The Daughter Of Lava (#3 Reclaimed Souls Series) (3 page)

Instantly my dagger is out of its sheath and in my hands. I’m about to charge forward, but I hear something that stops me in my tracks.
 

***

Whispering. Chanting. I cannot understand the words, but I
feel
them.
 

Evil.

My veins turn ice cold and my heart beats so hard, it’s like it’s trying to tell me something.
Dear Goddess, what’s happening?
I bite down hard on my lips to keep from uttering a cry.

But, as quickly as the feeling consumes me, it dissipates.
 

“Fine,” Griselda’s strangled voice says. “We’ll be ready then.”

“I thought you would see it my way,” the girl says in a way that indicates she is used to getting what she wants. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

A quick succession of boot scuffs scrape against the gravel and the girl’s small figure sprints around the corner, missing me by inches.

Then, before I can decide on whether or not to stay and listen or follow the girl, another set of footsteps enters from the other side of the alley.

The other voice is hushed, low, and male. They greet each other in English, a language the male speaker isn’t fluent in, but soon switch to a pure Patroxi tongue. I listen as intently as I can to the dialogue, the long swishes and clicks of their words, but I can hardly pick up the nuances as they negotiate and talk
around
the terms of some previous agreement. I can tell they do not want to be overheard or understood.
 

The conversation doesn’t last long. Griselda hands over some the money to the Patroxi male—whom she calls General Err—and repeats what Elwyn told her.
 

***

“Priondu-dit-la-dit. Chhersh,”
the male voice growls.
We agree to agree. Salute.
It sounds like part of his mouth is missing. Griselda, whom I’ve gathered is a war broker, repeats the phrase as well.

Arms are slapped twice, a farewell greeting for the Patroxi half-human population, and then complete silence. When I step away from the wall, the alleyway is empty.

It’s like they both floated up in smoke.

Whatever is about to happen will happen tonight. Not a lot of time to undo anything. If I kill Jaucey, will it change anything?

Instinct tells me that several factions will descend upon Skyscraper City tonight. Instinct also tells me that the girl, Elwyn, knows something. Maybe everything. Whatever I do, I need to act fast.

I leave the alleyway and jog in the direction the girl took.

The shadow follows me. Oddly, it’s comforting.

Four

I
FIND
THE
GIRL
near the Royal Alcove gate fifteen blocks away. The glorious starry sky above the Palace Skyscraper doesn’t extend this far east, and the
real
sky is a murky, cloudy saturation that casts the area in eerie, haunted shades of black, silver, and gray.

There’s nothing for me to hide behind, so I sink into the shadows of a decorative half-wall of a large house a block away and watch.

Beyond the gate where Elwyn stands, a rising cobblestone driveway leads up the mountain and, at a lower apex, a darkened granite, glass mansion towers somberly.

Glass.
See what I have that you can’t have.
The royal elders are notorious for inspiring jealousy. If the mansion was any closer to the gate, I might have been tempted to throw rocks at it. However, whoever built it was smart enough to place it back far enough to protect it.
 

I move closer.

The girl’s bright, conspicuous clothing sticks out like a beacon. Either the girl is stupid or she’s not afraid of being seen. And based on her behavior a few moments ago, I doubt she is stupid. Her fabriskin is of a high quality material, her slippers well made, and tiny jewels sparkle beautifully against her ebony-hued hair.
 

Elwyn presses a series of buttons at the gate’s intercom, each one a musical note, and a pedestrian gate silently swings open. The girl darts in and gently closes the entrance bars so they don’t clatter out loud. Her footsteps recede as she rises with the path up to the house.

Smart girl. She’s done this before, has the movements down, and she doesn’t appear concerned.
Fearless
comes to mind. I remember the choking sounds I heard back in the alleyway. I don’t know how she did it, but Elwyn put a chokehold on Griselda. And when the girl began to chant… it froze my veins.

Why is a twelve-year-old girl meeting a war broker in a darkened alleyway, imparting information? And not just any information—it has to be Lord Jaucey’s information.

