Runebinder (The Runebinder Chronicles #1)(37)

Caius cleared his throat and looked around.

“Now, I believe you had somewhere to go.”

“I...”

“I’m tired of you wasting my time, Hunter,” Caius said, even louder. “I’ve got no use for heathens.” He spat at Tenn’s feet and walked away, staggering slightly.

Tenn watched him go for a moment. He couldn’t force down the chills that raced over his skin.

How many people in this godforsaken world knew him?

*

Tenn spent the next hour wandering, his nerves steeled for another confrontation. But the world was eerily silent—even in the outposts, there had been noise: the crackle of fires, the murmur of voices. Here, there was just the still air and glimmering sidewalks, everything wet and reflective, slick as nightmare.

These had been the suburbs of Chicago, but three years had changed them. The great wall circled the entire compound, and the houses closest to it were dilapidated and charred. But when he opened to Earth, he found they were still inhabited. Judging from the smell, well...they either hadn’t been cleaned, or no one ever left them, even after death. The thought made him wonder what they did with the dead. He didn’t see a graveyard, and the lake was still a mile or so away. Maybe cremation? He glanced at the wall, and the few ladders and ramps on this side leading to the top. He hoped cremation. He’d seen far too many commanders leave their dead for the Howls.

Closer in, away from the danger, the houses were nicer. They were still overcrowded, but at least these had been kept up. Some even still had all their windows.

Despite this—or because of it—those were the streets Tenn avoided. They felt too much like before the Resurrection. If he ignored the twisted streetlamps, or the makeshift sheds and yurts built on front lawns, he could almost pretend this place had never been tainted by magic or monsters. The streets were clean and wide, the cars gone—probably to be used as barriers outside, or locked eternally in the standstill traffic that clogged every highway in America, creating a veritable buffet for the undead. Mailboxes gaped for letters that would never come and hedges were neatly trimmed. The quaintness set his nerves on edge.

So he stayed near the town center, where the buildings were cramped and the laundry fluttered overhead like ghosts and everything had an air of ruin and despair. Shops were boarded up for the night, outdoor stalls were emptied of produce, litter clogged gutters. He hated to admit that those were the streets that felt the most normal. He hated how they made him almost feel safe.

The idea of safety sent another thought through his head. Without a weapon, he felt naked. He wasn’t as powerful as the twins, who didn’t seem to need a blade to feel safe. Magic always exhausted him. Power always ran out. And when the magic was gone, he was defenseless.

He passed by what was clearly the dump, or junkyard, or some mix of the two: a large lot that had probably once been for parking, but was now filled with trash metal and twisted bicycles and the overpowering scent of rot. He didn’t want to wonder what was decaying deep within the pile. He opened to Earth and used it to seek out something suitable. Finally, he found it—a piece of steel pipe a few feet long, thankfully along the perimeter of the mess. He wrenched it free and examined it under the moonlight.

It was heavy, and covered in rust, and bent in a few places. But it was the right size, and with a little work...

One of the hardest parts of the Resurrection was adjusting to the weaponry required to survive. Guns and nukes and the rest were obsolete, and the typical zombie-killer flair of nailed baseball bats and chain saws didn’t hold up to hordes of monsters. Weapons could be twisted by any mage. Bullets could be stopped, bombs disarmed. The only way to make a weapon your own was to infuse it with your own blood and magic.

He pushed through Earth, rooted down into the soil and through the pole in his hand.

Metal shivered and melted and reformed, rust sloughing off like snakeskin as the staff elongated, became smooth. He twisted the power and twisted the pole, made it sleek and straight, its weight even. He pulled a blade from each end, each curved and sharp as a crescent moon. He ran his thumb along the top blade, let it slice into his skin, the blade so sharp he barely felt it. Blood trickled down, and he used the power to absorb it into the metal, threading it through the staff and blades, until every inch of it was infused with his lifeblood. Another twist of power, and silver steel turned black.

He closed off to Earth and examined the weapon in the moonlight. It was nearly identical to his old staff, and when he spun it the blades whistled their familiar call through the air. But something about this one felt different. Something about it seemed to signal a new life. For a moment, the thought thrilled him. Then he remembered everything his new life entailed, and the excitement cut off, sharp as the blade he wielded.

*

The twins were already at the south tower when he arrived. It was clearly a new construct, made of magic-churned earth and bristling with steel spikes. It towered above the encircling wall, accessible only by a staircase that spiraled its way up through the center. The twins stood at the edge of the roof, their white coats glowing in the moonlight. Dreya’s coat was especially embellished, covered in more belts and buckles than seemed necessary. Devon’s coat was darker than his sister’s, like a cloud on the edge of a storm. The clean lines made him look like a military commander, though the burgundy scarf made him look like a commander with a cold.

“You guys look nice,” Tenn said. He didn’t know what else to say. “New coats?”