KRONA
Worst of all, I am afraid. Even with the bracers on, their red garnets and yellow topaz blazing with stolen emotion, I am afraid. Perhaps the gemstones do not help because this is a special fear: fear of disappointing. Fear of known failure. I could go to an Emotioteur and have them extract the fear permanently. But I can’t shake my suspicion of the needles—that the prick can take more than the enchanters claim.
The night pressed against the conservatory’s windows like a wall of water, humid and thick. Looking out into the blackness, De-Krona felt squeezed. Pressured. As though one careless tap on the pretty green glass would cause it to crack and shatter, allowing the night to rush in, smothering partygoers and servants alike.
But the quartet played a joyful tune, and smiles flashed all around. She let herself sway in time to the music while scanning the room’s rear left quadrant for suspicious behavior.
Tonight’s celebration was in honor of the Chief Magistrate’s Silver Jubilee. He was the head of all security divisions in the city-state of Lutador, from the food inspectors all the way up through the ranks of the Watch, to the Regulators, the Martinets, and, of course, the Marchonian Guard.
Twelve articles of enchantment, each taken into custody during the Chief Magistrate’s tenure, and typically hidden away in the city-state’s vaults, were on display. De-Krona carefully wove her way through the tall cases. The sampling of contraband included one syringe, five masks, three necklaces, one brooch, one poorly blown glass globe, and one bronze penknife.
All seemingly normal items.
All incredibly dangerous.
Six Regulators had been assigned to the collection’s security, and Krona had been excited for the opportunity. Though she was accustomed to field work—three years and counting—she was the newest member of this team, under the direction of Captain De-Lia Hirvath—her older sister (and the reason why she often dropped the familial De in her name).
De-Lia’s team was well respected. Often given the most high-profile concerns.
The glass shell sculpted to fit over De-Krona’s ear vibrated. “I don’t like the look of that man in red” came Tray’s voice in her helm. Sucking on an enchanted reverb bead allowed the Regulators to communicate with each other at a distance, and without being overheard. Tray stood nearest the door, observing as each guest showed the doorman their invitation. “This is a party,” he continued. “Red. It’s … unseemly.”
Tan and gray and white and brown swirled around the room in vivacious synchronicity. The crowd was spotted through with figures in black, such as De-Krona, but a lone man in crimson strolled through the throngs of nobility. His mourning suit screamed out for attention like a swath of blood on a white child’s knee. The path he cut indicated his goal was the exhibit.
Too conspicuous for trouble, Krona thought. Licking out, she caught the reverb bead where it dangled on a thread near her lips, and drew it under her tongue. “I’ll keep a watch on him,” she said before spitting the bead out again.
“Call if you need assistance,” Royu said from the other side of the massive room. Zhe and Sasha passed each other, patrolling the perimeter.
As he drew nearer to Krona, the man’s features resolved. The light brown of his face was made darker by the circles around his eyes and the sunkeness of his cheeks. He was perhaps thirty, thirty-five, and would have been handsome if not for the deep gloom about him. Though his steps found firm footing, his gaze jumped and swirled. His attire and posture were well-kempt. Small feathers lined the plunging neckline of his tunic—they looked like little red teeth at her distance.
De-Krona was sure his mourning attire was not chosen out of jest or disrespect. And he wore no jewelry that she could see—no opals. The grief appeared genuine.
He approached the display case farthest from her, then wove in and out of the tall podiums that held the items at eye level, studying each artifact in detail without really seeing them at all.
“How may I aid you?” Krona asked when he came near, aware that her oversized helm and androgynous uniform often made her a daunting figure to the public (noble or otherwise).
His gaze trailed away from the misshapen globe, falling on the rounded, dark-berry-colored glass of the visor that hid her face from view. The rims of his eyes were as red as his formal coat. “There is no aid a Regulator can give, unless you can turn back time.” Far from sounding distant or removed, he instead sounded … hot. Intense, like a furnace. Like a coiled fever ran through him, and with one touch he could set the drapes on fire.
“That is not aid anyone can give. The goddess Time insists on a steady course,” she said softly, maintaining her authoritative posture.
