Vowed in Shadows ms-3 Page 11

  The air in the tunnel crackled with conflicting energies as the demons—malevolent versus repentant—struggled for dominance. Concrete dust puffed from the walls. One-on-one, a teshuva easily mastered a bad demon, but with the fluctuating waves of malice, salambes, and ferales . . . The first row of tenebrae cleared the etheric fog, and behind them was a second rank.

  And “rank” was exactly the right word. The stench in the corridor backed up in his throat like sewage. A third row jostled the second, and Jonah revised the talyan chances downward.

  They edged toward the open junction, not to lure the horde to their doom but merely to breathe.

  Jonah turned at a chill wafting across his shoulders. Jilly and Sera had come from behind. Sera rushed past him in a swirl of air too cold and dry to be merely the fresher air of the open corridor beyond. The teshuva inside him expanded and tensed, like a cat staring at ghosts in an open room. The female talya was cracking her way into the tenebraeternum, where she could banish the lesser demons. It was a skill only the women had, focused by the artifacts left during their possession. And it was heresy, if one read the league archives in the right paranoid mind-set.

  Considering the way the army of tenebrae hesitated despite their superior numbers, the league, perhaps, had reason to be paranoid.

  “Go.” Jilly paused next to him. Her eyes were solid amethyst, and the edges of her reven, visible above her décolletage, raced with answering violence. Her breath curled in an icy plume. “You can’t do anything here.” He stiffened, and she added, “Not when Nim doesn’t have the anklet. There are too many of them, and we can’t play nice, not if we want Andre.”

  It was Nim’s turn to stiffen. Her fingers latched onto his shirt, tugging the material loose from its neat tuck. “We have to stay. It’s my fault I lost the anklet.”

  “And I lost the boy who may have turned to this path. Who’s guiltier?” Jilly stared past them. “I need to be with Liam. You have your map and light. Get out of here.” She didn’t promise to call later.

  Jonah took Nim’s hand in his. “We’re gone.”

  Nim tugged at him. “But—”

  Jilly strode past them. Without looking back, Liam reached out to her. His tall, almost too-thin form and her short, full-bodied stance blended together. One weapon.

  Jonah dragged his gaze away, almost as difficult as dragging Nim with her stumbling feet.

  “We can’t leave them.” Her flashlight swung toward the fight, adding a strobe to the clash of talyan against ferales. “They’re in trouble.”

  “They’ll have less trouble without us.” The truth churned in his stomach, a sickening counterpoint to the riled teshuva.

  In a dozen strides, they emerged in the open junction. Three lines of tracks led into the darkness beyond the reach of Nim’s light.

  “Which way?” She fumbled for the satchel over her shoulder, where Sera had stuffed the map.

  Jonah conjured up the diagrams in his mind. “The left leads toward the second team.”

  “We can send them back here.” Suddenly, Nim was pulling him forward. “Reinforcements.”

  He didn’t bother telling her the fight would be over—one way or another—long before they reached the next exit.

  They sped down the corridor. With her mind focused on the task ahead—summoning help for the others—she moved with her natural grace plus the demon’s speed. It was he, half-unbalanced, who fell a step behind. The teshuva’s energy ripped through him, a warning.

  “Slow down,” he said.

  “Take my hand.” She reached for him, as Liam had reached for Jilly.

  Anger flared. “I said, ‘slow down.’ There’s something blocking the path.”

  She half turned. He grabbed her when she tripped and kept her from blundering right into the metal grate ahead of them, powder coated the same flat gray as the surrounding concrete and almost invisible in Nim’s jouncing light.

  A padlock the size of his hand dangled at eye level from the door set into the blockade. He set Nim to one side and threaded his fingers through the thin wire. “Watch your eyes.”

  He heaved back. The metal tore from its hinges with a rusted squeal.

  She slipped through and waited for him. “Good catch. I would’ve grated myself like cheese.”

  “I don’t like that the lock-off wasn’t marked on the map.”