It can only mean one thing.

Elwyn is Lord Jaucey’s daughter.

***

I try to watch her for as long as I can, but I can’t tell if she enters the house through the main door or not.
 

I crouch low and scan my surroundings.
 

The air is cool and quiet, the breeze soft, and the insects project more of a vibration than a sound. So when pebbles move somewhere to my right, maybe a block away, my throat catches mid-intake, and it feels like I need to swallow a ball of dust. I know it isn’t my shadow stalker.

Someone else follows me. Someone else watches me.

I let out the breath, walk to the gate’s intercom system, humming the musical notes. After three tries, the gate clicks open. I slip inside and, like the girl did, gently close the gate myself.

The path rises immediately into a steep incline. Baby palm trees no taller than me line the thin trail. I can see the outlines and shadows of other flowerless plants and bushes around what looks like a garden patio. The path branches in this direction, I round it, but nothing really interests me there, not unless I wanted to look at the owner’s leftover dishes scattered on a table.
 

The path curves back toward the side of the mansion and ends at a set of wooden double doors.
Locked
double doors.
 

I curse under my breath.
What did I expect? To have a charming welcome party waiting for me?
I put my ear to the door.

No sounds from the other side. No talking, yelling, no quiet footsteps.
 

Moving away from the door, I press my face against a large glass window. Everything appears dark inside, not even one dimly lit sconce to gently illuminate the room’s contents.

Thankfully, should someone be looking out from inside the mansion, I wouldn’t be visible either, but I kneel down just in case.
 

Clipped grass layered with a thin coating of dusty dew damps my knees and palms. I crawl several feet, check a window, see if it budges, and move on. I do this several times until something blocks my path.

It is a servant’s entrance.
 

The brick stairwell digs into the ground several feet from the main home. This is probably as good a chance as any. As I step onto the first step, though, the door opens. I bolt back the same way I came, jump over the bushes, and squeeze between the plants and the exterior wall.

A uniformed pair of boots walks past the bushes and into the direction of the patio garden. It’s a man carrying a tray. After a moment or two, I hear the rattle of dishes. I only have a couple of seconds to dislodge myself, climb down the steps, and enter the mansion without being seen.

I step over the bush and, without looking over my shoulder, I sprint to the brick staircase. I hear a string of profanities from the servant.

Dammit, I’ve been discovered. He still sounds far off, though. I dive lower just as several dishes crash.

I pop my head up over the brick. The man grumbles as he picks up broken shards from the grass. Okay, so maybe he didn’t see me.

Luck won’t be on my side forever.

With a grin, I discover that the door is slightly ajar. I slip in and reset the door the way I found it.

Five

I
FIND
MYSELF
IN
a kitchen workroom. Pots, pans, and other utensils hang from hooks jutting out from the low ceiling on one side. In the middle of the room sits a large wooden slab table. For eating. Cutting up food. Preparing dishes. My mother had something like it when I was young. I remember that, as a toddler, she’d prop me up on the counter while she baked. She’d pretend to not notice when I stole sugar biscuits.

I shake my head to get rid of the memory.

Beyond the slab and to the right, a simmering fireplace glows. In front of the glow sit two empty chairs. I imagine a housekeeper would cherish that spot as she rested from the day’s duties. She’d need it if she worked for Lord Jaucey.

I don’t stay long to admire the quaint, well-used room. Any second now, the servant will return and he won’t be thrilled to see a stranger gawking at the furniture in an overused room.

The next room is the kitchen. Large. Open. Gleaming. And empty.

I make my way through it, then a formal dining room strangely devoid of anything formal looking—it seems more like a staging area for food stuff—and out into a tunnel-like foyer that leads to an expansive, though dark and quiet, living room.

I slide against the wall and peer out through the windows that, only moments ago, I was trying to look into. And I was wrong. I definitely could have been seen. The windows have some sort of sheen on them, casting the outside into a greenish-yellow hue. I can easily identify where the plants are, where I was standing earlier, and now, the servant as he walks back toward the staircase with a tray full of dishes.