“Just as turning up the gas does not make it morning, so turning back the clock’s hands does not make it yesterday,” he said. Each word flaunted a biting edge.
A servant carrying a tray of champagne flutes twirled by, pausing to offer the man a drink before whisking off again. With the many platters of exotic, high-end foods waving about, Krona wished her sense of smell wasn’t so muted by her freshly scrubbed helmet. The aroma of alcohol-washed metal rode above all else.
She appreciated fine food and libations when she could get them, which on her salary wasn’t often. The lavishness of the dresses and the decorations at the party, she could leave.
The man refused the drink, and looked as though he wished he’d been offered a soft bed and a long lie-down instead. “If I may be so bold,” she said. “Perhaps you would be better off in the lounge where it’s quiet, instead of in here with all the—the noise.” A duet of violinists had just taken up in the arboretum nook. Their merry tune was not unpleasant, but it wasn’t as soothing as a dark room.
He smiled humorlessly to himself. “The Chief Magistrate’s speech is soon. I’d never hear the end of it if I took leave.”
Ah, a relative of tonight’s honoree, then. He did look a touch like the Magistrate. Same nose, similar hair and eyes. “A Monsieur Iyendar, are you?”
He made no indication either way. “Tell me about the brooch. I’ve never seen an enchanted ruby so big.”
Docent was not her favorite role, even though she didn’t play it often, but at least he genuinely appeared interested. Easing herself between the pedestals, she waved a black-gloved hand at the case harboring the gold-and-ivory brooch. Nestled at its center was a gem of exceptional clarity, gazing out from behind the protective glass like a judgmental eye. “Ten-point-eight-carat weight, containing point nine five grams of despair.”
“Nearly twenty times the legal limit.” His eyes darted to her copper bracers, inlaid with state-issued enchanted garnets and topaz.
Yes, they’re enchanted as well, she thought. One filled with courage and one with resolve. Nearly every gemstone could be enchanted to hold a specific emotion. “The legal limit for your average emotion, yes. Despair can be removed from a person as a therapy, but it is illegal for enchanters to sell despairstones, as despair is an insidious emotion that can tell a person a multitude of lies. All despairstones are to be turned over to the government for safekeeping as soon as they are made. But this one was inlaid in a brooch. It was created by an Emotioteur specifically as a tool for executing her revenge against the terrorists responsible for the Council Bombings fifteen years ago. The ones who wanted all of the work camps closed. Her mother died in the evacuation—trampled.” Krona paused. This didn’t seem like a good party story for a grieving man.
“I was still young at the time, but I remember. My father was in the north wing when it happened.” He glanced toward the front of the conservatory, where the Magistrate would make his speech. “Please, continue.”
“Three men committed suicide while wearing the brooch. The Emotioteur was apprehended before she could transfer it to a fourth victim.”
As though suddenly disinterested in jewelry, the man turned away, spinning, like he was drunk. “And this?”
He pointed at one of the more grotesque masks. Asymmetrical, painted in mismatched colors, it was the countenance of a demon, maw wide, fangs long and thick. The jaw was crooked, as though broken, and five horns jutted out at odd angles from one another—two in its forehead, with the other three alternating down the sides of its face. The Teleoteur had been a skilled artisan, no question about that. No matter how many times Krona looked at it, the thing still sent shivers through her core.
“Louis Charbon’s Mayhem Mask,” she said.
“Oh? Oh? The killer?”
“Lutador’s most disturbed mass murderer, yes. The mask’s magnitude is unknown—as it is illegal for anyone to ever put it on, even to score it—and its knowledge capacity is of the most sensitive rating: Tenth Tier. No one is quite sure how the death mask was even enchanted, given that the Teleoteur who is credited with its creation never had access to Charbon’s body after he was hanged. Indeed, the enchanter was in an asylum at the time.”
“And what knowledge does the mask preserve? How to kill?”
