Shadow City (18 page)

“Now, I want you to listen real good, because the sun is coming, and we don’t have time to fuck around with you anymore.
Max. Isn’t. Dead
. Got it?” The knife prodded deeper. “You’ve got that damned prophecy telling you she’s not. But even if she was, we’d hunt her down in hell or wherever Scooter took her, and we’d drag her ass back. So you can stop with all this bullshit and get back to the work she left for you, which is being Prime of Horngate. Either that, or I’ll let Tutresiel kill you. Trust me, he’ll enjoy it.”

Before Alexander could answer, a hulking shadow blocked his vision. Beyul snapped his jaws shut on Niko’s knife hand. The Grim dragged him away as if he were wadded-up newspaper. Oddly, Niko didn’t fight. He sagged, his face going gray. Beyul growled and shook his hand back and forth.

Niko toppled over onto his stomach, his eyes sprung wide. A gravelly gasp rattled slowly from his throat.

“Let him go,” Alexander ordered. The words felt unfamiliar, and it was difficult to move his tongue and lips to form them. Beyul snarled at him around Niko’s hand, the Grim’s green eyes flaring brightly.

“He is
mine,
” Alexander said, leaping to his feet and baring his teeth back. “Let him go.” His Prime had not receded, and his vision blurred as the predator clamped down on him. This time he did not give in.

Beyul eyed him for a long moment, then let go, dropping Niko’s hand and sitting down, panting, looking like an ordinary dog.

Alexander reached down and turned Niko onto his back. The other Blade wasn’t breathing.
No
.

“Val, can you help him?”

She dropped to her knees on the other side of Niko. She glared at Alexander, her expression taut, tears shining on her cheeks. “Don’t go running out on me like that again. I couldn’t take losing you.”

The furious accusation in her voice made Alexander wince. “I will not,” he said, his cheeks flushing as he dropped his gaze. Even so, he was still fighting for control with every bit of strength he had.

“Better not,” she muttered, and then turned her attention to Niko. Her head tipped to the side, her eyes closing as she extended her hands flat above him. Silvery smoke wreathed around her arms and ribboned around his body. “Shit.”

“What?”

“His soul has slipped out of his body.”

“It what?”

“Whatever anchors his spirit to his flesh has been broken. He’s going to die.”

Alexander’s body clenched, the feral part of him clawing up inside him. He fought it down. “Can you bring him back?”

“No, but you can. If he hasn’t drifted off, he’ll have to answer to your Prime.”

“What do I do?”

“Cut him. You need blood contact. Then tell him to get his shit together and get back into his body.”

Alexander reached for his knife, but it was gone. He had no idea when or where he had lost it.

“Here.” Thor handed him one.

“Can we do anything?” Tyler asked, his voice emotionless. He had gone as cold as the black ocean depths.

“Pray, if you have gods that will listen,” Valery said in a dreamy voice. The silvery smoke had taken on a tinge of green and brown. It curled around Niko’s body and burrowed inside him.

Alexander grabbed the prone man’s hand—the same one Beyul had been chewing on. The skin was doughy and white, with a dozen or more puncture wounds. They were bloodless, as if they’d been sucked dry. He glanced at the Grim. Beyul’s tongue lolled from his mouth. It looked like he was grinning. “You could help,” he told the Grim in a hard voice. Beyul closed his mouth, his green eyes flaring brightly, then he shook himself and lay down, propping his muzzle on his forelegs.
Bastard
.

Since he doubted that there was blood to be had in that arm, Alexander jammed the blade straight into the lower part of Niko’s thigh, sawing back and forth until he found an artery. But instead of a bright red spray, the blood oozed out in a thick syrup.
Good enough
.

He had no idea what he was supposed to do, but Valery was too caught up in healing to answer questions.
So improvise
. He pushed his fingers into the wound, splaying them wide to keep the wound from healing before he got Niko back. Thick blood coated his hand.
Now what?

“The dawn is coming, Niko. Time to get back into your body.” He muttered the words, as if speaking to himself. Nothing happened. He looked up and then around at Tutresiel, Thor, Tyler, and Valery. His brow furrowed. “Get your ass back into your body,
now,
Niko!” The shouted words echoed from the valley walls.

