The Fire King (5 page)

Bad memories,
she thought. And moments later, she understood why.

The body moved. Soria jumped, startled, as did everyone else on the screen. The camera jerked sideways and then steadied. Golden light seemed to shimmer in the air above the body, and over Serena as well, who in the video stood closest of all to the coffin.

More movement, a rocking motion. A man sat up.

Soria could not see much of his face, but his body was unmistakable. He was also very clearly dazed, swaying within the coffin, hands pressed to his head. His mouth moved.

“I need to hear him,” she told Serena.

The shape-shifter, frowning, tapped a button on the laptop. Crackling sounds immediately filled the air, layers of sound that in real life would have been hardly noticeable but on tape were each as loud as breaking glass. Soria could hear the rush of deep breaths, the scuff of rock underfoot, and gears creaking. She could hear the silence surrounding those sounds, and in that silence a man’s voice floated, his words flowing softly together.

To anyone unfamiliar with his language it would have sounded as though he were growling, rumbling, even snarling. On its own this was a threatening sound, even hair-raising. Soria knew better, though it was difficult to piece together anything coherent. However it was that her mind absorbed the languages of others, proximity was required, and time. Without being in his presence, Soria could not hold on to the meanings of each sound.

But some things lingered more than she expected.

No,
she heard him whisper.
No. Impossible.

He looked miserable and ill, as though he hardly had the strength to lift his head. Soria waited for him to realize that he was not alone.

When he did, it was a breathless moment. A profound stillness fell over him, a tremendous quiet—and the way he sat, staring, made her think of every time in the past year she had awakened in the night to a strange sound, pulled from one nightmare into the possibility of another. Vulnerable, frightened. Ready to fight.

He began speaking again, but the only words Soria understood were “who” and “here.” His tone was firm yet reasonable, and there was an undercurrent of strength that she recognized.

Do not fuck with him,
thought Soria, at the men and women in the video.
Do not move.

But one of them did.

It was Serena, stepping from behind, sunglasses pushed up. A faint light was in her eyes. The man twisted inside the coffin to look at her, and a tremor raced through him, his voice snarling into a jumble of words.

You,
Soria heard, understanding only fragments.
You. Here. Dare you.
He sounded furious. Soria watched the video version of Serena hiss, golden light streaming from her good eye, teeth dropping into fangs. Fingers lengthening into claws.

The man moved. Soria did not see him leave the coffin—the camera image jumped too much for that—but bodies scrambled, and between them she glimpsed a blur. Heard shouts, screams. Other men moved in, wielding the pickaxes and shovels they had been digging with.

When the camera steadied again, the shifter-man was on the other side of the tomb. He did not attack, but studied those around him with pure disdain twisting at his mouth. He was huge compared to everyone else, his size and presence filling the small dark space until Soria began to feel claustrophobic simply watching.

Give you. Mercy,
he rumbled dangerously.
Leave now.
But no one understood.

Ripples of light surged over his limbs. Soria glimpsed scales, and flinched as one of the men lunged with a shout, swinging a shovel. He never got close. The shifter knocked the shovel away and caught the man across the face with a blow so strong his head whipped around a full one hundred eighty degrees. Neck broken. Head crushed. The camera jerked backward, picture tumbling wildly, until suddenly it stopped. It was still filming, but all Soria could see was feet and falling bodies.

Serena reached out and shut the laptop screen. “We were unprepared for him. Then, and later.”

Soria wet her lips, trying to steady herself. The group had been at a serious disadvantage, being unable to communicate. “He could have been reasoned with. He gave you chances not to fight.”

“Only because he was in a weakened state,” the shape-shifter replied. “He killed several before we subdued him. And then later, during transport to this place.”

It was a miracle they had stopped him at all, given his size and fury. Soria asked, “Had that coffin been tampered with?”

“No.” Serena touched the young Chinese man’s shoulder, and without a word he stood and left the room. When he was gone the shape-shifter added, “You saw the rubble between the pillars? That was a seal. A door. We spent almost six months studying it before another aftershock brought it down. We learned enough, though. By our estimates, it was set in place several thousand years ago.”