Krona had been called to a fair few scenes of violence in her three years as a Regulator. Crimes of passion often took place around enchanted items—usually arguments over ownership rather than any sort of magically aided conflict—and in her opinion it took little skill to kill. “No, not exactly. You see, it was Charbon’s knowledge of anatomy that allowed him to dissect and rearrange the bodies as he did. His will to kill might very well be engrained in his echo, but it was his intricate knowledge of the internal workings of a human, and his capacity to dismember a body just so, that Eric Matisse preserved.”
The man nodded, as though considering this. He hemmed and hawed for a few more moments, then blurted, “And which of these baubles would you say Magistrate Iyendar is the most proud of?”
Perhaps an innocent question. Perhaps not. “I don’t know him personally,” she said carefully.
The man took a small, sliding step back toward the brooch. New tears brimmed at the edges of his eyes, and he used his sleeve to dab at his nose. “Surly it’s not the ruby,” he said, jaw clenched. “The feelings of others never did interest him.” Trembling fingers clenched and unclenched. “Tell me, Regulator, where would you be the evening after your granddaughter’s passing? At a gala?” He reached for the glass.
“Monsieur, please move back.” She put a warning hand on the hilt of her saber, simultaneously sucking in the reverb bead. “I may have a problem,” she murmured.
“Understood,” chimed three replies in her ear.
Monsieur Iyendar the younger—for now she was sure—did not touch the case, but turned on her. “Where would you be?” he demanded. “Would you make your son leave his child’s side? Would you make him endure pleasantries for the sake of face?”
Krona’s chest tightened, but it was not her place to inquire after—or, save the Five, make judgments about—the Chief Magistrate’s family. “Monsieur—”
With a strangled sob, he skipped backward, toward another pillar. “He likes the masks best. I know he does. This one with the fish, what’s so dangerous about it?”
She caught sight of Tray moving in from the front, and Sasha walking stiffly from the other side of the collection, both dodging potted palms and guests alike.
“The mask belonged to Lord Birron. He was very skilled in opiate refinery,” she said placatingly, taking Iyendar by the elbow. “Please, monsieur. Come away with me. To that seat just over there.”
He threw her off. “No. If these trinkets mean more to him than my daughter, I shall examine them until I am content.” His palms smacked against the case, leaving sweaty smears.
Wishing the others would move faster, she unsheathed her saber. “You know I am fully within the order of the law to remove you.”
“So remove me!” he shouted.
Faces snapped in their direction, carrying various expressions from irritation to interest.
“Do you want to cause a scene?”
“A scene?” he scoffed, feigning scandalization. “I resent the idea that I would in any way desire to disrupt the Magistrate’s perfect evening.”
“How may we be of aid?” Tray asked as he and Sasha drew up on the opposite side of the pillar.
In contrast to the frills, alternating high-low collars, and soft lines of the attendees’ clothing, Regulator uniforms were simple, yet imposing. The three of them looked like black pieces from an artisan chess board. Tall, wide helms—roomy enough to accommodate an enchanted mask beneath, though one wasn’t always worn—spanned shoulder to shoulder, making the Regulators look like neckless, faceless, multihorned beasts. Long leather coats gave them strong, box-like proportions, and many Regulators, like Krona, chose to bind their chests beneath. The coat topped a pair of umanori, which made for easy movement and encompassed knee-high boots with thick-heeled soles.
The only snatches of color on the uniform belonged to their bracers, faceplates, and weaponry.
“Oh, yes, helpful, aren’t you?” Monsieur Iyendar spat. “Make sure no one’s smile cracks, make sure no one has a pout, or scuffs a shoe, or breaks a nail.”
He babbled on, all the while holding the glass case between his palms.
“Monsieur, I believe you’ve indulged too much this evening,” Sasha said, grabbing one wrist and wrenching it behind his back.
“Unhand me!” he shouted.
The guests’ casual glances had turned to stares, and the natural, joyous flow of the room halted.
“Unhand me, unhand me!” he continued to shout as Tray took his other arm. The two Regulators dragged him in reverse, but he lashed out with his feet before they could put any distance between the grieving man and the collection.
A flailing boot caught the upper portion of the pillar, sending it off-balance.
