There was an angry shout from above, and Lenoir looked up to find a fast-moving carriage bearing down on him. For a moment he thought he had traded one death for another, but the driver managed to swerve the horses just enough to avoid running him over, the hooves of the nearest animal treading no more than a hand-span from Lenoir’s skull. As the carriage rattled past, the traces came within reach, and Lenoir seized on to the dangling leather, first with one hand, then with both.
He lurched forward. The pain was instant and intolerable; the flesh in his ankle tore more deeply and his arms felt as though they would be ripped from their sockets. He was forced to let go of the carriage. But the sudden, unexpected jolt of momentum had been enough to wrench the spirit forward into the street. Lenoir felt the scourge go slack. He wriggled free. Then he heard a scream, and he looked back, despite himself.
The spirit was on hands and knees in the street, a curtain of shining black hair covering his face. A woman on the opposite side of the street was pointing at him and shrieking, drawing looks from other passersby. Hands flew to mouths; people cursed and shouted. The woman was the first to flee, and others soon followed.
At first Lenoir thought he was imagining it: smoke appeared to be rising from the spirit’s body, from his hands and from the face Lenoir could not see. Then he realized that it was not his imagination. The spirit’s flesh was burning. The skin on the pale hands withered like thin paper put to flame, great holes opening up to reveal the tendon and bone beneath. The spirit staggered to his feet and turned to face Lenoir.
When he raised his head, Lenoir saw the most gruesome sight he would ever behold. The beautiful, marble-chiseled face was melting. The flesh of one cheek had dissolved entirely, leaving corded muscle the color of raw meat. The lips were gone; teeth shone through in a grisly mockery of a grin. The eyelids on one side were oozing away, uncovering a single white orb with an absinthe pupil. That pupil was fixed on Lenoir, and it carried a simple, unmistakable message:
This is not over.
The spirit stared at Lenoir for a long moment, seemingly oblivious to the screaming and crying that surrounded him. Then he turned dispassionately away and strode back into the alley.
Lenoir could not help himself. He got shakily to his feet and moved toward the alley. The street was virtually empty now, and Lenoir stood in the center of it, keeping well out of reach of the shadows. When the alley came into view, Lenoir was somehow not surprised by what he saw there.
The green-eyed man stood in the gloom near the entrance to the street. His face was virtually whole again, save for a patch of his cheek that was closing up even as Lenoir watched. His searing gaze bored into Lenoir, but he did not venture back into the light.
Any doubts Lenoir had harbored about this creature’s immortality vanished in that moment, along with any remaining hope that he could survive for long. He had manufactured no fewer than three escapes from the green-eyed man, miraculous escapes that he scarcely understood. No man deserved that kind of providence. Certainly Lenoir did not.
He turned away from the alley and headed back up the street to find Crears and the others. His limbs were shaking terribly, and his pant leg was shredded at the hem. His clothing was streaked with dirt from the street. He would need to think of an excuse to explain his disheveled appearance to Crears, but he had plenty of time to come up with something plausible. After all, he would be taking the long way round.
CHAPTER 15
It had been a long time since Kody last visited Fort Hald, Kennian’s main prison, and now he remembered why. It was the sort of thing that could make a man seriously question his career choice. No sooner had he plunged into the echoing gloom than he felt his whole body tense, as though every fiber of his being were counting off the seconds until he could leave. Despair saturated the place, assaulting his senses. The sounds of it clamored in his ears: the cold rattle of chains against stone, the low mutterings of the insane, the skittering of vermin in the shadows. His nostrils flared at the smell of it, a fetid cocktail of iron, mold, stale urine, and pestilence. Its chill, clammy touch issued forth like a phantom breath from the bowels of the dungeons. Its taste was the bile rising in his throat. But nothing was worse than what met the eye.
The hollow, cadaverous faces that peered between the bars held no emotion. Few showed any interest in Kody; many didn’t even seem to register his presence. Some sat motionless, mouths open, staring at nothing. Others paced their cells as much as their shackles would allow, shambling noisily back and forth in mindless monotony. Sickness was everywhere—open sores, rattling breath, clouded eyes. Kody had the unsettling impression of being surrounded by an army of animated corpses.
He’d always considered it ironic that those found guilty of capital crimes were put to death, while those convicted of more minor offenses were incarcerated here. Given the choice, Kody would rather be hanged twice over than spend even a month in this cage of the damned. He couldn’t help feeling a little guilty about his own role in condemning people to rot away in this place.
He shook off such thoughts and tried to focus on the task at hand. He had reason to hope this visit would be fruitful, at least. Instead of flashing Raiyen’s sketch around the Camp in the faint hope that someone would recognize him, Kody had decided to follow Lenoir’s logic and start with known members of the Asis clan. He’d been told that the woman he’d come here to see, Marani, was an exile, just as Raiyen had been. She almost certainly knew the dead man, and he might have contacted her when he moved to the city. Kody also hoped to learn more about khekra. If the Asis clan had once been renowned for its witchdoctors, as the apothecary had said, Marani might know something of their arts.
He found her with some difficulty, since the majority of the female prisoners were Adali (as were a disproportionate number of the men), and none of them were eager to own their identities. Eventually, a middle-aged woman separated herself from the others and moved toward the bars, albeit reluctantly. She regarded Kody suspiciously through occluded eyes. She would be blind soon, he guessed, opaque masses overtaking her amber pupils like ice thickening over a lake.
She stopped a few paces back from the bars, as though she feared Kody might reach through and try to grab her. “What do you want?” she demanded, her voice croaking from disuse.
“I need to ask you a few questions.” Kody held up his sketch. “Do you know this man?”