“Several thousand?” Soria echoed, jaw aching. “Really.”

Serena’s long finger tapped idly against the laptop. “Perhaps three, to be exact. You think I lie?”

Something cold and hard settled in Soria’s chest. “I heard you lied to your own daughter for years. I don’t expect much from you, Serena McGillis, except falsehoods and meanness.”

The shape-shifter went utterly still. Soria braced herself.

Serena said, “I could say there was an accident, you know.”

“Yes.” Soria crumpled her empty sleeve. “And luckily for you, there would be less of me to hide.”

Nothing. And then an unpleasant smile ticked at the corner of Serena’s mouth. “I asked how you lost your arm. Roland would not tell me. So I dug. And discovered an unexpected story.”

It was Soria’s turn to go still and quiet.

Serena leaned in, close. “I will not turn my back on you,” she whispered. “I know what you did, to yourself and to that man. He was family, if I understand correctly.”

Pain throbbed, radiating from Soria’s stump up through her neck. “I’m certain you might have done the same, in my situation,” she remarked.

“Indeed,” replied Serena. “But I would not turn my back on
me,
either.”

The human woman returned while Karr was being cleaned. Naked, exposed, his genitals and hindquarters wiped down by warm washcloths. It was humiliating, though the old woman responsible for the task was efficient and quiet. Her strong, wrinkled hands did not hurt him.

The old woman had been tending his needs for days. Karr marked time by her arrival and departure. He supposed he looked forward to her presence, in some small fashion. Solitude had never disturbed him, but seeing her took his mind away from the torture of forced stillness.

Where are your wings?
whispered a familiar voice inside his mind, memories so keen that Karr could close his eyes and imagine his friends were with him again. Althea with her snow-spotted pelt, or gruff Delko, more crow than fox.

Tau, especially, lingered in his mind; too much a wolf to ever be mistaken for a man, whose own wings were born of an eagle skin.
Where are your wings,
Tau would tease, when Karr was very young and desperate to fly.
Little brother, where are your wings?

Here,
thought Karr, as his shoulder blades itched against the cold, hard stone.
Ready to be free.

He heard the door to his cell open, followed by a sharp breath. The old woman, who had been bundling up the soiled clothes placed beneath him, paused and looked up. Karr heard a familiar voice say several quiet words in a musical, rolling tongue.

Soria,
he thought.

He could not see her through the slit in the iron hood, just the old woman, who tossed a clean sheet over his hips and then squatted to finish her routine. He smelled his liquid meal, bland and warm, and beneath that his nurse’s scent, rich with meat, pepper. She had been eating well, and recently.

Soria’s footsteps sounded light on the stone floor. She said another soft word, but the old woman ignored her, reaching out with that odd, hollow glass spoon she always fed Karr with. Long as a branch, and filled with liquid. Despair filled him when he saw it. Terrible fury. He was sick of this. Sick to death.

Soria’s pale hand grabbed the old woman’s arm, preventing her from feeding him. Her fingers were long, her wrist delicate. Not much strength. So small and frail, he could snap those bones with two fingers. Her hand was weak, soft.

Her voice was another matter. Low and compelling, it was a melody of words. He did not understand what she was saying, but he understood her tone: furious, demanding. Her anger intrigued Karr. It meant something to him.

The old woman, who had been utterly emotionless throughout the feedings and cleanings—and his occasional bouts of rage—began muttering to herself. She set down the bowl so hard he thought it might break, got up with a grunt and then, with great deliberation, spat on the floor.

Soria remained silent. The old woman walked away, her shoes loud against the stone. She slammed the door behind her. The room felt very quiet without her, cut only by sounds of soft breathing. After a moment, Soria stepped into view, holding a small cloth bag. She was frowning, her cheeks pink, and when she glanced down at Karr, he imagined loneliness in her gaze, lost behind intelligence and pain.