Infrared radiation-enhanced windows.

Faintly, I hear his movements in the kitchen, then running water, and some grumbling as he cleans the dishes. I turn and scan the living room, not because I’m interested in Lord Jaucey’s arrangements, but because I can’t seem to shake the feeling of being watched.

Other than the kitchen, its back room, and the formal dining room, the entire first floor is devoted to the living room, which boasts an epic high-rise ceiling and glass walls. Opposite the glass walls are two floor landings decorated with tall banisters.

If someone wanted to, one could look down and see the entire expanse of the living room. Or someone approaching on the walkway. Or even the street below, if one had excellent vision in the dark, looking through infrared-enhanced windows.

I wonder if Elwyn watched me approach.

Large war-themed paintings clutter most of the lone solid wall. Tall men and women, garbed in battle armor, are forever immortalized in barbaric scenes. In one particular painting, the subject is of a poor citizen being slaughtered as, above him, a black, cloudy smudge representing his soul leaves
his
body and enters the
victor’s
.

Goddess, if I lived here, I think I might burn everything in this room.

That thought is further cemented when a smaller, less noticeable portrait catches my attention. I study it longer than necessary. In fact, I have a difficult time
not
looking at it.

In it, a young Theodore Jaucey stands next a charismatic-looking man garbed in formal attire. Roland’s father. Even in the darkness, I can distinguish light green eyes, dark, expressive eyebrows, short brown hair, a regal nose, full lips, and a strong jaw.

The barbarian king.

Even angelic looking men can be as vile as the devil.

***

I move down the wall to the staircase.
 

I reach the first landing. Silently, I walk down the right hallway, then listen. Then return and walk down the left hallway. I don’t know what to expect. It feels empty. The entire floor. I suspect that if I open a door, the room behind it will be open space. Unused. Void. Dead.

Guest rooms, I would guess.

I could hide in one of these rooms for weeks before being discovered. The idea is so absurd and so brilliant that I almost laugh out loud because of it.

Moving on, I climb to the second landing.

This is better. The girl and the servants live on this floor. Slivers of yellow light flicker at the bottoms of several of the doors. I don’t know how I can tell, but as I reach the last room, I know it’s the girl’s.
I can feel her energy
. No light peeks through the door, though. I crouch down and glide a finger under the entrance.

Something’s there. A towel, clothing—something—to block the light. I don’t disturb anything. I’ll come back. First, I need to finish what I came here to do.

The top floor, which doesn’t look down over the living room, is one massive master suite. I stay low on the staircase, and after looking around a bit and then hearing some moaning, I lie down to remain unseen.

Billowy, sheer sheets separate the areas. Some of the sheets are tied up in the center, creating floating-looking columns. I crawl away from the staircase but then immediately stop.

A louder moan erupts.

“Oh, yes! Keep doing that,” a deep voice groans up ahead, followed by grunts.

Dear Goddess.
Jaucey is having sex. In a sick way, my insides tighten with lust. Just the sounds alone are arousing.

Poor woman. I feel sorry for whoever’s with him. And why doesn’t he have a damn door? Anyone could walk in on him.

Maybe that was the point.
 

I crawl toward the sounds.

“Take it all!” he hisses. Then there’s a delicious cry that could carry water before it sizzles into some sort of mumbling moaning. The pitch goes slightly higher and louder with each thrust.

I can’t get the picture of a naked Jaucey out of my head now.
 

It isn’t a bad picture. Theo Jaucey is a rather attractive man, probably with an amazing body, much like Roland’s. But Jaucey’s thin, cruel smile sours my stomach, and the idea of actually touching him with anything other than deadly force appalls me.

I’m now one sheet away from Jaucey and his bedmate. I’m close enough that I can hear the lower, intimate sounds of their lovemaking.

“Goddess, that’s wonderful,” a deep male voice whispers. But it isn’t Jaucey’s voice. It’s another man’s voice.

Staying low and now against a wall, I gently pull the sheet aside to see who I’m spying on.