Dawnbreaker: Legends of the Duskwalker - Book 3 (4 page)

But no. An instant later the illusion faded, and even before the front door had swung fully closed, Wren saw that the man was shorter than Three had been, stockier in build, skin tone darker. Still, the shock lingered with a wisping trace of disappointment and a renewed sense of loss. Cruel that one’s own mind could play such a bitter trick.

And yet there remained a hint of familiarity that he couldn’t completely dismiss. Something vague and elusive that seemed to flutter at the edge of his thoughts, like something seen out of the corner of the eye and gone when looked upon.

Wren’s vision readjusted to the dim light and he took in the scene. The man was the only one sitting. For his part, he seemed entirely at ease despite being surrounded by a number of tightly-wound, rough-looking men. His deep eyes were bright and piercingly alert, set in a wide, round face. A dark stubble of hair dusted his head, a few days’ growth after a clean shave perhaps. His thick-fingered hands were clasped before him and rested atop what at first appeared to be some sort of thin box. As Wren reached the table though he realized it was not a box at all, but was instead a thick book; leather-bound, battered, dusted with the grime of travel and use.

Wren hovered at the edge of the table, hesitant to sit. He was aware of the others in the room, but his eyes were drawn intently to those of the man across from him. The man gazed back unblinking. For a span, no one spoke; hardly anyone moved.

“Hello,” the man said. His voice was warm and vibrant, not particularly deep or loud, but full and rounded.

“Hi,” Wren answered.

“I seem to have alarmed your friends,” the man said. A gentle smile spread across his face at a speed like that of a man holding up his hands to show he was unarmed.

“I don’t think that’s wise.”

“Neither do I. Nor was it my intent.”

Without understanding why, Wren felt some of the tension start to melt away. There was something wholesome about the man; he emanated a kind of steady peace, a quiet strength. Even so, Wren had learned not to trust too readily. He slid into the empty chair directly across from the man, reminding himself to guard his words.

“They said you had questions,” Wren said.

The man inclined his head forward.

“I’m looking for someone. A man,” he said. “Judging from the reaction, I suspect I’m correct in thinking it was a man you may have traveled with some time ago.”

“I’ve traveled a lot,” Wren said, trying to sound casual. “With a lot of different people.”

“I suspect this particular individual might stick in one’s memory.”

“What do you want with him?”

“Nothing insidious,” the man answered, raising his hands slightly to give a clearer view of his book. “I’m a chronicler. A historian, of sorts. I know something of his past, but I’m a bit behind.” He smiled again. “Just trying to fill in the gaps.”

“You knew him? Before?”

The man nodded.

“Then I guess you know how he’d feel about people asking questions about him.”

For the first time, the man’s eyes left Wren’s and flicked down to his own hands. His smile shifted, more inwardly focused. He nodded again. “I do, very well.” The man looked back up at Wren. “I see you also knew him well. And that you wish to protect him.”

Wren held himself still, but in that moment the vague sense of familiarity snapped into focus. It wasn’t a single feature or trait about the man that reminded him of Three, but rather the sum of many ethereal qualities taken together; the man’s utter stillness, the fluidity of his few movements, the almost surgical gaze.

The man glanced around at the ring of men that had him surrounded and took a deep breath, then nodded seemingly to himself. He looked back to Wren and leaned forward, as if sharing a secret.

“My name is Haiku,” he said. “Of House Eight.”

He said it as though it should have more meaning to Wren than it did. He must have read Wren’s face, though, because after a moment he leaned a little closer and said something that hit Wren with a fresh storm of emotion.

“Three was my brother.”

C
ass focused
her attention back to her immediate surroundings. The moon carved a channel of soft light through the darkened room, stark as it spilled across the dusty floor and over the scattered piles of debris. It was odd to see such clutter; much of the area surrounding Morningside had been so thoroughly scavenged over the years as to be almost clean. She wondered just how far out from the city she was now. Or if perhaps there was something about this particular building that had marked it off-limits. Cass tried not to think about what that might mean.

