Three (36 page)

F
edor paced the narrow side street that ran along the three-story building Asher’d put him in. An apartment, on the top floor, all to himself. It was nice to have his own space for a change; nicer still that the accommodations had been well-furnished by the Governor’s own staff. But they’d been in Morningside too long, sitting idle. Asher assured them all that they’d be back to business soon, that Haven and her pup would be back under control, or dead, matters resolved either way. But even after the man had shown up at the gate and escaped into the night, Asher remained with the Governor inside the compound instead of finishing the pursuit. Fedor’s apartment had become a prison.

He seethed, anxious to be done with this waste of time and energy. Haven was an asset to be sure; one of the best. But she was a chemic, and nearly burned at that. She could be replaced. Would
have
to be replaced, eventually. And the boy. Just a boy. Though, Asher’s half-brother. Fedor understood something about brothers.

It was vengeance that stirred him so. Asher’s dalliance annoyed him. But here, now, the man that had killed Kostya, his dear brother, was almost within reach, and yet Asher refused to let him finish the job. That was infuriating.

A sudden noise caught Fedor’s attention, the crunch of glass underfoot, somewhere in the dark behind him. He turned and scanned the street, irritated at the interruption. But there was nothing. One of the useless locals, most likely.

Fedor squeezed his dead arm with his left hand. The man. The man had taken his arm when they’d fought. But when Kostya was killed, that man had taken Fedor’s heart. His baby brother, by three minutes. Scores would be settled. Fedor would rip the man’s own heart from his chest, and eat it still beating before his dying eyes.

Images of vicious and glorious revenge were why Fedor was out on the street at this hour. He had worked himself up enough to contemplate disobeying Asher, and hunting them down on his own. But not yet enough to abandon his post. They would come on their own, Asher said. But why wait? They had waited long enough. Chased long enough.

The wind washed over the buildings on either side of him, making a hollow sort of sound in the narrow alley, like shadows scraping across the rooftops. And Fedor suddenly felt that he was being watched.

He quickly checked up and down the alleyway, straining his eyes in the heavy shadows. A single light glowed around the front of the buildings, spilling softly into the mouth of the side street, but creating strange pools of darkness along the sides. Fedor listened for any hint of sound, but detected none.

Until the whisper.

It was barely more than a rasping wind through the alley, but there was no mistaking what it said.

“I
am
sorry about your brother.”

Fedor ran protocols, just as Asher had taught him, casting a wide net into the datastream that would tell him if not who was there, at least where they were. In an instant, the results came back. Empty.

“I thought he was you,” the whisper said, this time from the opposite side of the alley. Closer.

Fedor searched frantically. It was the man, undoubtedly, but
where.
He reached inside his coat and drew out a wicked whipcoil baton, with a vicious pyramid-tip designed to puncture flesh and strip bone. It didn’t matter. Anger surged, adrenaline flowed. Vengeance was at hand. The man would appear, and then Fedor would rip him in pieces.

“Come, little dog.”

“I’m here.”

The whisper came from behind, so close Fedor could feel the breath. But even as he spun, he felt the blade bite just above the elbow of his good arm, felt the explosion of pain, the severing of bone, tendon, artery. Something metallic clattered away against the wall of the building, and something thumped wetly nearby. The arm. The other arm. Gone. Fedor stood face to face with the man, and the pain could not diminish the rage kindled.

With a roar, Fedor lunged with a lightning head-butt, but the man melted backwards, downwards, and Fedor felt a hard impact on his throat and in the same instant on the back of his neck. A wave of warmth rolled down his back. His breath came out in a whistle. And looking down, Fedor saw the hilt of the man’s blade just below his chin. Fedor tried to speak, but something hot and metallic bubbled out of his mouth instead. The man stared back at him passively. Quietly. Peacefully.

Fedor hated him.

G
etting back out of the city had proven even easier than getting in had been, and Three made his way nimbly back through the outskirts. There were no others out now, no one watching the roads at this time of night. By his guess, he still had four, maybe five hours until the sun came up, bringing with it whatever storm he had called upon himself. Killing Fedor had brought him no joy, nor relief, but it was finished. It was done. The message had been sent.

There was still no clear plan in his mind, but he knew the next step: get back to Wren. He’d figure it out from there. At the very least, he had shifted the game. Made himself known as dangerous prey. Unpredictable. Maybe it would buy them some time.

Three slowed his pace as he approached the tumbledown building that Mr Carter had chosen for their hideout, and made a wide, careful arc, looking for any sign of trouble. Though he couldn’t imagine anyone would have followed him, he doubled back just to be sure before making his way inside. As he crept through the front of the building towards the corridor, he hunched down, making himself small in the near-absolute darkness.

