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.
Getting 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.”
Thirty
The 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.
Dagon 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.