The Weir were still near and active, though their calls to one another were trailing off, coming less frequently. They hadn’t seemed to be searching in any organized way, but after a minute or two Cass decided to move out of the front room. If she could get higher up in the building, she might be able to get a better sense of what was going on out there.

There was a door in the back wall, flat grey, slightly recessed. As quietly as she was able, she edged her way to it and found it led to a narrow passage that ended in a stairwell. Cass moved in cautiously and after a moment’s consideration, pushed the door nearly shut. There was a handle on this side of it, but she didn’t feel quite confident enough to close it all the way.

When Cass reached the base of the stairs, she was relieved to find they were concrete. A cheap, rough cast, they were uneven, chipped, and cracked. But they weren’t likely to creak when she put her weight on them. She ascended. The second floor appeared to be laid out much like the one below it. There were slit windows here though, and the gloom lay less heavy. The slant of the ceiling above the steps suggested another staircase. A quick glance through the nearest window revealed little more than the faces of the surrounding buildings, so Cass climbed the next flight.

The third floor didn’t deviate from the established floorplan, except that there were no stairs leading further up. A thin metal railing ran around the top of the stairwell; a rusting mesh clung to it with haphazard welds. With each passing minute, Cass became more confident that the building wasn’t harboring any Weir, and after a brief search of the upper rooms, she allowed herself to relax ever so slightly. For the first time since she’d entered the building, she lowered her weapon and let it dangle from its sling. She kept one hand on it.

As on the floor below, slit windows perforated the thick outer wall at even intervals. Cass moved to one at the front right corner, close to the stairs, where she could keep her back to the adjacent wall while she tried to get her bearings. She didn’t have much of a vantage from the narrow window, and she’d gotten so turned around she wasn’t even exactly sure where she should be looking anyway. It took her almost a minute of scanning to find the building where she’d left Wick and Able. When she did locate it, the distance surprised her. It seemed farther away than it should have been. But even from this far out, she could see the flickering moonlight glow dancing within the hole in the front of the building.

The Weir. They’d taken the building.

Maybe Wick and Able had made it out. Or maybe they, like so many others before them, had given their lives to save the rest of the team. Cass tried not to think about the likelihood that they were
all
dead, and that she was now truly alone. But whatever had happened, she was on her own, if not for good, at least for now.

For a time Cass just stood, scanning the broken horizon, waiting for the flood of emotion to hit her. The weight of the loss and the isolation. But it didn’t come. Whether she was too juiced up from the fighting or too exhausted by the same, she simply acknowledged the situation and accepted it for the moment. If she survived till dawn, maybe she’d have her break down then. But not now. For now, there was only
what next
. She dropped down into a crouch by the window and took inventory. It didn’t take long. There wasn’t much.

Cass dropped the magazine from the rifle and combined the ammunition with what was left of her other unspent magazine. That left her about half a mag. Her go-bag still had a few rations, a couple of water canisters, some extra clothes, a light.

What was the best thing to do now? She’d done all she could for the team. Maybe they’d been able to escape, or maybe they were all lying slaughtered somewhere out there. There was still the tunnel. If she could find her way back to it. She could probably catch up with Chapel and Wren, if not before sunrise certainly before they reached the end of that long darkness.

But no. Even as she pictured it in her mind, she knew she couldn’t rejoin them. Not now. Maybe not ever. Asher may have spent his wrath on Morningside, but Cass knew with cold certainty he wouldn’t stop there. He might let Wren go, now that he’d inflicted whatever cruelty it was that had left Wren unconscious. Might, if perhaps he could reclaim Cass. Tormenting Wren had mostly been Asher’s way of controlling
her
, after all. His threats a way of keeping her in line. Exploiting her greatest vulnerability.

And what of it now? If Wren was beyond his reach... no, whatever Asher had become, Cass very much doubted anyone was truly beyond his reach now. But maybe if she were closer at hand...

