable lust that led only to despair? Was Marlec wrong? Had the monk simply tried to placate him, keep him from a truth that was too harsh to bear?

“The Abyss,” he said, snagging her gaze once more and scrutinizing her eyes for any glimmer of hope, of understanding, of kinship. “Before you appeared in my dream, I was in the Abyss, beside the black river.”

“Oh, Jeb,” she said, moisture forming in her eyes. She reached up and stroked his face. “It’s gone. Finally gone. The Demiurgos is no more.”

“How do you know?”

She let out a weary sigh. “His child is at rest. The Cynocephalus sleeps less fitfully, and Qlippoth produces little that is new. It has grown… stable.”

“But there were demons—a giant encased in ice, a skull-headed man wading through the dark waters, a tentacled monster, a dwarf with a blood-soaked axe.”

“Footprints, darling. Memories of what once was, just like with Maisie and your…mother. These things have passed. You need not fear them. What you should worry about is much closer to home.”

“You?”

She stepped back, affronted. “No! Mortis, of course. Him and all the other Maresmen. Do you think they’ll stand around chatting like this? They want only to kill me, Jeb. Me, your mother.”

“Are you surprised, after what you’ve done? Isn’t that still what you plan to do? Lure them in? Kill each and every one of them.”

“Not now I’ve found you. Not now I have you back.”

Jeb felt his expression harden. “You don’t.”

“But darling, I thought—”

“I’m a Maresman,
mother
, or had you forgotten?”

The blood drained from her face. “But… But you and me, Jeb, just like old times. Just like when you were little.”

“Lies,” Jeb said. “It was all a lie. I thought you were someone else.”

“No.” It came out like a moan. “No, it wasn’t a lie. It’s who we are. What we are.”

Jeb took a step away from her. “Not me. I’m more human than husk, remember. All I got from you is as untouchable as the clouds. This…” He patted his chest, his face. “You didn’t give me this. My father did. My
real
mother. You’re nothing but an infection, a parasite.”

She let out an anguished wail, spinning a circle on her heels and clutching her belly. “No, Jeb. Please. You’re all I have. You’re all I am.”

“I’m sorry,” Jeb said.

She stiffened and stilled, a series of masks playing over her face as if she were running through all the options. She settled on a bright-eyed smile that made Maisie look suddenly girlish.

“What if I go, cross back into Qlippoth? I could stay there. There’s no need for this. Don’t make me, Jeb. Don’t make me hurt you.”

Her desperation touched a nerve, made him consider. Finally, Jeb gave a slow shake of his head. “I don’t think so. You’ve gone too far. You couldn’t stop if you wanted to.”

“I could, Jeb. Please believe me. I give you my word.”

“They’ll come after you,” he said. “The Maresmen. They’ve gone into Qlippoth before.”

“Then I’ll ditch the body, drift with the clouds. Please, Jeb, do it for me. You have to let me try.”

Jeb glanced past her to the room beyond. If his weapons were in there, if he could only find them…

She followed his gaze, seemed to read what he was thinking. “Don’t make me. I killed those others, Jeb. You know what I can do. Please, give me this chance. I can make it right. I’ll stay away, and one day, years from now, maybe you’ll—”

“Go,” he snapped. “Now. And don’t come back.”

Her mouth hung open, and her eyes stared at him blankly. A tremor started in her fingers, worked its way up her arm, set her chin quivering. She tried to say something, but her lips couldn’t form the words, and then, with a blurry streak of movement, she shot from the room, faster than anything Jeb had ever seen.

He watched the space where she’d stood, fighting the hole in his chest that hungered to swallow him. His legs were stone, his arms hanging limp at his sides. But it was his mind that troubled him most; it was congealing, thick like molasses. Barely a word could form in its sludge, never mind a coherent thought.

Then, something snapped, and he lurched forward to the doorway. He held onto the jamb and stared dumbly at the office beyond. A desk; a chair either side of it; chest of drawers; crossbow hanging by the half-open door to the square outside, a case of bolts slung casually beneath it.

He crossed the room and pushed the door shut. He half-turned from it, stopped, and slid its single bolt into place. A fly buzzed past his ear. Quick as ever, Jeb’s hand snapped out and caught it. He held it a moment in his fist, the tickle of its frenetic struggles barely registering. She’d been fast, his mother. Faster than him. No doubt she was stronger, too, and by all accounts, certainly more ruthless. It wasn’t fear of him that made her leave, that was for sure. It was concern for what she might have to do to him. He crushed the fly and brushed it off his palm.

He tried the drawers, but they were locked. A quick scan came up with nothing he could use, but then he remembered: the keys to the cell were still in the door. He found a small one on the bunch that fit, and retrieved his things. Seemed the sheriff wasn’t all bad after all. The flintlock was there, with its bag of powder. So were the saber, his hat, and the stygian’s amulet. It pulsed with a blue glow, but even as he pocketed it, the light was dying. She was on the move, that was for certain. He only hoped she kept on going till she was the other side of the Farfalls.