Krona’s heart leapt as she lunged for the mask case. The stand toppled away, beyond her reach. A resounding crash brought even the violinists’ music to an end.
A jagged blast pattern fanned away from the overturned stand. The mask itself—carved of hardened cherrywood, depicting two blue carp swimming in opposite directions with waves and cherry blossoms swirling around them—appeared unharmed. Krona thanked the Five for small favors.
As the young Monsieur Iyendar was hauled bodily through a side door that led to the catering kitchens, the three remaining Regulators—Royu, Tabitha, and De-Lia—hurried toward her position. They urged the guests back while she contained the scene.
“What happened? That was my son.” The booming voice of the Chief Magistrate echoed in the conservatory. He was a tall man that led with his belly, and his hands seemed perpetually fisted and ready for shaking at the air. He was of an age most people could never hope to see. Well into his sixties, approaching seventy. Krona was sure he’d cashed in many of his family’s time vials.
“Please stay back, Monsignor. We have a containment issue,” said De-Lia, holding out a barring hand.
Sweat beaded across Krona’s forehead as she squatted down near the shards of glass. From her side satchel she brought out a velvet containment bag, lined with mercury-infused threads. Carefully, she slipped the mask inside.
Why hadn’t she defused the situation sooner? She should have forced him away from the display as soon as she’d confirmed he wasn’t of joyous mood. He was an outlier. Outliers were always dangerous because they were unpredictable.
Securing the cloaked mask in her pack, she set the pillar upright in time to notice three men from the Nightswatch rush through the main doors. All other eyes were turned in her direction, and thus failed to notice.
She sucked on the reverb bead and marched over to the next display case. “I think we should secure the rest of the collection. I don’t like—”
Movement outside the window caught her eye. Something shifted in the darkness, bulky and covered in spines. Or maybe it was simply the wind riling the shrubs. No, there—the eyeshine was unmistakable.
“Varg,” she said breathlessly, keeping the bead firmly beneath her tongue. “We have a varg.”
“How did it get past the Watch?” asked De-Lia.
Krona addressed the crowd, doing her best to keep the fear out of her voice; a panicked rush for the doors would only make things worse. “I need everyone to back away from the windows, please.”
She was glad for the enchanted gemstones on her arms. Vargerangaphobia, the healers called her condition. An intense fear that went well beyond the natural aversion most people possessed. She had nightmares about the monsters, dreams that often left her screaming and sweaty in her darkened apartment. Their huge, hulking forms would stalk her in her sleep; somewhat canine, somewhat bear, and somewhat unique horror all to themselves, they were misshapen, violent aberrations of nature.
Without the borrowed emotions in her bracers, Krona would have curled up on the spot.
“How many?” De-Lia pressed.
“I only see the one.”
“Loners don’t come into the city, there have to be more. Quickly,” she said to the other Regulators, “get the Magistrate out of here.”
Krona drew her quintbarrel. The specialty steam gun—made for shooting down varger with five-inch, needle-like ammunition—possessed five cylinders, each with its own type of shot. After every pull of the trigger, the barrels automatically rotated, bringing the next firing chamber in line with the striker.
Five types of varger, five types of needles. They were the only instruments that worked against the monsters, and even then you couldn’t kill them, only contain them.
“Holster that,” De-Lia chided, pulling out her own quintbarrel. “You’re staying here.”
“I can do it, I passed my—”
“That was on the range, not a varg in sight.” The stern tone of her voice said, We both know what happens when you get too close to the monsters.
Krona cursed, silently admitting to herself that De-Lia was right. She’d only just passed her quintbarrel rearmament exam—her score embarrassingly low. She could use a blunderbuss just fine—snip the hair off a horse’s chin at a distance. But a quintbarrel would always make her think of varger. The weight of it in her hand muddled her mind, and a small voice of doubt whispered to her, You can’t do it, you can’t do it, no matter how hard she fought for the contrary.
Once more, Krona drew her saber. “A miss with a quintbarrel is better than a hit with a blade,” she protested. At least with a quintbarrel you get a second shot, a hit with a blade won’t so much as slow one down. Everything in her body screamed to pick up the gun again, no matter her past failures. “I can’t take a varg down this way.”
