They were naked, gray-skinned, and riddled with pustules. Hairless and nearly skeletal.
Jikininki.
The word escaped from the depths of inaccessible memory.
Ghouls.
They’d stripped their meals of clothing. But they took no pleasure in eating what they’d stumbled upon in the alleyway. They felt nothing—or nothing he could read from them.
As one, they became aware of Tir, and he lifted the machete in silent warning.
Something passed between the ghouls.
The first of them rose from the crouched position, a male whose penis was shriveled, his testicles wrinkled and dark like prunes. He shambled forward, tongue licking a too-small mouth.
The others followed. Males and females both.
Surprise flashed through Tir at their willingness to leave their meal and come after him. Did they think he’d turn tail and run? Did they believe they’d eventually overtake him? Or that once he was down, they could swarm over him and subdue him with their greater numbers?
He backed away from the alleyway entrance in order to give himself room to slay them. They didn’t falter, even after the first of them reached him and he decapitated it with a single swing of the machete.
Bodies piled up in front of him, forcing him to retreat further where their attack hadn’t. The machete blade glowed blue in the moonlight, its color spreading, deepening with each ghoul he struck down, until finally it was like holding a shard of dark ice.
Even as the last of those from the alleyway was dealt with, Tir could hear the shuffling sounds of more ghouls coming toward him, drawn to the battle. With a start, he realized he would spend all night battling them if he chose to make a stand.
He lowered the machete and sidestepped the massed corpses to jog through the alleyway, past the half-eaten remains of the humans who’d thought to kill him and take Araña back to the maze.
At the end of the alleyway he paused only long enough to ensure he didn’t emerge in a crowd of ghouls. When he found it clear, he continued forward, alert for the icy breath of air that would warn of a vampire’s presence.
He felt it against his skin as he neared the pier where Araña’s boat was tethered. He stopped, once again lifting the machete in silent warning, its blade continuing to glow blue in the moonlight.
The vampires emerged from darkness worn like a cloak. Three of them. All male. All elegant and beautiful where the ghouls had been misshapen and revolting.
They halted in front of Tir, just beyond the reach of the blade. One took a step forward, not in threat, but to serve as a spokesman.
He lifted his hands, palms out, saying, “We wish no argument with you. Your business here is your own and we won’t interfere.”
“I intend to take a boat.”
“As I said, we won’t interfere. In any way.”
They pulled the night around them and ebbed away like a cold spot in the ocean. Tir lingered for a moment in contemplation, his eyes going to the camera positioned on top of the lamppost. Would it capture his likeness if he stepped foot on the dock?
He’d never seen a picture of himself, though over the years his captors had come into his cell on occasion and photographed him, sometimes repeating the action several times during a single day and making him wonder if, despite being held to a human form, something of his true nature prevented his image from being trapped on film.
There was risk if he was mistaken. He’d seen the consequences earlier when a simple meal led to an attack in an alleyway.
Tir’s attention shifted to the water. He was very much aware of the nuances the vampire’s promise held—neither to hinder nor to help.
If he chose to avoid the dock in favor of swimming to the boat, he’d survive. That was a given. But he didn’t know what predators lurked in the water, and instinct urged him to avoid its cloying embrace.
Decision made, he strode forward. If there were watchers, he didn’t feel their eyes on him.
Wood creaked underneath his feet. His steps echoed staccato-sharp in the darkness.
There were lights along the pier where emptied cargo ships waited to be loaded. Beyond it was the muted sound of a boat engine as guardsmen or police patrolled the channel.
Tir reached Araña’s boat and sheathed the machete in favor of freeing the mooring lines. The sound of the patrol boat grew louder, though the cargo ship continued to block it from view. A floodlight’s beam danced along the water, spearing through the night like a harpoon hurtling toward prey.
The cabin was locked. Tir didn’t take the time to open it.
He moved quickly to the engine and used the smaller of the keys Araña had taken from the wallet. He slid it into place, and hesitated only a heartbeat before turning it, deciding to make a run for the outer harbor rather than chance that the patrol boat was merely making a routine pass.
The engine came to life with a powerful throb. Knowledge pulsed through Tir, information beyond what any acolyte had shared with him, as if anything a human could know belonged to him as well.
Tir maneuvered the boat away from the dock and headed toward the mouth of the harbor. The floodlight speared him just as he prepared to accelerate.
“Halt!” a voice blazed over a loudspeaker. Tir ignored the command. He gunned the engine so the boat surged forward aggressively. Bullets struck the water behind him. The patrol boat’s growl increased, matching that of Araña’s boat. Tir increased his speed further. A machine gun rattled. Then something louder fired. A projectile soared overhead, landing a hundred yards in front of the boat and exploding. Tir altered his course, abandoning the straight line in favor of weaving back and forth. The boat shook as it hit turbulent water and Tir fought to maintain control of it.
More projectiles were fired.
The voice continued to order him to stop.
Tir pressed forward, racing along the inner harbor channel, passing what had once been the middle harbor. At the point of land separating middle from outer harbor, he saw another boat speeding toward him, as if it sought to cut him off before he could reach the security of open waters.
He veered right, as he’d intended, and sped along the debris-filled mouth of the outer harbor.
Bullets slammed into the water inches behind him, warning him he couldn’t decrease his speed until the last instant, when he changed course abruptly and slipped through a narrow passageway formed by the rusted, wrecked hulls of boats destroyed in The Last War.
Behind him the patrol boats stopped, no longer in sight. The growl of their engines seemed to deepen in frustration at the escape of prey and the inability to attack further.
Tir turned his attention to navigating the treacherous waters. The landmarks on Rimmon’s map rose up, marking his passage as he moved farther into the harbor.
Cormorants perched on buoys and abandoned vessels, their turquoise eyes noting his presence, their inky blackness broken by flashes of white on their necks.
Some of them launched skyward at his passing. Tir pressed on, expecting a boat piloted by Rimmon’s men to emerge from the darkness. But when he reached the place he was to wait, one of the cormorants landed on the bow. And then another. And another. Until there were five of them.
Feathers dissolved into tanned flesh, beaks into aristocratic noses. Birds became men wearing feathered headdresses.
Skin-walkers.
“Drop anchor here,” one of them said. “We’ll remain with you until first light. Then Rimmon will come for you.”
RAOUL held the mug of beer to his mouth and finished the last of it, liking the flush of euphoria the drink gave him, the feeling of empowerment. He needed to slow down, he told himself, then immediately shrugged off the thought and lifted his hand, signaling the bartender to send a waitress.