Shadowlands (5 page)

“Oh.” The sob was so alive, so vibrant, that I didn’t realize it had come from Elaine’s mouth until she fell to her knees. She rested her cheek on the old man’s hand, and looked up with eyes that focused.

“Oh, Nikki,” she said. “Oh, my god, Nikki.” And she burst into tears. Nik lifted her into the bedside chair, and handed her the box of tissues on the bed stand before joining me where I stood at the foot of the bed.

“I know Elaine, I can help
her
,” he said. “But what about everyone else?” His abrupt gesture took in the whole of the city outside the windows. “There are too many out there that I—that
we
can’t help.
We need the Riders. They’ve got to help us. They’ve
got
to. It’s not going to stop here.”

I didn’t say anything. I just nodded.

Later, Nik Polihronidis eased Elaine’s bedroom door shut. She needed sleep right now, and he needed to let the rage he’d held off all day surface; if he didn’t let go of it, it would suffocate him. In a bar on the Danforth, for god’s sake. No one was safe. He stopped himself just in time from pounding on the wall.
That
wouldn’t help anyone. He knew it wasn’t his fault. Just because he’d been away for a few days; just because he’d gone to his meeting without checking in at the office first. It wasn’t his fault.

But he’d promised his sister to keep her children safe. And Elaine was the last, the very last of her descendants. He squeezed his eyes tight. And now there wouldn’t be any more.

Nik took a deep breath and went over to where Elaine’s iPad sat on a small table next to the couch. He’d have to find her another infusion of
dra’aj
soon, within a week or so—newbies had so little control, it could dribble away pretty fast. It would take some juggling, but he could manage it.

So long as they could count on some help against the Hunt.

He pushed his hands through his hair, forgetting that it was cropped short. That was another thing. He’d almost blown it today. He’d almost scared off Valory Martin. He glanced at Elaine’s bedroom door. More than anything else, more than anything
he’d
told her, it was what happened to Elaine that had convinced Valory. Nik’s hands formed into fists and he forced them open. If Valory managed to persuade her Rider friend, what had happened to Elaine might be the saving of all of them.

That didn’t make him feel any better.

“B
UENO, AQUÍ ESTAMOS, SEÑOR. Señor, hemos llegado.”

It was a moment before Stormwolf realized the driver was speaking to him. The language was no difficulty. He had only to listen carefully, and he could recognize the true tongue that underlay any of the human languages. It wasn’t the Spanish, but the taxi ride itself that distracted him. The speed of it, the apparent recklessness of his own and the other drivers. The moving landscape outside the windows, and his own internal awareness that though they were moving, they had not Moved. He was not sure he liked traveling in cars.

Among the lessons and instructions the High Prince had given him was one about taxis and fares. Wolf extracted the correct bill from his wallet, returned a reasonable tip from the change he was given, and stepped out of the vehicle. With an abrupt wave of his hand, the driver indicated the lane before which he’d stopped, and then inserted his taxi back into the stream of traffic with a screech of tires and a blast of horns.

The lane was wide enough for automobiles, but it was also steep
enough to require shallow risers in the cobblestones as it angled away from the larger street. Smooth plastered walls three and four stories tall rose to either side, with individual houses indicated by the scattered doorways and ornately grilled windows. Two six-sided glass lamps hung from wrought iron stanchions at strategic spots along the wall. Stormwolf had no trouble visualizing people on horseback passing through the place.

His destination was in the angle where the lane veered to the right, a wide double entrance, with thick wooden doors showing signs of weathering. A large ceramic tile with the number “15” in blue on a white background was inset into the stone to the right of the door. Even if he had not been given the address, however, Stormwolf would have known he was in the right place. Even here in the street the house smelled of Rider, though faintly enough to tell him that his prey was not at home.

Wolf drew in a sharp breath. He must stop thinking that way. The Rider Nighthawk had once been Warden to the Prince in Exile. But he was not prey. He was merely the first person the High Prince had told Wolf to find.

Nighthawk’s trail was clear. Wolf followed the scent along a twisted path of lanes and alleys, some of which were narrow enough that the stones under his feet were chilled, the sun never having found its way down to them. Finally, the trail led into a larger road, with cars parked on one side, along to a square where mature trees thrust themselves up through the cobbles to give shade, and then into a bar on the opposite corner.

But there was no Sunward Rider in “El Caracol.” Crowded as it was, Wolf could not be mistaken. Instead, the spoor led down the short hallway to the privies, and out a back door next to the grills in the kitchen. He was not surprised when he found himself headed back toward the house, although through different laneways. As he crossed through another square, this one open on one side where the land fell away, he paused, glancing over the parapet at the view of a large palace brightly illuminated across the valley.

The Rider’s trail was still clear, but others crossed it here. A smell/not smell. And there was something familiar about another, something Wolf felt he should be able to place.

He looked around the square. A few people were admiring the
view of the palace, two held small boxes to their faces. One man stood apart, looking at his hands with a faint air of puzzlement. The smell/not smell seemed to emanate from him. Wolfe shook himself. He was on scent, and had a trail to follow. He could not indulge his own curiosity. He glanced once more at the palace, then followed Nighthawk’s spoor into another alley, this one so narrow he had almost to turn sideways to fit himself into the space. Just as the alley was widening, a noise gave him enough warning to freeze where he stood. He eyed the long blade that glittered in the darkness. A
gra’if
blade, forged by neither human nor Rider.

“Well, now. You are not what I expected, Moonward one,” came a voice out of the darkness at the end of the blade. “Tell me why I should not cut your throat.”