  “The tenebrae must’ve come down a different path.”

  He propped the gate against the wall. “There’s no demon sign at all.”

  “Hard to make you happy.”

  “Hard to imagine that some tenebrae sometime hasn’t used these tunnels to get around the city. The gate wouldn’t stop the malice and salambes, but the ferales would’ve broken through.”

  “Why would they? Not much down here to keep them happy. Or me, for that matter. Let’s go.” Her whole body canted toward the promise of the exit.

  He followed, drawn along because they couldn’t go back.

  They passed another junction, and he steered them toward where the second team would probably have come down by now. Hearing no word would be an irresistible invitation to join the fray.

  Nim’s flashlight dimmed. “What?”

  No, it hadn’t dimmed. The black-painted wall blocking their path had just swallowed the light.

  “Watertight seal,” Jonah said. “No wonder there’s no demon sign. Even a malice couldn’t squeeze through.”

  Nim stomped her foot. “What’s the point of having a map if it’s wrong?”

  “Life’s funny that way.”

  “Death, not so much,” she shot back. “Can’t you—?”

  “Rip it open?” He touched the solid barrier. The teshuva didn’t twitch. “I don’t think so.”

  He reared back and slammed his shoulder into the wall. Flakes of concrete drifted down. He rammed the wall again. Chunks of concrete the size of his clenched fist tumbled from the curve overhead, and Nim let out a startled cry.

  When he drew back again, she grabbed his arm. “Don’t. The tunnel is too old to take the abuse.”

  He let her draw him away. His body rang painfully with the force of the blows, the teshuva slow to respond to the damage it hadn’t authorized.

  Everyone was disapproving these days.

  “Back to the last junction,” he said. “According to the map . . .” He waited while she scoffed. “According to the map, there’s another exit. Farther and not as circumspect, but it’s our best option now.”

  The junction had only one other choice, so they passed through it at a run. Their speed didn’t stop him from noting the demon sign smeared on the walls. This had been the path the horde had taken to get to the club. Though he felt dizzy with the effort, he pushed the demon hard through his body to pick up the pace.

  They crossed into another Y-shaped junction.

  “Which way?” Nim gasped.

  He hesitated. Follow the demon sign out—but into who knew what nest? Or take another turn? He led her down the smaller route, still marked with etheric traces of tenebrae, but faintly.

  Unlike the other corridors, this one plunged downward. More ominously, the freight tracks ended. He tried to summon the map into his mind. This branch of the tunnel had been diagrammed, but were they passing under a street? Maybe the softer layer of soil the city had dug through to make the tunnels had shifted.

  Or maybe the map had failed completely.

  The corridor behind them trembled, and the scent of grave dirt breathed from cracks in the walls.

  “Go,” Nim gasped.

  Movement was opportunity, hope, life. Which was why the teshuva in him held itself so still.

  Down they went.

  Here the walls had not been finished with the concrete veneer, and clods of earth pattered down. The horde wasn’t visible yet, but etheric emanations flowed ahead like sulfuric wind before a hellish storm.

  Nim hurried beside him. “The bad demons. They broke through your friends, didn’t they?”

  “It
seems likely.”

  She mumbled something under her breath, maybe a curse.

  The corridor took another dip downward, and this time the ceiling lowered. The walls in the swinging beam of Nim’s flashlight showed the gouge marks of earthmoving machines. Though the hooks had been set in the ceiling to hold the electrical line, the tunnel itself had never been finished.

  The light bounced off the corroded metal hooks and glimmered off something shinier on the floor. A mirror . . . No, water.

  After escaping the cold of the tenebraeternum, he hadn’t noticed the damp chill in the air.

  Nim rocked to a halt at the edge of the standing pool. She played the beam out as far as it could go. The black surface of the water reflected the light away, and the depths of the tunnel swallowed it. “You said I shouldn’t be unnecessarily scared,” she mused. “How would you rate this moment?”

