Any Port in a Storm (37 page)

I hear a burble and a snarl, and my stomach sinks. Markats.
 

"You hear that?" I ask.

"Yep. I forgot my anti-spit umbrella."

"Guess we better finish them before they crank up the waterworks, hey?" I move to stand back to back with her, waiting. They'll come out. "Got eyes on it yet?"

"Not yet."

The rustling grows closer, and I'm thankful we're in a clearing. Markats travel in packs, but usually not more than three or four.

Seven materialize out of the trees.
 

"Gods fucking damn it," Mira says.
 

I know she's got a potty mouth. So do I. Sometimes they're just the best words when you spend your life facing creatures that can dissolve flesh with their spit.

"Game plan?" she asks.
 

"Kill the bastards."

It's bravado. Markats are faster than slummoths and more vicious, and they have the added strength of being able to dole out second degree burns by spouting their filthy spit at us. Fear and adrenaline are a steady flow in my veins. Where on earth is Saturn?

The markats lunge for us, and I dodge just in time for a stream of rank saliva to miss me. It lands with a splat on the ground where I was just standing, and I hear the chuffing gurgle that means more's coming. I'm lucky they need a minute or to to recharge, but with seven of them, a minute ain't going to be enough time.

Two more splats follow in quick succession, and a third right after that. That's four of the markats relatively disarmed. I spring at one of them, feinting right before dropping to my knee to roll and come up at is feet. I take out its left knee with my saber, completing the roll to land upright again, stabbing it through the throat with my short sword. Blood and spittle ooze over its lips and teeth, and a quick jerk of my sword leaves its neck wobbling, half cut through.

Mira's cut one down herself, its head severed clean off, but there are still five left. All five of them launch their spray at us at once, and we dive in opposite directions. Not quite fast enough. A splash of the markat spit hits my leg. The leather will keep it off my skin for about thirty minutes, but if I don't get out of these pants before then, I'll have a chemical burn.

I use Saturn's tree to springboard myself at one of the markats while they're re-pooling their next batch of projectile saliva. My saber catches it in the throat, slicing away half of it and embedding in the markat's shoulder. I land on my feet, and claws dig into my back. I scream, staggering under the weight.

Two of them are on me. I twist, but they dig their claws in deeper, puncturing my leather and worming deeper into my flesh. It burns like pure hydrochloric acid; markats lick their claws to coat them in venom, and my back feels like a forest fire.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Mira whirling between the other two remaining markats, dodging their streams of spit, but unable to land a blow.
 

Reversing my blades, I slam them behind me as hard as I can, a raw shriek tearing itself from my throat. My blades land, and one of the markats drops away. I pull forward and stab backward again, and the claws rip from my flesh just as a stream of hot liquid coats my back.

It drips through the holes in my leathers, and now I really scream. With a half-sob, I turn and almost fling my arm in a wide arc, decapitating one of the markats. The other I must have stabbed through the lung, because it stumbles to the side, a grating wheeze coming from its chest. Mira's felled one of hers as well, and I take three excruciating steps forward and send my last markat to whatever hell-beyond-hells they go to when they croak.

My back is pools of lava.
 

Mira slices through the final markat's throat just as I hear the gurgle.
 

"Mira, look out!"

Her blade opens up its throat, and a gush of fluid sprays right in her face. She rips herself away at the last second, her yell a high-pitched keen. She falls to the ground.

I take two strides and take the damn demon's head the rest of the way off, and I collapse to my knees beside her. She's face down in the dirt screaming. Her voice echoes through the trees around us, and I hope to any stars or gods that'll listen that those markats were all the demons in this park. She'll be blinded. That much markat spit to the face…

I scramble forward, reaching for her. "Mira," I say. "Mira, stay with me."

My hands find her shoulder, and I ignore the raging maelstrom of pain in my back to tug at her, trying to turn her toward me. The burning claw holes in my skin are no match for the terror that takes up residence in my ribcage.

"You're going to be okay," I tell her. "Mira, answer me."

I roll her over, expecting to see her face covered in the stuff, expecting to see her violet eyes eaten away. Her face is clear, except for a few flecks of pink in her brown skin. Her neck, though — "Fuck."

Her neck is covered in markat spit from her ear down into her leather jacket. If I don't get that off of her, it'll eat right through her skin and get into her bloodstream through her carotid artery and erode her heart from the inside out.

"I have to move you. It's gonna suck. Be the tough bitch I know you are," I tell her. I roll to my knees and bend over, air bursting from between my lips as new pain rips through my back. Grabbing hold of her arms, I wrangle her over my shoulders in a fireman's carry.

She bellows, then clenches her teeth. "Fucking hurts," she gets out.
 

"I know," I say.
 

"Your back."

"It's fine."

"Fucking fine my ass."

"Keep talking." I don't care that my swords are on the ground. I stumble for the edge of the clearing. It's a half mile walk back to my car, and every second I waste brings her closer to an agonizing death.
 

There's another rustle up ahead. I stop short, panic welling in my chest. Mira doesn't hear it, but she feels me stop.
 

"Ayala?" the voice comes through the leaves from a hundred feet away.

It's Saturn.
 

"Saturn!" In the space of a single breath, he's by my side. He scoops up Mira from my back.
 

"What do you need?"

"My car," I gasp.
 

"I'll take her." He vanishes into a blur, and I track him for about five seconds before he's gone.
 