He gouged his fingers deeper into the wound, as if he could force Niko’s spirit to obey.

“Blood is all you need,” Val whispered. “Be Prime.”

Suddenly, Alexander understood. His hand clenched, and he pulled it free from Niko’s flesh. His skin went cold. The risk was high. He’d almost lost himself entirely to his Prime when he’d heard about Max’s death—

He sucked a harsh breath, and his mind veered away from thinking about the probability of it. He had to believe in her. If he let himself slide back over the line into feral madness, he would be lost forever. It was unheard of to come back even once; he would not bet on twice.

And yet—

To bring Niko back, Alexander had to give himself to the Prime inside him. He had to unleash the beast’s power. He had no choice. It was his fault Beyul had attacked and it was his responsibility to keep Niko safe.

He looked at Tutresiel. The angel was the only one who could terminate him if he went rabid. He could not be allowed to roam free, killing. “You will do it if I go too far again?”

Tutresiel needed no explanation. He reached his hand out into the darkness, and a sword flashed into his hand. Its long length shone with brilliant white witch-light. “I’ll be more than happy to help out,” he said, flourishing the blade.

“I knew you would.”

With that, Alexander let go of his humanity once again. It sloughed away like a shed skin. His Prime flexed, his senses spreading out. He searched the group around him. Not threats. No. His.
His to protect, his to punish
. His lips curled at the angel, his head dropping as he tensed. He growled softly.

“Remember Niko,” Tyler urged hoarsely.

Alexander’s head jerked around. The other Blade was rigid, his muscles twitching as he held himself still. He kept his eyes averted, unthreatening.

Niko’s body was sheathed in a blanket of woven mist. A sheen of sweat gleamed on Valery’s forehead. The caustic-sweet scent of Divine magic filled the air, along with his own sweat, blood, and the smells of the mountain.

There were no sounds except for their breathing. Every other creature had run or burrowed deep down where he could no longer hear their hearts beating or their wings flicking. He could feel the sun coming, like a fiery tide. It was only an hour away, if that.

“Hurry the fuck up before we lose him!” Tyler took a jerking step forward, his face twisting with unfamiliar fear. He had lost Max; he did not want to lose a brother.

Thor caught Tyler’s arm and held him back as Alexander rose to his feet with a fluid, animal grace. He pushed outward, straining his senses, reaching out further than he ever had. Everything inside him bent toward retrieving Niko. The bastard was not going to get away that easily. Alexander was done losing.

He could feel Niko’s spirit like a thickening in the air. There was a distinctive flavor to him: week-old coffee grounds, chocolate, and starshine.

“Niko, return to your body,” Alexander ordered with all the power of his Prime. The spirit twitched and trembled, but nothing. He knew Niko was not unwilling, but the Blade needed something more. Alexander clenched his teeth, his jaw muscles knotting. He had to do more.

He had unleashed his Prime, but he had not given himself to the beast. It was not enough. He had to cut the last ties to his humanity. He might never come back. Even going feral, he had on some level remembered himself, his name, and who he was.

Now—

He did not think as he let go of the last of his humanity and fully embraced the Shadowblade.

The Prime glared around at those surrounding him. Their bodies were ghostlike, overlaying cores of rainbow color. He sniffed, recognizing each one. His, his, his—

The angel was silver fire. No ghost, no rainbow. Heat rolled off him and around the Prime. He snarled, and the silver fire laughed low but said nothing. He held a long spike of power. It shone with fierce light, but inside was a core of black so hard and so cold that it felt like soulless death.

The Prime’s attention shifted to the other one. A Grim. He could barely see it. Its color and shape were like clear water rushing in an ancient river. Despite the vast hum of the creature’s power, he felt no threat from it. No threat from any of them.

A flicker caught his attention. His head jerked up. A cancerous gray blob boiled in the air. He wrinkled his nose, his lips pulling from his teeth. Rot. Sickness.

He growled deep in his belly and paced toward it. He was aware of everything. The brush of the wind, the smell of the rock and pines, the beating hearts of his companions, the billowing currents of power across a landscape of the spirit.

His attention honed in on the drifting spirit. It was being pulled away. The Prime felt it fight the dragging demand. Fury swelled inside him.

His.