  He considered. His leader and friends were trapped in a desperate fight somewhere behind them. And maybe ahead of them too. The forces of darkness had the advantage. He was lost—well, unfound, at least—under the city with a half-dressed woman who was about to be very wet. “I’d say there’s no point screaming, since that just brings the tenebrae down faster.”

  “That good, huh?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe it doesn’t get too deep.”

  She snorted and waded in. She hissed as the water topped her sneakers. His boots kept out the cold bite for just another heartbeat. Under his heels, the floor was slick with a coat of mud.

  By the time they reached as far as the light had, the water was up to their knees, and still the tunnel angled downward while the water rose. Nim cast the light ahead. The light bounced up in a rippling cat’s eye where the ceiling of the tunnel sloped to touch the water. If the path continued, it did so only underwater.

  “Crap,” she said.

  Under the circumstances, he thought she restrained herself admirably.

  As they stood contemplating, the ripples around them stilled. Until a tremor shivered the surface like breaking glass.

  “Nim,” he said softly. “Turn off your light.”

  A wonder she didn’t ask why, but just did as he asked. In the pitch-blackness, his demon strained to help him see. He wasn’t asking much, and it found a few stray photons of light. A red glow, almost cheery, if he hadn’t known what was coming.

  “Salambes,” Nim whispered. “Oh, fuck.” She didn’t bother turning on the light again. “So you said these demons can’t morph through waterproof walls, right? Can they swim?”

  “They can’t dive.” It didn’t necessarily follow that he and Nim could.

  As if she were reading his mind, or maybe just his expression, Nim said, “Out of the frying pan and into the cold, dark, possibly bottomless well. Do we have a choice?”

  Once, he would have. He could have taken the tenebrae, maybe even had a chance. Or if not a chance, he could have won back at least a measure of grace.

  He imagined slamming his missing hand into the wall. The nerves in the stump screamed up his arm, and the teshuva rose to the threat . . . only to be dashed back by the scarred flesh.

  He couldn’t risk Nim on these odds, not with his limitations.

  Without waiting for his answer, she waded deeper, up to her thighs. Her reven sparked restlessly. She raised her hands to keep them dry, pointlessly, as the water reached her navel. The hem of her T-shirt floated up.

  Jonah followed her, and the cold water wicked up his jeans, dousing any momentary—and equally pointless—flare of ardor.

  When the chill reached his chest, he paused. The glow behind them was flame bright, but the salambes weren’t yet in view. “I don’t know how much of the tunnel is submerged,” he warned.

  “And here I thought you knew everything.” She took a deep breath. “No chance teshuva breathe underwater, I suppose.”

  “I don’t know that either. Never had reason to find out.”

  “Well, I donated my body to a demon. Might as well give it to science too.”

  “Don’t.” He wasn’t sure where the word came from; it just jumped from his tongue. “Don’t give yourself away.”

  She eyed him, violet clashing with the red gleam of the approaching horde. “Does it matter now?”

  He supposed not. “The teshuva will at least help you hold your breath,” he said instead. “It will keep you going longer than you could by yourself, as long as you don’t choke on the need to breathe.”

  “I have almost no gag reflex,” she said. “Ready?”

  Facing each other, they each took a long, deep breath. The swell of her chest brought her breasts above the waterline. He sighed at the thrust of her nipples through her wet shirt, sucked in one last breath, and dove.

  Nim didn’t look back, but she knew the moment the red light of the salambes faded away. Ahead of them, only black. She doubted the flashlight was waterproof. Not like the tunnel was turning anyway. If anything, it was still going down. Which wasn’t good, because that meant more water before it went up.

  Her heart pounded like the biggest drum in the orchestra—loud and slow. Good demon, taking it easy. Now, if the tunnel would just turn upward . . .

  Even with the demon, visibility was zero, but the fine brush of silt drifted past her tight-clenched lips. Not an encouraging sign. Dirt on the floor meant this was still the rough tunnel, not the start of the higher, finished passage. Despite her blindness, she felt the current from Jonah’s body rush around her. With just one hand, he must be struggling too.