About halfway down the hallway, he stumbled over something heavy that hadn’t been there before. Three managed to catch himself without too much noise, but even as he recovered, he knew there was trouble. The floor was gummy, and the thing he’d tripped over was warm, though not as warm as it should’ve been.

Mr Carter. Dead.

Three whipped down the hall, knowing what had happened, knowing that the room he was about to walk into would be empty, that Wren would be gone. But he couldn’t stop himself. He burst through the doorframe and stopped short.

The chemlight glowed warmly at the head of Wren’s pallet. Wren was there. Sleeping. Three blinked, mind trying to process, fighting to understand. If he hadn’t been so frantic, he might’ve heard it coming.

An iron vice-grip seized him, pinned his arm behind him with searing agony, and twisted and jerked his head around to the absolute farthest point just before his neck broke. There was a grim whisper, hot in his ear.

“Easy, brother. Let’s not wake the boy.”

T
he air outside seemed colder now than it’d been only moments before. Dagon had released Three and let him walk out on his own, but he’d hovered the whole way, tense, ready to pounce if necessary. Three knew better than to try anything in that narrow hallway with Dagon so close behind. During that short walk, his mind had jumped into hyperdrive, flying through options, knowing they all led to the same outcome. Though if Dagon had wanted to kill him, he’d be dead. He might be dead in the next moment, or the next, but for
this
moment, stepping out into the night again, he was still alive. Still a chance, however slight.

Dagon had the initiative, but Three wasn’t going to cede control. As soon as they crossed the threshold, he stung Dagon the only way he knew how.

“Cass is dead, Dagon.”

He heard Dagon stop behind him, and Three kept walking, gaining critical distance.

“That’s far enough.”

Three stopped and turned slowly back to face Dagon, taking an extra half-step back.

“Haven isn’t dead,” Dagon said, matter-of-fact, hollow.

“I couldn’t save her and the boy. I tried but…” Three trailed off, shook his head. Measured the distance.

D
agon shook his head slowly, his eyes unfocused for a moment. Imagining. Or remembering. In that instant, Three swept across the gap and drove his fist through Dagon’s jaw.

A lesser man would’ve blacked out on his feet, gone straight to ground. Instead, Dagon staggered with the impact, but managed to twist, catching himself with his left hand on the ground and whipping his right around in an arc. The stance was nearly impossible, contorted, like Dagon’s back had broken and his shoulder dislocated. Yet as Three deflected the blow with his shoulder and forearm, he was surprised at its power. Dagon rebounded, switched direction off the impact and struck twice, once at Three’s knee and the other stinging the front of his thigh.

It was a small thing, but significant. Three knew from the angle of Dagon’s attack that he’d been aiming for the saphenous nerve along the inside of his leg, a strike that would’ve crippled him. But he’d missed. Even as Three was bringing his elbow down, he wondered if Dagon had ever missed before.

Dagon, still crouched, managed to partially intercept the strike with the flat of his hand, taking the blow in the upper shoulder instead of the back of the neck. He surged upwards, a brute force tackle that lifted Three off the ground. But the two were tangled, and Three reflexively brought his knee hard into Dagon’s solar plexus, felt a dull crack. Dagon’s breath exploded out in a wheeze. As the two crashed backwards, Three twisted at the last moment, dumping Dagon face first onto the concrete.

The impact broke them apart, and Three scrambled up to a knee. Somehow, Dagon was already up, blood in his mouth, hands outstretched. But Three’s body was in motion. The sword was out, speeding to target. Dagon’s hands clapped together on either side of the blade, catching it mid-thrust. Try as he might, Three couldn’t budge his sword any direction. Dagon’s grip held it locked: a human vice.

And for a moment, the two stood frozen, locked together, brothers in blood. Then, Three felt his blade release, and Dagon spread his hands.

“Got me.”

Three saw now. Dagon had stopped his sword, but not soon enough. The first quarter of his blade had found its mark. Judging from the angle and the depth, just under the ribs, Dagon likely had a punctured lung and a gashed right ventricle. He was already dead. He just hadn’t admitted it yet.

Dagon stepped back, sliding himself free of the blade with a spurt before he pressed his palm over the wound. Three watched, waited for some sudden movement, but Dagon just stumbled backwards, propped his back against the nearest wall, and slid to sit on the ground. Weary. Broken. Three’s blade may have finished the work, but something else had delivered the crushing blow before they’d fought.

In the soft moonlight, Dagon stared at Three with the hint of a smile curling his cracked lips.

“I’m glad it was you,” he said at last. Three stood from his crouch at last, relaxing. But didn’t approach.

“Feels honorable, somehow. This way.”

Three just held still. It wasn’t that unusual. Dying men often felt the need to say something there, at the end. But he’d seen Dagon move too fast to trust him even now.

“We’re brothers in a way, you know. More ways than you’d guess.”