He leaped. His body arced through the air, and he hooked clawed fingers in the gray. They caught. The spirit wrapped around him. Acid seared his flesh and bubbled his skin. He dropped to the ground, landing on his hands and somersaulting before coming to his feet.

Pain soaked through his flesh like water on parched sand. He snatched the gray spirit before it could flitter away. He balled it in his hands like moth-eaten silk, his skin blackening and dripping away in greasy blobs.

He clenched his hands, crushing the spirit. He felt its essence—anger, pain, fear, and, underneath all of that, a deep and unwilling trust.

The last shocked him and sent odd warmth down into his soul. Roots. He did not know why. The spirit was his. Of course, it would trust him. And yet . . . It felt remarkable. Strange and precious.

“Alexander!”

He wheeled around at the harsh shout. It came from the smoke witch on the ground. Divine magic poured out of her and wrapped a fading figure on the ground. She smelled of wind and freedom and the bones of the world. He had the urge to rub against her like a cat. She was safe.

“Put him back,” she whispered.

He heard her heart pounding and smelled her sweat. It was sharp and bitter with adrenaline and exhaustion. He looked down at the gray spirit. His hands were entirely black now, and the gray had crept up over his forearms. He sensed its urgency and frustration.

He paced over to her and squatted down. Guided by knowledge he did not understand, he slammed the spirit ball down onto the mist-wreathed body. Pain exploded in his hands and jetted up his arms. He stayed that way, scowling down at the prone man. He was supposed to do more. He was certain. He had no idea what. He snarled silently.

“Tell him to stay,” the smoke witch urged. She swayed back and forth with exhaustion, and he could smell copper-sweet blood. “You
have
to tell him to stay. He needs you to anchor him, or he’s going to die. Hurry.”

He reached for words. His mouth worked. Nothing came. It was as if he had never learned to speak. But he had once. He was sure.

“Hurry.” The smoke witch gasped. Her voice had turned high and thin, like a trapped animal.

He hesitated. Urgency filled him with punishing force. He bent over. The gray spirit had unfurled and floated like a tattered sail above the body, pinned in place by the Prime’s hands. The edges were curling like burned paper.

“Damn you! Fucking do something!” This from one whose colors swirled with fiery life. He was strong. Not a threat. Not now. Another wrestled him back. He was full of wild blue storm light.

The Prime turned back to the fallen one. Anger spiraled into a blistering tornado inside him. Impatiently, he grabbed the man’s collar and pulled him up. He shook him. The man’s head bobbled and flopped back and forth. The Prime sucked in a seething breath. Force would not do it. He had no words.

He felt his power ballooning with his frustrated fury. The fiery ghost and the storm-light ghost staggered back, both cowering to the ground. The angel stepped closer, raising his sword. The Prime snarled, and the Grim rose and went to sit between them. He stared up at the angel, who stopped dead in his tracks.

The Prime turned back to the spirit. He gripped the body behind the neck and began to shove the spirit into his slack mouth, even as the smoke witch fed more magic into the misty healing cocoon. It did not help. The spirit did not absorb into its home flesh.

The Prime wanted to howl. He gritted his teeth, refusing to be defeated.
His
to guard;
his
to punish;
his
to save. There was nothing more important. If he failed, he would not be forgiven.
She
would not forgive him.

In that moment, a shaft of pain thrust through him, marrying the Prime with the man. In that single moment, Alexander and the Prime knew each other. They burned in shared grief so deeply penetrating that for a moment, the world stopped turning, and there was nothing left but ash and despair. The pain was so vast it seemed as if they would shatter.

Alexander’s head fell back, and his mouth opened in a silent howl that tore his throat with its brutal intensity.

And then time resumed, because one death does not end the world, not even Max’s, and even in death, Alexander knew that there could be no escape from the hurt. All he could do was guard what was hers—what was now his.

“Niko,” he said in a strangled voice. “Stay put.” He put all the force of his Prime into those words. Power exploded from him, and Niko convulsed. His entire body shook and clenched. His hands and heels hammered the ground. His teeth clattered together, and his eyes rolled up into his head.

Alexander laid him down and stood. The ghostly sight had not vanished with the return of his sense of self. It continued to overlie the world. He blinked. It was going to take some getting used to. But as he watched, emerald color flowed into Niko.