  Her heart cranked up a little faster, as if the orchestra percussionist had gotten bored with the steady beat and decided to join a marching band. At Mardi Gras. Jonah would be telling her not to swear or scream. Since even one good curse would mean drowning, perhaps she’d listen to him this time.

  Too bad she might not get the chance to tell him how this impromptu baptism had converted her.

  She probably should have mentioned she was a terrible swimmer. She much preferred lying topless on Oak Street Beach, under the hot sun and angry glares of the girls who had the boobs but not the backbone to minimize their tan lines. Yeah, she would’ve liked to see his face when she mentioned that.

  Now her heart had run off to join a punk band. Her arms burned from paddling, and she found herself clawing at the water. Her fingertips raked the concrete.

  Concrete, not dirt. The floor was slanting up.

  Still no light. But of course there wouldn’t be. Unless someone were waiting for them. The dark was better, since—considering their luck so far—she could guess what’d be on the other side.

  Never mind the salambes; her lungs burned, legs burned, throat burned. Water crept into her nostrils, but she did not breathe. Very good demon.

  Had to be just a little farther; then she could gasp all she liked.

  Her good intentions jolted out of her when something grabbed her from behind.

  CHAPTER 10

  She flailed and cracked her head on . . . on the ceiling? The floor? Every direction seemed like down.

  She wanted to scream this time. Scream Jonah’s name. He would be forging on ahead without her, oblivious to her capture. It would drag her away. . . .

  Whatever it was didn’t drag her, though, just held her, which was death enough, of course.

  She reached behind her, half expecting fangs. The hook that would have held the power line for the tracks somewhere below her kicking feet had snagged between her backpack and spine. She slipped out of one strap of the backpack, but the other wrapped like a tentacle around her arm. She wrenched at it, tearing cloth and skin like she was a fish on a hook.

  She couldn’t help it. She let out the last of her breath.

  But as the bubbles left her open mouth, a strong arm wrapped around her chest.

  His hook dug under her breast, but she didn’t care. Water flooded her throat, and the utter blackness sparked with stars. Odd. Or maybe not, if she were dying.

  The cold touch of open air poured over her face as
the water fell away, and Jonah roared her name.

  He slogged through the chest-deep pool. Was he swearing? Impossible. Maybe that was just her inner voice.

  Then he was running. She jounced in his arms, and suddenly all the water in her spewed out in a silty gush.

  How embarrassing. Thank God it was dark except for the deep-sea-fishes gleam of the reven between her thighs. She didn’t want him to see the blush on her cheeks, except she felt so cold, maybe blushing would be nice.

  Before his boots cleared the edge of the water, he laid her out on the concrete floor.

  And then his mouth covered hers.

  Maybe that stupid, drowning gasp hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.

  His lips were as cold as hers, his first breath as desperate as her last one, but it filled her with fire.

  Her heart slam-danced to the demon’s pulse. She reached for Jonah, but he rolled her to her side and another lungful of water drained from her. She choked and snorted, wishing her reven would dim enough to not add the party lighting to her after-hours-style purge.

  He touched her shoulder. “Just lie back.”

  There was something she’d never expected to hear from him. She coughed a few more times and then pushed against his hand. “I’m all right now.” She gathered her legs under her and sat up, her palm flattened against her chest.

  He peered at her. “Still water in there?”

  “No. I ripped up the back of my shirt on that fucking hook. Not much left.”

  He sat back abruptly.

  She started to snicker at his prudish recoil. Then he peeled out of his T-shirt, and she choked again instead.

  How did a missionary man get abs like that? The concrete where she had bashed her head had nothing on the hardness of his obliques. Apparently, machete swinging needed its own workout video. Or maybe almost a century of demon swatting had some advantages. The soaked cotton clung to his broad shoulders for a moment, then released with a sound like a wet kiss.

  She took the shirt when he handed it to her, too stunned to do otherwise.