The Fire King (6 page)

Foul,
he thought. The air had been foul and he had not realized it. He’d become too used to the scent.

Again, Soria moved closer. Karr studied her empty sleeve, noting the slight awkwardness of her grip as she carefully set the iron hood upon the floor. Her left hand was clearly not dominant, and not one she was completely accustomed to using—which meant she had lost her arm somewhat recently. Karr had enough experience treating similar injuries to know the signs.

Accident or punishment,
he wondered. If it was punishment, then she remained unbowed.

Soria knelt beside his head, lightly, as though ready to spring away if he blinked at her wrong. Her left hand fumbled against the floor, and he saw a parcel made of slick, shiny material. She placed the corner in her mouth and ripped it open. Inside was a small white cloth, rolled up tight. It smelled odd.

She touched his face with the cloth. It was surprisingly cold and wet, and up close the scent was even more bitter. But Karr did not say a word, or move, as she wiped around his mouth and chin. He watched her eyes, transfixed and suspicious, searching for some kind of truth—truth about who she was and what she wanted. Or why her hand was so gentle when nothing else about this place was.

Talk to her,
he told himself.
It does not mean you are weak.

Just vulnerable. But better to confront that now. The woman had power here. A human, in a position of control. He did not understand that—not unless she was royalty—but he could accept it and learn. She seemed willing enough to talk. Forming connections while imprisoned could be a valuable thing. But only if one remembered that such bonds were not real.

You led armies. You were tortured at the hands of queens. You can speak to one human woman. You can do this.

His mouth was dry, his lips cracked. Karr tried to speak but could not make a sound. Soria twitched, her hand going utterly still.

“Thank you,” he finally managed to whisper.

She stared. “You are welcome.”

Karr hesitated, but could think of nothing else to say—not to this woman, who was both captor and enigma. He had made his move, though. Opened himself.

After a moment’s hesitation, Soria began wiping his face again. Her touch was light and warm, and dangerously soothing. Karr turned his head, just slightly, to stop her.

It worked. Her hand hovered, very still, and she studied him thoughtfully. “Tell me. Was it self-defense?”

Karr blinked, for a moment, confused, until he remembered waking from death bewildered, surrounded, the air thick with the scent of that pure-blooded shape-shifter.

He recalled the wagon with its young soldiers, and his desperation. Blood splashed through his memories. He heard screams, screams that flowed into older remembrances: children screaming, crying out for him, but despite his size and skill he could not fight his way to their sides. He remembered claws flashing, and swords, and the silence that followed. He remembered losing his mind.

“It is war,” Karr rasped softly.

She frowned. “What war?”

“You must know.”

“No.” Soria sat back, frowning. “I do not.”

“You lie,” he accused.

“I have no reason to.” Her gaze had hardened.

Karr strained against his bonds. “A reason was never required for what was done to my kind. Lies would be no different. You ally yourself with the shifter, and for that you are the enemy, too.”

Soria shook her head, tossing aside her small white rag—but not before he saw real anger flash through her eyes. It was quick, though, and became something far worse: pity. She looked at him as though he was a sad fool, and for a moment he felt like one. Something was not right here. Something had been
not right
since he had opened his eyes in the catacomb, but the way this woman looked at him suddenly made it all too real.

“Maybe you are right about some things,” she said quietly. “But if there was a war, it ended long ago. You are not … where you think.”

“Then why am I imprisoned?” Karr tried to flex his hands inside the iron cloth. “I am an animal in this place.”

“You are feared.”

“Am I?” he asked coldly. “And the shape-shifter? You should fear
her,
and yet you do not. She defers to you, I think. I wonder what that makes you.”

Soria’s eyelids twitched but she did not answer the implication. “You hate her without knowing who she is.”

“I know
what
she is.” Karr briefly closed his eyes, hearing sobs inside his mind—echoes of young voices, cut with screams. “Nothing has changed.”

Soria leaned back, fingers tapping her thigh. “I saw you begin to change your shape. Are you telling me you are not like her?” She sounded surprised.