“You won’t have to,” De-Lia assured her.
Krona looked to the guests again; a few of them were inching toward the glass. “Back away!” she ordered.
Several partygoers mistook Krona’s command as an invitation for the opposite; they flocked to the panes, trying to decipher what had gotten the Regulator so excited. A flash of long fangs clued them in to the danger.
“Varger!” one woman screamed, her tight, high-collared bolero doing nothing to restrain her voice. “Varg. There’s a varg!”
The quiet murmurings in the hall erupted into shouts and bellows. Part of the crowd rushed toward the windows for a better look. Another portion dashed for the doors, creating a bottleneck of bodies. A third segment huddled together in the center of the conservatory floor, subconsciously deciding safety lay in numbers.
“Let’s hope it’s not a jumper,” De-Lia said before springing into action. The five types of varger each possessed their own devastating abilities. Jumpers could disappear and reappear—one minute outside, in the next. “I need all Regulators on site into the poppy garden, promptly. Single varg spotted, pack suspected. Krona, finish with the display. Tray, find the nearest Nightswatchmen and recruit—we need to direct our noble mesdames and messieurs to safety.”
“There are three from the Nightswatch—” Krona began, but, scanning the crowd, she couldn’t find them again. “Never mind. Understood.”
Holding her gun high, so as to keep it away from the frantic guests, De-Lia marched out of the conservatory.
Before attending to the other artifacts, Krona went to the windows, putting herself between the panes and the people. “Back away.” They skidded away from her sword, as though only just now grasping her authority. “Varg protocol. We don’t know what types are out there, so I need you all to—”
Thunk.
Krona whirled. On the other side of the glass stood a varg, head lowered, eyes trained on her. Its long, misshapen snout curled in a snarl. Thick saliva dripped from its jaws, and green pus oozed from one of the many fist-sized boils poking through its spiny fur. As she watched, it padded away, disappearing beyond the reach of the gaslight glow.
After another moment it returned, running at full speed toward the smorgasbord. Today’s special: humans under glass.
Another resounding thunk. The panes rattled, and a small spider’s-web crack splintered across the green expanse. Someone sobbed. A gentleman fainted.
In the darkened garden, a series of flashes revealed shots fired from a quintbarrel. The special powder blazed boiling hot, bursting the steam chambers that sent needles straight and true at high speed. But the gunman’s target was not the assaulting varg.
At least it’s not a jumper; if it was a jumper people would be dead already, Krona assured herself.
“Nightswatch: hah!” yelled an officer from the entryway. “If you’ll all find a partner and follow the Watchmen through to the hourglass catacombs, please. Orderly, orderly, please! We aren’t common, now are we?”
People streamed out the doors in a rush of neutral colors, looking for all the world like a wash of dirty water. Watchmen pulled stragglers out from behind trees and benches.
Thunk. Crack.
Outside, more gunfire. The flashes illuminated the streams of people. The Watchmen were quickly losing control of their charges—nobles darted out of the building and into the garden instead of the entrance to the catacombs, screaming, running with no destination in mind, just panic in their hearts.
More varger appeared, catching the nobles’ cries and running toward them like the sound was the blaring of a dinner bell.
“Look away!” Krona shouted at the partygoers still frozen before her, still enwrapped with the monster trying to beat its way inside. “Look away!”
One of the panicked men came running at the solarium, almost directly for the varg attacking the glass. Perhaps it was a mimic—masters of camouflage that could blend into the environment. Perhaps the man thought it nothing but a bush rustling in the wind. The varg spun, its hackles rising, spines flaring. The man realized too late that teeth were before him.
“Turn away!”
Outside, the flashes from the needle guns made everything appear as though it were happening at half speed.
Flash, and the man’s expression shifted from panic to fear.
Flash again and it was horror—
Flash again and the varg was leaping—
Another flash and claws were tearing—
Flash, blood, flash, viscera, flash, bone.
Flash, flash, flash.