Another fly landed on his cheek. He swatted it with his hat, but this time he missed. It buzzed an angry spiral around the room before settling on the floor.

Something caught Jeb’s eye there, and he moved closer to get a better look. It was a metal ring—the handle to a trapdoor. Half a dozen more flies had congregated there. Probably Tanner had off food in the cellar. Either that, or he had a dead body down there. He dismissed the thought with a low chuckle. Would’ve been one hell of a stench if that were the case.

He returned to the front door and unbolted it. On impulse, he pocketed the keys, then paused in the entrance, wondering whether he should have left them.

Unbidden, the sheriff’s naked corpse appeared in his mind’s eye, hands still covering his privates, and beside him, in no better state, was the man who’d brought Jeb’s food. Just an aftershock of his dream, he wanted to believe, but it sent such a cold thrill along his spine, it wouldn’t have surprised him if the next thing he ran into was a couple of stiffs.

He cast a long, lingering look back at the flies on the trapdoor, thought about taking a peek inside. Not part of the job, he told himself. Hunt or be hunted. It was as simple as that. Any more than that was someone else’s business.

He stepped out into the square and locked the door behind him.

24

I
F THEY WERE
surprised to see him back at the Sea Bed, the staff didn’t show it. Maybe one or two of the clientele did, but with that kind, a furtive look could mean any one of a hundred things. Jeb did his best to ignore them, and set about his breakfast of ham and eggs with gusto.

Maisie was almost certainly lying about Tanner. There was no way he’d have left her unattended with her son. Even if his precious law book allowed for such a thing, he was no fool. The sheriff was either dead or incapacitated, and of the two, dead was the most likely. Sooner or later, someone would notice, and it didn’t take a lot of brains to work out who that left in charge.

But there was a more pressing concern than Boss and his goons. Slythe had sent word to the Maresmen. Even allowing for the dispatch rider to reach Malfen, and the Maresmen to travel the other way, they could be in town any moment, if they weren’t there already.

Jeb crammed in the last of his ham and chugged it down with a gulp of coffee. He was half-out of his chair, draining the rest of his cup, when a commotion from reception had him turning.

“Told you he was here,” Davy Fana said, jabbing a finger Jeb’s way.

Jeb set his cup on the table and reached for the hilt of his saber. Before he could start to draw it, a hand clapped down on Davy’s shoulder.

“Thought I told you to sling your shogging hook.”

A stocky man slammed Davy against the doorjamb and leaned into him. He had thick brows and a swarthy face, more stubble than skin. His arms seemed too long for his body, and they were heavy with muscle. His black hair was wound back in a long braid that fell like a horse’s tail over his jerkin—also black. His britches were black, too, and so were his knee-length boots. He raised a fist, but before he could swing, a massive hand caught him by the wrist, and Terabin Sweet loomed over him, a strip of white cloth wound round his jaw and over the crown of his head.

“Leave the lad alone, Barlow,” Sweet said through swollen lips. Dried blood clung to the corners of his mouth, stained the front of his teeth.

Barlow yanked his arm free and spun on Sweet. “Don’t you shogging tell me—”

Sweet silenced him with a look, and Barlow backed off to the reception desk, muttering curses under his breath.

Jeb released his saber, left it hanging in its scabbard. To let Sweet see he’d almost drawn would be a sign of weakness. Instead, he shrugged his coat collar higher and cocked his head to one side. He couldn’t help it: he made a fist behind his back, but from the front, he hoped, he was a study in boredom.

Sweet limped into the bar, raised his eyes to meet Jeb’s, and looked away. A flush crept over his cheeks, but it did nothing to hide the bruises Jeb had given him. Likely, no one had ever handed him such a beating before. Man like that, whose name was built on his size and the misuse of it, would have a hard time coming to terms with losing a fight.

Jeb had seen enough of Sweet’s kind to know what was coming next. Surprise had been on the big man’s side that first time, and Jeb had been favored by it on the rematch. Third time round it was all even, and though Jeb knew he was faster by far, and had the power to knock Sweet out if he caught him right, he couldn’t stave off the nerves. In all other respects, he knew there was a very real chance he’d met his match. The size of Sweet’s fists; the strength in his arms; it would only take one blow and—

“Didn’t come here to fight, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Sweet said without looking up from his shoes. “Reckon I got my comeuppance, and I ain’t ashamed to admit it.” Now he fixed Jeb with a stare, this time steady as you like. “You got the better of me, Maresman, fair and square.”

There was an almost audible sigh of relief from the others in the bar. No sooner had the low hubbub of chatter resumed, than Jeb realized how deafening the silence had been. He pulled out a chair for Sweet, and sat on one himself. Davy made a beeline for the empty tables, picking at the scraps of food left over from breakfast.

Sweet waved a serving wench over and told her to fix the lad a meal. “Promised him a bite to eat in return for finding you,” he said as he lowered himself into the chair, keeping his injured knee extended. He clasped his hands together in front of him and didn’t seem to know where to put his eyes.