I stagger back to where our swords dropped and gather them up, then start jogging as fast as I can manage back to the car. Saturn reappears about a minute later, and he doesn't stop to ask, only picks me up and runs. His arm against my back makes me yell, but he doesn't stop.
 

I can feel the markat spit on my leg working through the leather, and as soon as Saturn puts me down by the side of my car, I kick off my shoes and strip naked.
 

Mira's breath is coming in shallow gasps. She's slumped against the car tire, her hand working at the gravel like a stress ball. She looks up at Saturn.

"You see the woman. Get my fucking clothes off me."

My car might be messy, but I know where the important shit is. While Saturn peels off Mira's clothes, I open the door and grab my gallon of water. Under the passenger seat is my safety kit. It sticks on the seat's adjustment lever, and I yank it out.
 

I thrust the water at Saturn. "Pour it over her. Anywhere the venom got. Try to save a little for me."

Exposed to the air, my back sings with pain. My fingers fumble at the zipper of the safety pack, but I manage to get it open. I hear a splash, and Mira hollers like a goat in a bear trap.
 

There. A brand new can.
 

It's the size of a hairspray canister, and I can't get the lid off. My arms are going numb. I grab it by the base and smash the plastic lid against the edge of the car door. It pops off and skitters away on the gravel.

I fall to my knees beside Mira, grabbing her right hand and squeezing it. "You ready?"

"Hurry the fuck up."

She squeezes her eyes shut. My thumb just barely depresses the trigger, and the cold smell of pressurized anti-venom fills the air. It coats her neck and face before my hand fails me, and I drop the can.
 

Saturn snatches it up and turns her over, spraying every pink splotch on her naked body. The markat spit dribbled between her breasts, looping under her right one when she fell on her side. Her throat wobbles, twitching with the relief the anti-venom brings. It's mixed with aloe and forms a gelatinous seal over the affected areas. A breath goes out of me, and I almost pitch forward. The gravel digs into my knees.

She's going to be okay. Her hand is still clasped in mine.
 

I don't even realize Saturn's finished with her until I hear the slosh of water in the jug behind me.
 

"Hold still," he says.
 

The water hits my back like it's made of liquid knives.
 

I think I'm screamed out, because the sound that I make sounds like the shifting rocks under my knees. Saturn takes my hand from Mira's and lays me out flat, face down on the ground. If the water is liquid knives, the anti-venom is cool healing. It spreads out and coats my back, settling into the punctures from the markat claws. My breath still comes fast, but the pain slowly begins to abate.

I think. The world feels fuzzy.

"Next time don't be late," I mutter at Saturn, and then I pass out.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

My front half feels like it's made out of gravel, and my back half feels like it's made out of glue.

When I pry myself off the ground, the first thing I see is Mira's ass, still bare naked and dangerously close to my face.

The second thing I see is Saturn's arm stretching out to help pull me to my feet. "I was beginning to worry," he says.

"Beginning?"

Mira stirs, and Saturn helps her up.
 

"Never have I ever been more thankful to heal quickly," she says, spitting a small pebble from her lip.

"Seven markats," I say. "I've never seen that many together before."

"Not working together, I haven't," Mira agrees. She sways on her feet, and her hand reaches up to gingerly touch the side of her neck. "Fuck me, this sucks."

"We should have run."

"Yeah, sure. And died when they caught us. Those son-bitches are fast."
 

She's right, but we're alive.
 

We get in the car, Saturn climbing over the heaps of mess in the back to sprawl half on and half off the seat. I make matters worse for him by pushing my seat all the way back so I can perch on the edge of it and not have to lean back against it.
 

Never in my life did I think I'd be naked in my car with another woman and a human-hellkin hybrid. Our leathers are all destroyed. It sounds like something from a bad porno movie. When I get home, I'm ordering a new wardrobe.

Mira and I fill in Saturn on the way to her house, and I drop them both off there.
 

"If you knock her out again, I will make you into a purse," I tell Saturn.

"She'll have to beat me to it," Mira adds, kicking him in the shins. She's barefoot, so it's about as effective as throwing a bumble bee at him.

"Never again," Saturn says, and I think he actually means it.

I find an old towel in the back of my car and wrap it around myself to get into my building, but it doesn't keep the security guard from staring. I probably look like hell. My hair's sticking to the anti-venom gel on my back, I'm wearing a towel, and I still have the depression marks from a bunch of small rocks from head to toe.
 

"Rough night?" the guard asks, looking more perplexed than anything.

"You could say that."

Let him think of Mediators what he will.

Carrick is properly alarmed when I come through the door, and he runs into my room and grabs my Injured Robe without me even having to ask him. The cloth will stick to the gel like crazy, but it's better than me sitting around in a towel. I tell Carrick what happened, while he fetches me a glass of water. He looks troubled, and I reassure him again that I'm fine.

But the shadow on his face tells me it's not just me he's worried about.
 

He rotates the sofa so it's perpendicular to the TV so I can lie on my stomach and watch, and he puts on Die Hard and orders a pizza before I even know what's happening.
 

"What's wrong with you?" I ask, shifting my weight so my boobs don't get too squished against the arm of the couch. Even with the ramp of pillows I built to support me, it's not very comfortable.
 

"Nothing," he says.
 

If that's how he's going to be, I'll leave him alone.

The pizza arrives, and even though I'm ravenous, I can only eat three slices because being on my stomach puts too much pressure on my abdomen. Carrick gets up every ten minutes, pacing around the room before sitting back down in the armchair, as still as a tree trunk.