Krona turned away herself, clamping down on the bile in her belly that wanted to escape. The emotion stones in her bracers helped her focus, the magical boost of courage and resolve keeping her fears muted and pushed to the back of her mind.
There were maybe a dozen nobles left inside, and they were fighting the Watch to stay.
“The monsters are outside! We’re safe here, safe indoors!”
“There are some in the kitchens!” a Watchwoman argued. “Our best bet is to get you off the grounds!”
With gory bits of sinew and fat dangling from its jaws, the varg at the window turned to the glass anew. The beast sought its first goal once more.
Thunk. Crack.
Perhaps it was a love-eater. They sought prey with strong emotions, those wallowing in love, or hate, or guilt, or … jealousy.
The cracks in the glass seemed to paint a bull’s-eye directly on Krona’s back.
Additional fissures appeared. Hopefully the pane would hold long enough for Krona to gather the enchanted goods.
Kicking and screaming, the last of the guests were hauled bodily from the room. But their hollering only worsened. Reverberations of pain and horror echoed from the halls. Krona did all she could to block them out and focus on her task. The Watchmen would see to the people. The Regulators would see to the varger and enchantments.
The strongbox in which they’d transported the items lay tucked at the back of the room. With the conservatory now empty, she darted to it, setting her saber aside and throwing open the lid to dig out the specialty cases formed to fit each piece.
Three boxes in hand, she spun—
—and a great weight barreled into her. She fell, and the boxes flew to the side, skidding across the polished marble. Whatever had hit her now held her down, scrabbling at her uniform. It pushed her faceplate against the floor and tore at her arms.
But she refused to stay pinned.
Working one hand free, she stretched for her saber. Her reach came up short. Mere inches separated her from her weapon.
Sharp knives—or claws, claws—raked down her trapped left arm, tearing off her lower sleeve, taking both her bracer and skin with it.
As the bracer flew away, it felt as though a deeply embedded thread—like a lifeline wrapped around her heart—was yanked from her body. She felt every inch of the invisible link slide through her insides, tearing and ripping.
The left bracer contained the enchanted yellow topaz, a stone imbued with borrowed courage. Its magic filled in the void of her fear, covered over the emotional wounds with bandages of bravery.
But now the stone was gone. Point two seven grams of courage, gone.
And with a possible varg on her back, she didn’t have a drop of her own courage left.
Fear stopped her lungs, but with her last intake she caught a whiff of moldering fur and rancid breath. The smell was primal. It called up images of blood and bones, tearing and open wounds. And festers. Varger always had festers, as though the very air caused their skin to boil and burn.
I’m going to die, she cried out in her mind, though the panic that swamped her was so complete she could barely think in words.
The monster continued to claw at her, tearing at her shoulders, looking to swipe off her helm. It beat her head into the floor, pressed down on her shoulder blades, and drew more blood.
The memory of that first varg attack when she was young—so many years ago—assaulted her. It buzzed through her brain like a swarm of locusts. She knew what came next, once a varg had you down. It would rip and grind, masticating its prey thoroughly before consuming it.
She’d turned away this evening—couldn’t watch it happen through the rippled sheen of green glass. But she’d seen it happen in grotesque living color before, taken in the scents of masticated human and varg saliva and hot stomach acid.
She’d seen it happen right at her feet.
To her father.
There was a flash in her mind.
Dark, dark blood. A gaping hole where a throat should be …
A growl suddenly curled against her ears, but it sounded wrong. She knew what a varg sounded like: otherworldly. A sound no other creature could mimic. Deep, and high, and far, and near. A varg call vibrated in your very bones. This was not that sound.
Her bravery may have evaporated, but she still had her right bracer—still had the resolve granted by the red garnet.
Kicking, she reached, willing her tendons to stretch, willing her fingertips to extend.
A blade won’t work against a varg.
I won’t die without a weapon.
Her fingers fell on the pommel and pulled tight, forcing the length of the grip against her forearm. Screaming with the effort, she swung backward in a giant, pointed arc.