Before the idea had fully formed in her conscious mind, her heart had understood and committed. She knew what she had to do. She would make herself both bait and trap. Not much different than what she had just attempted with the Weir. A greater degree, perhaps. Perhaps a far greater degree. She would tease Asher with her presence; taunt him by dangling herself just beyond his grasp. How she would manage it, Cass would have to figure out later. She was too tired, too mind-numb to do any serious planning. She would keep east of the Strand. Haunt the ruins of Morningside, maybe, and its surroundings. Make it up as she went along.

For the moment, though, she needed to make it through the night. The howls of the Weir were still out there, but they were few and far between. The throng had broken up, or wandered off together. She stood and gazed out of the window again. The building where she’d left Able and Wick was dark now, inside and out, black silhouette against a midnight sky. And though she didn’t want to admit it, Cass was loathe to leave the relative safety of her current location. It felt good to have elevation, and sturdy walls around her. From here, she could put her back to the corner and have the drop on anything that came up the stairs. And anything that wanted to get her was going to have to come up those stairs.

After a minute, Cass decided she’d take a little time to rest before she headed back out. That’d give the Weir time to scatter further, and might help her head get clearer. She settled down to the floor, back against the wall under the window. After she loaded her weapon with the half-magazine, she drank some water, and forced herself to eat a little, even though she wasn’t remotely hungry. Her eyes were dry and felt too big for their sockets. It was quiet. And she was so weary. Twenty minutes she’d give herself. Twenty minutes, and then she’d go back out into the night. Cass lay Wick’s rifle across her lap with her hand on the grip, and let her eyes fall closed.

I
t was
a feeling that woke her more than anything else. The sense that something had changed. Cass checked the time and saw she’d slept for over an hour. She clenched her jaw. Nothing she could do about it now. And she felt certain she had a bigger problem to deal with anyway. She strained to hear over the sound of her own heartbeat, and after a moment, she heard it. A faint, gritty rustle; a concrete whisper. A footstep, its weight carefully, painstakingly shifted to avoid making any sound, betrayed only by the grime on the steps. There was something moving on the stairs below.

Cass clutched the rifle, drew it up slowly from her lap. Sighted in on the lowest stair she could see.

“Sssssst,” a hiss came from below, soft but shocking to her senses. Cass forced herself to relax her grip on the rifle and held as still as possible. The stairs took on a reddish hue, as if lit by dying coals.

“Sssst,” it came again, quiet but insistent, a breath barely exhaled through clenched teeth.

And then, a shadow of a voice.

“Cass. You up there?”

Cass exhaled, not even having realized she’d been holding her breath.

“Cass, it’s Sky. You hear me?”

“Yeah,” Cass whispered back, hardly able to believe it, hardly able to get her voice to speak the words. “Sky. Sky, I’m here. Up here.”

She lowered her weapon and leaned forward towards the rusted mesh around the stairs. The red light spread further up the stairs and a few moments later the top of Sky’s head appeared. His rifle was up at the ready, with its mounted low-intensity red-filtered light switched on. From what Gamble’s team had told her, Cass knew the red light didn’t spoil their night-adjusted vision, nor did it pose as much risk from the Weir as brighter white light did. Sky was still creeping up the stairs, sweeping the rifle slowly back and forth as he came.

“Here, Sky,” she whispered again.

His head flicked around in her direction, and she stood so he could see her over the mesh.

“We clear?” he whispered.

“Yeah, we’re good,” Cass answered.

“You hurt?” Sky asked.

“No, I’m all right. Sky, what happened out there? Where’s the team?”

He held up his hand, and angled his head back down the stairs. Listening. After a moment, he climbed the rest of the steps and joined Cass in her corner.

“We broke out,” he said. “Thanks to you.”

“You all made it out?”

“Most of us,” he said. And then his jaw went tight and even in the gloom Cass saw the unmistakable look on his face.

“Sky...” Cass said, but that was all she could manage.

“I don’t want to hang around here long,” Sky said. He glanced out the window, and then back at her. “You all right to move?”

“Yeah, I’m good to go.”

“It’s breaking up pretty good out there. If we’re careful and don’t take it too fast, we should be able to slip out.” He pointed to Wick’s rifle hanging by her side. “How’s your ammo?”