Cold laughter escaped Karr, cutting his throat. “You can ask that?”

“I just did,” was the human’s grim response. “And I am awaiting the answer.”

Fury choked him. He could not believe such ignorance—almost accused Soria of more lies—but he stopped himself just before he spoke, caught by her eyes and scent. Brittle, both. Angry and weary. But not sly. There was no hint of guile.

Karr blew out his breath, frustrated. Talking to this woman was impossible. She reminded him too much of his initiation through the old canyon core: confusing, dangerous, with no guide but instinct. No wings. No claws. Just his own fragile human flesh to see him through.

He was still searching for words when he heard an odd popping sound outside the room, sharp sputters, a
rat-tat-tat.
Soria stiffened, staring at the door, and all the color drained from her face. Fear had entered her eyes.
Fear.
The shape-shifter had not frightened her, and neither had Karr, but this sound, whatever it was, was enough. And if it was enough for her, it was enough for him.

Soria rose to her feet, flinching as she heard the sound again. It was louder this time. Much closer. Karr strained upward, his iron restraints pushing into his wounds. “What is it?”

She shook her head and moved around him to the door. “I will return.”

He had heard such promises before, in battle. Few had ever been kept. Karr bared his teeth and hissed, “Stay.” The woman ignored him and he growled, furious, “You are a cripple. You cannot defend yourself.”

She shot him a startled look, but then the door to the room rattled. Soria slid two steps to the left, putting herself between him and it. Her spine was straight, chin raised. Her left hand was curled into a fist.

“Release me,” Karr hissed—just as the door opened.

Men crowded into the room. There were only three, but even one would have been too many. They wore dark, tight clothing made of a fine weave, and their heads were covered with black hoods that molded to their faces. Only the eyes and mouths had been cut out. It was a startling sight, yet too familiar, though the accompanying circumstances had changed. These men carried oddly shaped black sticks similar to what he had seen the soldiers in the wagon wield, and they were pointing them at the woman. They shouted deep guttural words that Karr would have understood in any language.

Soria did not yield. The knuckles of her left hand were white and straining, her fist clenched so tight it shook. Karr had a fine view. Soria spoke quietly to the men, her voice far calmer than the tremble of her hand.

One of the men aimed his weapon at Karr. Soria moved to block him, and another man lunged forward to grab her arm, yanking her close. He was fast but she was quicker. Even as she slammed against his body, her left hand came up in a blur and her thumb dug deep into his eye. Blood spurted and the man holding Soria screamed, jerking backward. He threw her away from him and Soria lost her footing, landing hard against Karr’s chest.

The impact—and Soria’s elbow—knocked the breath out of his lungs, but he recovered quickly, meeting her gaze for one brief moment. Her face was very close to his. Karr could taste her scent, could feel the heat of her breath on his face. She was soft and warm, and very much alive. He realized, with some surprise, that he wanted her to stay that way. He was not done with her.

“Free me,” he rasped angrily.

“Too late,” she replied—and hissed in pain as the man she had attacked grabbed one of her braids and hauled backward.

The man’s left eye was little more than pulp, his mask soaked with blood. Holding tightly to her hair, he kicked her in the ribs and then the stomach. Soria gasped, trying to curl into a ball, but he yanked at her again and began dragging her across the floor toward the exit. The sight broke something in Karr. Rage filled him—pure, striking bloodlust—and golden light clouded his vision until he felt blind. Muscles rippled beneath the iron bars, scales pouring upward through his skin. His shoulder blades tickled. His jaw began to lengthen, sharp teeth pressing against his lower lip. He snapped at the air, restraints cutting painfully into his body. Much more and he would impale himself. More than that, and he would slice himself into pieces.

He was not certain he cared.

The men froze, staring. Soria was still on the ground, trying to gain her footing, raw determination in her eyes. Her left hand was covered in blood. She leaned to her right, swaying unsteadily, and it seemed to Karr that she forgot, in that moment, about her missing arm. More pain flickered over her face.