“I am—”

A skittering sound from above them, a moving shadow, and the sword left Wolf’s face as a Sunward Rider who could only be Nighthawk leaped away from him into the next patch of light, allowing a winged lizard with the head of a dog to land heavily between them. Wolf’s belly clenched in recognition, icy cold, as he saw the dog’s wings wither and shrink, its legs lengthen and grow talons even while its tail sprouted barbs.

“Stump!” he called, but the Hound did not acknowledge him. Was this the explanation of the elusive smells? The tail swung toward him and without further thought the umbrella in Wolf’s hand became a
gra’if
sword, and he pulled his
gra’if
dagger from the scabbard under his left sleeve. Like it or not, with the other Rider here, he would have to kill it. “Do not look it in the eyes,” he called out as he shifted to avoid the swinging tail.

Nighthawk grinned at Wolf’s advice and, ducking under the monster’s reaching talons, thrust at its breast with his own sword. It reared backward, giving Wolf a chance to slice its left hamstring with his dagger as he cut its flank with the sword. Nothing to do now but kill it. The beast hissed at the pain, and morphed into a leathery wyvern with two clawed feet and wings covered with patches of leather, fur, and feathers. It staggered. The cut hamstring had morphed along with it.

The alley was not wide enough to allow the beast to turn easily—or so Wolf thought until he saw that Nighthawk had been knocked
to the ground. Wolf sheathed his dagger and leaped forward, grasping the thing’s tail above the barbs, and with his sword hacked repeatedly at the base of the monster’s spine. The skin under his hand became scaled, the beast flickered into a monstrous snake, turning its horselike head toward him and wrapping its tail around one of Wolf’s legs. The slit-pupiled eyes narrowed, seeming to search his features.

Wolf tightened his grip on the sword and shifted to keep his other leg free. If only he could keep it from biting him, he might yet be able to damage it enough that it would at least release him, and perhaps take another form. The head moved closer, and Wolf gritted his teeth against the sudden pain in his leg as the thing constricted. The creature moved in two impossible directions at once, falling to the ground in pieces. Wolf staggered back, sword still poised. Beyond the two writhing halves of the snake he saw Nighthawk, blood dripping from his blade, scrambling out of the way of the beast’s death throes.

The snake sprouted sudden wings, became wyvern, flickered into leathery griffin, flickered again into the claw-footed dog. Wolf, leaning against the wall, his chest heaving and the sweat dripping into his eyes, turned his head away before he saw the final change. When the noises had stopped, he looked again, and found the cobblestones bare. He shivered.

“What was it you said?”

Wolf shook his head at Nighthawk. He couldn’t tell whether he felt triumph or horror.
I had no choice. It would have killed him.

“When it attacked,” Nighthawk coughed. “I thought…you called out something.”

Wolf took a deep breath, trying to slow the pounding of his heart. What had he said? “Jump,” he said finally. “I told you to jump.”

“You are not…a creature of the Basilisk Prince…I take it.” Nighthawk’s breathing was only now slowing. “Else you would not have aided me against that.” He gestured at the empty space between them. “I knew I was being followed…I thought you were with the Hound.” He looked down at the blood evaporating off his sword and frowned. “Don’t look so gobsmacked, boy. It’s dead and we’re not, and that’s as it should be.” Another deep breath. “Who
are
you, then?”

Wolf’s heart had stopped racing, and his own breath was steady enough for him to speak. “I am Stormwolf. My mother was Rain at Sunset. The Chimera guides me. I am the…the emissary of the Dragonborn Prince.” Wolf stumbled over the words. It was the first time he’d said them.

“The
Dragon
born Prince, you say?” The other Rider took a step closer, his brow furrowed. “And who might the Dragonborn Prince be?”

“You
are
Nighthawk? Once Warden of the Exile?” Though by now Wolf knew perfectly well who the other Rider was. “Known here in the Shadowlands as Diego Rascón?”

“I am. My mother was Flies by Moonlight, and the Dragon guides me.”

Wolf drew himself to formal attention, saw the other Rider’s eyes narrow, the tip of his sword lifting. “Then my mission is to you. You have mentioned the Basilisk Prince. The Rider who gave himself that title is Faded, and his
dra’aj
returned to the Lands. The Exile, known here in the Shadowlands as Max Ravenhill, has resumed his rightful place as Guardian of the Talismans. Those Talismans have spoken, and a High Prince has been named.”

“Evidently someone who is Guided by a Dragon.” The tone was dry enough that Wolf compressed his lips before speaking.

“She is the one named Truthsheart, once your fellow Warden. Here she was called Cassandra Kennaby.”

For a moment there was total silence. Nighthawk’s
gra’if
blade lowered. “And you have some proof of these assertions?”

In answer, Wolf undid the collar and top three buttons of his shirt, pulling the garment open. There, in the center of his chest, just below the hollow of his throat, was a black-and-silver-and-dark-red dragon, the Seal of the High Prince.

Nighthawk stepped closer, his
gra’if
blade now hanging loosely at his side as he reached out with his free hand. Wolf gritted his teeth as the Sunward Rider placed cold fingertips on his skin. Hawk blinked and took an abrupt step away, though his smile was wide. Wolf rebuttoned his shirt, wondering what the other had seen.

“It is hers,” Hawk said. “And she sent you here? To tell me this news?” The Rider’s smile was dancing in his eyes.

“To tell you
first
. After you, I am to go to the one called Graycloud at Moonrise, who may point me to others of the People.”

Suddenly Nighthawk was in front of him, clasping his shoulders and kissing him on both cheeks. Wolf stiffened, but managed not to pull away. “Well, now, this calls for a drink.”

But Wolf looked carefully around him as he followed Nighthawk back to his home. Where there had been one Hound, there were usually more.

Perhaps even the one he was looking for.