“About half a mag, I’d guess. That going to be a problem?” Cass asked.

He shook his head. “Hope we won’t need any.” After a moment he shrugged a shoulder and gave half a smile. “If we do need any, we’ll probably need a whole lot more than two of us could carry anyhow.” He glanced back out the window again, studied it for a few seconds, and then turned back to her.

“Set?”

“Set.”

Sky gave a curt nod, shouldered his weapon, and moved back around to the top of the stairs. He paused there until Cass moved around behind him and then wordlessly the pair flowed down the steps together. They made their way back down to the ground floor and to the front room, where Sky paused once more at the entrance. He took his time scanning the street to make sure it was clear, and then led the way out.

They set out at a controlled, steady pace. Cass had never traveled with Sky before, not just the two of them with him in the lead. He had a smooth, low-key rhythm to his movement. At first its seeming listlessness kept her on edge, his apparent lack of urgency made her feel unsafe. And in the rare moments he stopped to scan for threats, he never stopped for long. There was an almost carelessness to it all. After a few minutes, however, Cass recognized that it wasn’t carelessness at all. Instead, the pace Sky kept enabled him to constantly keep watch, evaluating on the move. She saw how effortless was his awareness, how attentive his gaze was to every potential danger, and she understood why it was that out of all of Gamble’s team, he was the one that so often did his work separated and alone. She settled into a matching stride, keeping her share of the watch with no more question of his skill.

They traveled this way for three-quarters of an hour or so, and though they occasionally heard distant cries from the Weir, they never saw any of the creatures. At first, Cass was unsure whether this was because so few remained in the area or because Sky was expertly avoiding them. But during one point when they’d stopped, she couldn’t resist asking. She leaned in close, close enough that her mouth was nearly touching Sky’s ear.

“Where are all the Weir?” she whispered.

He turned his head so they were a hair’s breadth from being cheek to cheek.

“Bunch of ’em went looking for you,” he answered. “Bunch of ’em ate a lot of rounds.”

He drew back and gave her a little friendly nod and smile. Then they resumed their prowl through the cold and empty streets. They kept to street-level, twisting and turning through streets and alleys, though Sky seemed to prefer moving through wider spaces than Cass was comfortable with. She understood it; less chance of coming around a blind corner and into something nasty that way. Still, she was used to doing that kind of work up close. Sky’s proficiency was the other direction; for him, the farther out the better.

It struck her how different everyone’s sense of security could be. Perspective was a funny thing. Walls could be a fortress or a prison; open spaces, freedom or exposure. Cass had always prized mobility above all else. She was quick to react, and fast on her feet. Pursuit didn’t frighten her, as long as she had room to run. Seemed like she’d been doing a lot of that lately. Too much, maybe.

Sky held up a hand in a fist, signaling a halt. He dropped into a crouch, and Cass followed suit, sidling in close behind him and turning ninety-degrees to provide security. By that time, she guessed it’d been almost two hours since Sky had found her. Now, scanning their surroundings, Cass began to feel a vague familiarity with the area. A few moments later, she realized she was seeing buildings they had passed before, but from the rear. They’d doubled back. Or, more correctly, circled around.

Ahead of her, Sky motioned again and led her forward towards a gutted building. It was a mostly concrete affair, long ago stripped of anything useful and much that wasn’t. There weren’t even any markings left that identified what it might once have been. The structure had three entrances, wide enough for double doors had there been any doors at all. They ascended a flight of cracked but stable stairs and then up a second, much steeper set of metal steps that led to a narrow hatch. Sky eased it open, scanned for trouble. Satisfied, he swung the hatch open the rest of the way and climbed through out onto the flat roof of the building. Once Cass was through, he closed the hatch again and then moved over to the front, where a low wall marked the edge. They crouched together there, a few feet between them, taking in the surroundings from their new vantage. The buildings were more spread out here, with wide avenues running throughout. And now Sky had his two greatest allies: distance
and
height.