Darak stole a glance down at Omara. She ruled a vast territory in the Pacific Northwest, but she was tiny, dressed in a long coat of fine white wool trimmed with a fluffy white fur collar. One long black braid hung over her shoulder, a sharp contrast to all that white. Her eyes were the shade of dark honey, her skin of pale cinnamon. Though she barely looked twenty, she was far older than Darak.
A relay of phone calls through Lore and some guy named Caravelli had prepared her. Otherwise, a hihow’s-your-flight from half a dozen rogue mercenaries would not have gone well.
She sighed with relief when they reached a main junction. Darak and Iskander held up their flashlights. They were in the front, the queen and two of her personal guards were next, another two of Darak’s men bringing up the rear.
They swept the flashlight beams around, identifying a fork in the tunnels. One had a stream of water down the middle. The unmistakable stink of rotting kelp hung in the air.
“What is that?” Omara asked, putting a hand to her nose.
“We’re close to the harbor, Your Majesty” said Iskander, who was far more polite than Darak. “Some of these places fill up when the tide comes in. The tunnels were used to haul goods from the ships.”
“Smuggling, you mean,” she said, sounding a bit amused. Like all women, she seemed to think Iskander was adorable. That had been his talent as a body slave.
When they came to the next fork, they went right. Now the tunnels looked dirty and dark, but blessedly dry. In the beam of the flashlight, Darak could see where the layers of sand and dirt formed smooth carpets, and where it looked like feet had churned it up.
“These tunnels are definitely in use,” the queen murmured. “Are you sure this route is secure?”
Darak traced the path with the light. “Whoever was down here went this same way.”
They went into what looked like a narrow service passage lined with bricks. He guessed it was part of an old coal delivery chute, rebuilt to serve another purpose. Farther along, there was still black dust clinging to the bricks.
Iskander consulted the map he’d printed off the Empire Hotel’s computer. “I think we’re under Fort Street. That utility door to the left must lead to the basement of another hotel.”
“Is that good?” Darak asked irritably.
“This passage connects two tunnels. Shortcut. We’re where we’re supposed to be.”
“That’s all I care about.”
Omara gave a quick shake of her head. “Something is watching us.”
Darak looked around. They’d loaded up on charms and protections, but none of them packed the wallop of Perry Baker’s magic. “Then the plan’s gone wrong aboveground. Belenos knows we’ve double-crossed him.”
Omara’s eyes flashed. “Then get me up there so that I can deal with this face-to-face. Now.”
He liked a woman who was willing to fight, even if she was a queen. Damning protocol, he grabbed her hand, pulling her down the narrow brick passageway to the tunnels. Iskander ran ahead, graceful as a deer, a long knife drawn in one hand. They’d just gained the main passageway when Iskander stopped dead in his tracks. Omara rammed into Darak. They stumbled together, his arms around her to keep her from falling. She felt pleasantly female, if a little too small for his taste.
“What the hell?” he demanded, and then caught sight of what had stopped his friend.
Something—no doubt Belenos and his magic ball—had been watching them. And found them.
Their flashlight beams vanished into a wall of blackness. It was black as ink, or jet, or the edge of the world. A shred of the darkness tore itself off and began inching toward them like an ambitious slug.
Darak’s stomach rebelled, trying to crawl up his throat. Pushing past Iskander, he stomped the shadow-slug with his big boot, grinding it into the dust. When he lifted up his foot, it had vanished. “Illusion.”
Omara clenched her jaw. “I don’t like this kind of pretend. If he wants to play magic games, I say bring it on. I’ll show that worm a few tricks.”
A bright speck arrowed out of the darkness, whirring like a dragonfly. They ducked in unison, Darak feeling a sting as it zipped past his cheek. It splatted against the wooden door behind them, and it exploded. Darak pulled the queen to the ground, hoping none of the flying splinters were stake-sized. He rolled once, coming up on his elbows, and fired into the wall of darkness. The other guards followed suit. Muzzle flashes lit up the tunnel, blinding him for an instant.
Once the echoes of the gunshots faded, there was a moment of expectant silence.
Another bright, whirring blob came sailing straight at the queen. She tracked it for a microsecond, then shot it out of the air with a ball of energy she conjured out of thin air. The collision flared into a chrysanthemum of sparks, banging like a giant firecracker. Pain stabbed Darak’s ears.
Two more fireballs came toward them, close enough that Darak had to fling himself out of the way. One caught his left arm, searing through coat and shirt to shred the flesh beneath. He swore, blood streaming from the wound.
He turned to see one of Omara’s guards dead on the ground, a hole where his heart should have been. Not even a vampire could heal that.
Omara screamed something in a language Darak didn’t know, thrusting a hand at the wall of darkness. The black barrier exploded into a shower of tiny black pellets. Darak flinched, but the scraps of shadow vanished in midair. Behind the wall a dozen figures scrambled to get away. Darak braced himself and fired, dropping one. Omara’s other guard and two of the Clan Thanatos bolted after them, leaving Iskander and Darak in charge of the queen.
Darak was on his feet, forcing himself to ignore the pain in his arm. “We’ve got to get moving.”
Omara was looking around, her bottom lip caught in her teeth. Her white coat was smeared with dirt from the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice that. Fear was seeping into her eyes. “Can you feel it?”
As soon as she spoke, Darak could.
Iskander swore under his breath. A wave of menace so thick it was touchable seeped out of the walls. It was followed by a strange crackling noise, like something sticky rolling across the floor, or a million maggots all squirming at once.
Horror bubbled over Darak’s skin, every primal instinct going on alert. What is that? His imagination couldn’t come up with an image, just emotion.
“Move,” he ordered.
They moved, hurrying for the tunnel ahead.
Omara covered her nose. He smelled it, too—rot beyond description, as if the entire cemetery had come out to play. He choked back his gag reflex, motioning the others to hurry faster.
The sound was growing louder, emanating from an intersection in the tunnels about thirty yards away. Darak held out his hand to stop and shone the flashlight toward the noise. His hunting senses were on full alert, probing the darkness.
“Any guess as to what it is?” he asked Iskander.
“Bugs.”
“Bugs?” Crap.
The queen made a disgusted noise. “He is using the creatures of the tunnels against us.”
The atmosphere of terror grew, freezing every joint in their bodies. These are bugs on magic.
Iskander dug the map out of his pocket and shone his flashlight on it. “Alternate route, right side tunnel, twenty yards ahead,” he said in a tight voice.
“Do it. Fast.” Omara didn’t sound any happier. She had her fallen guard’s gun, and was holding it like a pro. “There’s a problem using magic on live creatures that are already enchanted.”
Darak looked down on her. “What?”
“I could try to blow them away only to have them come back bigger and stronger than before.”
“No, thanks.”
They ran forward, Darak hating the fact that they were running toward the threat. The rustling sound grew louder as they approached the side tunnel, the sinister fluttering and scratching making his skin crawl.