Death's Mistress (Dorina Basarab, #2)(129)

It was a definite gap. But I couldn’t see anything on the other side, either because the flashlight’s beam didn’t extend that far, or because there wasn’t anything to see. I could slither in there only to find another wall of dirt and rock. Or another avalanche waiting to come down on my head.

My fingers were aching from gripping the flashlight so hard, and it wasn’t going to be much use anyway. I tucked it back in my belt and started crawling, before I could talk myself out of this. The gap at the top of the mountain was claustrophobically small, and the air was almost unbreathable. It also got smaller as I went along, to the point that my elbows were brushing it on either side, and my chin was carving through the dirt like a plough.

It was almost impossible to imagine dragging Anthony through this, even if there was an opening on the other side. The smart thing would be to turn around, to find another way out as fast as possible, and to send help back for him. He was as tough as nails, as he’d more than proven; maybe another hour or two wouldn’t make a—

My head popped out into open air on a little cloud of dust. It was so unexpected that it caught me off guard, and I didn’t stop my forward momentum fast enough. I found myself tumbling down another steep slope, head over heels into darkness.

I smashed into the pile of very hard debris at the bottom and just lay there for a moment, trying to breathe. It didn’t go so well, at first because the wind had been knocked out of me. And then what little breath I had caught at the sight of someone standing just inside the shadow of the main door.

He was sliced diagonally by bands of ruddy light from some source behind him. I vaguely recognized it as the graffiti marquee, its dim glow filtered through a haze of dust. I couldn’t make out much even with the light; there was too much crap in the air. But a monstrous shadow sprawled on the floor beside him.

I watched, out of breath and momentarily helpless, trying to get back to my feet. But my left foot was caught on something, and before I could figure out on what, the indistinct shape moved forward. Its hand lifted and the shadow appendage moved along with it, rippling, giant, and terrifying.

And reaching out for me.





Chapter Thirty-six


Panic caused me to jerked my trapped foot hard enough to crack the heavy old root it had become wedged under. I ignored a bright searing pain from my ankle and scrambled to my feet, gun in hand. Only to have it caught in an iron grip.

I twisted but couldn’t break the hold, so I did the next-best thing and threw my attacker against the wall. He hit with a thud that had more dirt dropping down on top of us, but he still didn’t let go. Instead, he spun me into his arms, and somehow got a grip on both wrists. So I stomped on his foot, trying to get enough leverage to—

“Please do not hit me below the belt again,” a man said, sounding heartfelt. “I have not yet recovered from the last time.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked, relaxing back into Louis-Cesare’s arms.

“I followed Anthony. I wanted to know what was important enough to keep him away from the challenge of the century. Why are you here?”

“I followed you.” I twisted in his grasp, and he let me go, a little reluctantly, I thought. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. “Everyone is looking for you. The consul’s about to have a fit, Marlowe’s tearing his hair out and Mircea . . .”

“I know. I called him an hour ago, informing him that I will return for the trial. I never intended to do otherwise, but I had to be free to gather evidence, if such existed.”

“I think Marlowe is already doing that.”

“Yes, but there are places even he cannot go.”

“Such as?”

“Such as Anthony’s private rooms. I wished to search them for the stone—”

“You searched my rooms?” The outraged voice drifted faintly through the rubble.

Louis-Cesare’s head jerked up. “What was—”

“Anthony,” I said sourly. “I found him a little while ago.”

“You found—” He looked at me incredulously. “But he could drain you from here! If he is the killer—”

“I don’t think he is.” I wanted to ask how Louis-Cesare had managed to search Anthony’s rooms when Marlowe himself couldn’t do it. But I decided it could wait. “Did you find anything?”

“No.” He looked frustrated. “But he is dangerous nonetheless!”

“Not so much at the moment,” I said drily.

“He killed Geminus!”

“He says not.”

“I saw the body, Dorina. There are very few opponents who could have done that to a fighter of Geminus’s caliber.” It was the same thing I’d been thinking, but it still didn’t make sense.

“He was attacked, too.”

“By Geminus, no doubt attempting to defend himself.”

“I’d think the same, but those weren’t defensive wounds. Anthony said something killed Geminus and then attacked him.”

“Something?” Louis-Cesare’s expression spoke volumes.

“That’s what he said, but he isn’t completely coherent at the—”

The scream that tore the stillness caused us to jump as one, tensing against attack. But it wasn’t on our side of the fall. “Anthony!” Louis-Cesare called, as I scrambled back up the slope.