Karr heard another loud popping sound, similar to the sputtering that had presaged this entire encounter. One of the men jerked back, staggering. His companions began to turn, but more sharp raps rattled the air and Karr saw blood spray from small impacts in their masked heads. The men fell, one by one. Soria managed to roll sideways, barely avoiding them. She was staring at the doorway, where another man suddenly appeared.

The newcomer was tall and fair, his hair a rare shade of red. He dressed in loose clothing the color of wheat, and silver flashed at his throat. He held in one hand a smaller version of the black sticks, pointed down at the fresh twitching corpses. He did not look at the bodies. He studied Karr. Then he considered Soria. He spoke to her quietly, and held out his hand.

She ignored his help, standing on her own, swaying just slightly, enough that she placed her palm against her head. She was very pale. Somewhere close Karr heard more sharp pops, followed by screams. The redheaded man spoke again and Soria gave a curt reply before she glanced down at Karr. Conflict filled her eyes. Unease.

“I came here to see if you could be trusted,” she told him.

“Words are a poor substitute for action,” Karr replied. “Release me.”

Soria hesitated. The redheaded man edged toward the door, where a young girl appeared, holding a very large knife. She wore startlingly few clothes.

The man spoke to Soria, sharply. Karr did not like his tone, or him. Too cold. There was something ancient in his eyes.

Soria ignored him and dropped down on her knees beside Karr. “Your name.”

He did not want to tell her, but he remembered her standing between him and the men with their weapons, attacking with nothing but her bare hand, and a swell of dangerous admiration filled him. “Karr,” he said.

“Karr.” Soria held his gaze a moment longer, then fumbled for the bolts binding his iron restraints. “You show me what you are made of. Good or bad.”

I will show you both,
he thought wearily.
And hope I do not kill you.

It was hard to breathe. Hard to think, hard to sit up. Hard to undo the bolts in the iron restraints. Soria worked fast, phantom pain shooting up her ghost arm, making her shoulder and head throb. They hurt like hell. So did her ribs.

Having an eyeful of bleeding corpses did not help, either. Feeling her hand sticky with some of that same blood was worse. That she had been attacked at all, with a gunfight still going on—

“Fuck,” she muttered, encountering a particularly stubborn bolt. It was the restraint that bound Karr’s wrist. She had managed to undo the ones holding down his throat, chest, and waist. It would have made more sense to start first with his hands so that he could help her, but she had put those off until now, part of her still wondering if this was a good idea. Giving herself time to change her mind.

She had seen the videos—this man had practically taken off heads with his bare hands—and here she was, undoing his restraints. She had come here to judge him, to discover if he was a danger. And he was. He most certainly was. But the question remained whether or not he was a danger to
everyone.

There was no easy distinction between a “right” killing and a “wrong” one. Death was death; only the circumstances and intent made it different. Was Soria qualified to judge? Maybe. But the reason for that was not something Soria wanted to think about. Not with fresh blood on her hand, which was far more disturbing and revolting than she could afford to let on. It brought back bad memories. If there had been any more blood on her body, she was quite certain she would not still be conscious.

She struggled with the bolt again, and felt Karr watching her. She could see his golden eyes beneath her lashes; steady, unflinching, restless. His was a dangerous gaze, utterly inhuman. Just like the rest of him, still covered in rippling patches of golden scales, each one the size of her palm, and iridescent as some sun-riddled desert pearl. His skin resembled metal or shell more than flesh.

His face, too, had not yet regained its humanity: his jaw was long and pointed, his upper teeth sharp. This was less affecting to Soria than seeing him free of the mask for the first time, filthy, sweating, startled. So human. He had been fed with an eyedropper, but the food had clearly missed his mouth for part of the time, and a crusty film still remained on his face. All this only made him appear wilder, even more unpredictable.

You’re risking lives on a theory,
Soria told herself angrily. But she had run out of time to talk with this man. Nor was she going to leave him here to die or be experimented on. Even if it killed her.

She bit her bottom lip as her left hand—still weak after all this time—refused to turn the bolt. “Robert,” she called over her shoulder. “I need help.”