“She thinks I am taking her place,” Soria said to him, as though he were free and standing at her side; as if he would care. Which he did, but only because listening to her stumble over his language was a dangerous pleasure. He watched, as best he could, as Soria crouched and upended her bag. He could not see its contents, which rattled against the floor. “I do not want her work. I tried telling her that.”

She spoke softly, carefully, with a formality that was somewhat old-fashioned. Karr listened to her words, but there was nothing but a distracted breathlessness to her tone, as though she were simply trying to fill the air with words. Words that he would understand, despite her accent.

“She did not clean your wounds,” continued Soria. “I brought something for that.” And then, very quietly, “I do not want to hurt you.”

Then release me,
he almost said, despite his promise to himself that he would not break silence with this woman.

Instead he bit his tongue and closed his eyes, thinking perhaps that being given this opportunity to communicate was a worse torture than the bonds surrounding his chafed, aching body. Torture, because he could not trust it. He could not engage this chance to be heard, to be a man again. To be something more than a lump of flesh chained to the floor.

He made a small sound, surprised when he felt her delicate fingers graze his chest. Her slender hand reached between the iron bands and spread a creamy balm over his lacerated skin. Soria did this carefully, tending every inch of his body that touched cold iron, binding his wounds with gauze. She occasionally made little hissing sounds between her teeth, as though pained, and he found himself hungry for those noises.

She worked on his throat last of all. Bent over him, her long braids brushing his skin. For the first time Karr could see her face clearly: every soft line, from the curve of her cheeks to the sweep of her dark brow. Her scent remained strong—wild sunlight and sand—and beneath, fading, the dull, bitter presence of the shape-shifter.

Despite the scent of his enemy—this woman was the enemy—every time she touched his body, warmth tingled through him, followed by a roaring ache in his heart. He had been touched frequently for untold days, and felt nothing; nothing but emptiness, disgust, and humiliation. He did not know why this woman was different. Why she made him …
feel.

Soria finished tending his wounds, and she sat back, studying him. She stayed like that for a long time, until her gaze ticked downward. She held up the hollow glass stem.

“They feed you with this.” It was not a question. Soria turned the glass over in her hand, a drop of brown liquid squeezing from the tip. She suddenly looked ill.

Karr felt little better. Nausea pooled in his throat, and he could feel the stickiness of his face beneath the hood from sweat and dirt, and from those remnants of food that he had not been careful to swallow.

Soria gave him a sharp look. “How do you stand it? All of this? Being tied down, hooded.” And then, seconds later: “Stupid question. Forget that.”

She put down the glass stem and leaned forward, studying him with unrelenting straightforwardness. He studied her in turn. Odd, strange woman. Still so bold. Not as lean, or as aged, as the humans to which he was accustomed. He would have thought her very young had it not been for the glint in her eyes, which were ancient and tired, fraught with suffering. Eyes never lied.

“I have been told you are a killer,” she said.

Karr’s jaw tightened with displeasure. Of course she had been told that. And it was true, he supposed. He was a killer. He had killed. He would kill again, if given the chance.

“You have been judged,” Soria continued quietly, still staring into his eyes. “But I think you know that.”

She leaned back out of sight—he thought, perhaps, to leave—but then he heard scuffing sounds behind him and felt the hood move over his head. Karr held his breath, not quite willing to believe. Not until the iron was pulled away. Cool air swept over his sweat-soaked face, delicious and soft, and his lungs seemed to yawn open and force his jaws apart. He took deep, shuddering breaths—gasped—and realized with some horror that he had been suffocating, slowly, inside the hood.

Soria stood a safe distance from him, holding the iron. It looked monstrous in her hand, shaped like a drum, with slits for his eyes, nose, and mouth. Fitting for a beast and not a man, though Karr wondered if there was much difference between the two.

She stepped toward him, then stopped. For the first time she seemed uncertain, her knuckles white around the edge of the iron hood. Karr looked past her, briefly, now able to see more of the room. He found it smaller and duller than he had imagined. Scents were stronger, too, not so mixed with the dead air trapped inside the hood.