At that, Dagon reached up with his other hand and pulled the neck of his shirt down low, exposing the pale flesh of his upper chest in the moonlight. Three couldn’t make out what it was he was supposed to be looking at from that distance. Dagon waited. Three took a few cautious steps forward. It was recognition that stopped him again.

Markings swirled across Dagon’s flesh, intricate tattooing of ideograms in lines and patterns not altogether similar but far too familiar for Three’s liking. Dagon saw Three’s reaction and was satisfied, released the cloth and let his hand fall to his lap. Still he smiled.

“What clan?” Three asked, at last.

“The Empty Frost,” Dagon answered, with a wet cough. There was a rattle in his chest. Fluid building. “You?”

“House Eight.”

Dagon grunted, a sort of impressed chuckle, mixed with pain. His gaze floated off down the street. “The Old Ones. That explains a lot.”

“Frost was a good house.” Three meant it. The Empty Frost clan had never been an influential one, but before the Falling, it had been known as a house of integrity and honor.

“Was.”

Three stepped closer and took a knee. “How’d you end up with RushRuin?”

“Lack of conviction,” Dagon said. A half-joke. “Tried for a while, you know. But…” He trailed off, either lost in thought or momentarily overwhelmed by pain. After a moment, he shivered, or shook himself. “Just easier.” He blinked heavily, changed the subject suddenly. “…I wasn’t going to kill, you know.”

Three flashed back to the moment he was drawing his blade. Dagon standing with his hands outstretched. Not preparing to strike. Motioning to stop.

“You killed my friend.”

“He didn’t give me a choice.”

“And what
were
you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Dagon looked back to Three then, into his eyes. “You’re a better man than me, Three. Doing what I could’ve done. Should’ve done. A long time ago.”

“You loved her.”

“I
wanted
her. If I’d loved her, I would’ve protected her.” Dagon’s gaze dropped back to the ground. Three didn’t respond. They sat in silence for a long moment, Three listening as Dagon’s breathing shallowed and became forced.

“How you doin’, Dagon?”

“Can’t feel my legs, Three.”

Three slid around and sat down beside Dagon, back to the wall. It all seemed so foolish now. So wasteful. So few things to have changed for the two of them to have been friends instead of enemies.

“Strange pair, aren’t we?” Dagon said, his voice thin. “The elite of the damned.”

Three nodded.

“I guess this is the part where other people would ship,” Dagon said. Nearly a whisper.

“Yeah.”

“Will you sit with me? Until after?”

“Yeah.”

After a moment, Three added, “I’ll do more. I’ll remember you, Dagon, of the Empty Frost Clan.” It wasn’t a platitude. It was an oath, and a blessing. A pledge between brothers. And a comfort from a fear Three knew in a vague way, a fear he knew Dagon was feeling the full force of now. Something they’d each learned from their own houses, long ago.

They weren’t wired. There was no digital afterlife for them. But as long as a brother remained, they would be remembered.

Dagon smiled faintly. His breathing slowed. And quietly, Dagon, the Grave, died.

After a time, Three rose and went into the back room of the small building where they’d been hiding, and roused Wren. The chemlight still glowed softly. He was surprised to see how soundly the boy had slept that night, when so much danger had been so near. Even now Wren moved sluggishly, hair matted to the side of his head with sweat, looking as if he could sleep through the day. It was several moments before he noticed.

“Where’s Mr Carter?” he asked suddenly. There was no way to soften the blow, so Three didn’t.

“He’s dead, Wren. Dagon killed him last night.”

“Where’s Dagon?”

“Dead too.”

“You?”

Three nodded. Wren hid his hands in his face, but not before Three had seen the glimmer of tears welling. The boy cried silently, and Three let him for a time. But there was work to do.

“Come on. I need your help.”

In those bitterly cold hours before dawn, with Wren at his side, Three worked to scavenge and build a makeshift metal basin. Together, they prepared and wrapped the bodies of Mr Carter and Dagon. Three lay the bodies side by side in the basin, then stood back, with Wren close by.

“Want to say anything?”

Wren was quiet and still. But just before Three stepped forward again, the boy spoke.

“Mr Carter was a great man. He was kind, and strong, and he always made me feel safe.” He paused. And to Three’s surprise, he added, “Dagon was a good friend. He did some bad things, but I don’t think he really meant them. He was a good friend.” He looked up, eyes and cheeks shining in the weak light. “Do you want to say anything, Three?”

“I think you covered it, kid.”

Wren nodded, and as the sun was just beginning to redden the sky, Three stepped forward and set the bodies alight. They stood in silence as the flames took the remains. Wren watched deep into the fire.

“We’re going to fight today, aren’t we?” the boy asked.

“Yeah.”

Wren thought for a moment. Wiped his cheeks, his eyes.

Nodded.

“OK.”