The blade sliced at its target. The thing let out a guttural, gargling yell, and stopped its thrashing.
Krona pushed it off immediately, straining against its weight. While it flailed on its side, she scrabbled away across the floor.
She grew aware of other shouts in the room—men swearing at each other to “Leave him! He’s dead, leave him!”—then the pound, pound, pound of boots retreating.
With gelatin-filled limbs, Krona righted herself. A brown-and-gray heap, skewered through like one of the hors d’oeuvres served at the party, lay still at the base of the strongbox. Blood pooled beneath it, confirming her suspicions.
Varger don’t bleed.
She kicked at the form, rolling it over to reveal a hulk of a man, swathed in a well-constructed varg suit. He gripped a pair of knuckle dusters with blades welded to them, mimicking claws.
The saber had cut through his neck—but he wasn’t dead. Her sword stuck fast in the heavy material of the costume, near his throat, and he held a quivering, pale hand to the cut, spluttering as he tried to breathe.
Without hesitation, Krona slid to her knees at his side. Yanking at her tattered sleeve, she tore strips free and used them to press against the wound.
Fear still ruled her faculties. She couldn’t think straight. Why was there a man in a varg suit? Why had the monster outside stopped striking the window? Why was the strongbox still open and why was there so much more broken glass everywhere?
A glint of copper drew her attention to the base of a nearby fern. The plant’s delicate fronds draped over her courage bracer like a protective curtain. Briefly leaving the man’s side, she lunged and tugged it onto her bleeding, bare forearm. Sharp pain pierced her beneath the jewel’s setting, but only for a moment. The thread that had rent from her now snaked its way back, twisting in soothing spirals up her arm and into her chest.
Once the borrowed courage swept away her fear, she regained her bearings, and the stray bits of information fell into place. The excess shattered glass, the varg disguise, the other voices … The collection. Oh no. Oh, no no no no …
Several displays were empty, but she couldn’t tell what had been taken.
“Stay still,” she told her attacker, palms pressed against the wound. She couldn’t tell for sure through the blood, but she feared the cut was too deep.
Stay alive. Live, live. I have questions, and you will stay alive to answer them.
Outside the broad conservatory windows, needle after needle sank into the varg at the glass. Each flash that preceded the shot illuminated the gun wielder: De-Lia. She advanced on the monster with confidence, utter determination setting her shoulders straight, keeping her aim steady. The captain was precise with her shots, and soon she had the creature down.
Long needles jutted from its back and forepaws, pinning it to the ground by means of enchantment. The slivers of metal acted like mighty stakes or javelins when thrust into the beasts, incapacitating them.
Now that the real monster was still, Krona noticed something unusual about it. A silvery sheen coated its fur, very unlike the matte browns and burnt reds that were the varger’s natural colors.
More stomping in the entryway hall. Shouts, cries for healers, for a hospital carriage, for scraps of cloth for bandages.
Anyone attacked by a varg was likely dead and beyond a healer’s help. Perhaps her false varg here had claimed a few victims.
Still on edge, Krona hesitated to call for help of her own. If there was one man running around slicing people open with metal claws, there could be more. After a few more minutes, deliberate footsteps headed in her direction. Carefully, Krona worked the saber free of the false varg-hide, prepared to wield it again if she must.
De-Lia entered, the barrels of her gun still steaming. “Are you all right?” she asked immediately, the gaze of her helm straying across the blood-smeared floor, coming to rest on the shaggy form next to her sister. “So, there was a jumper,” she breathed, taking long strides across the room.
“I’m fine. But no, it’s not a varg,” Krona said. “It’s a man. He needs help. We need a healer.”
“That explains the wounded in the halls. Stabbed through but not eaten. Why would…?” She understood. Swiftly, De-Lia tallied the inventory, her boots crunching across the shards of display-case glass. There was the knife, the globe, the syringe, three necklaces—but only four masks. And no brooch. “Charbon’s mask is missing,” De-Lia said.
“It was a ruse,” Krona breathed. “There were others.”
“Yes,” De-Lia said flatly. “And now two of the world’s most dangerous enchantments are once again loose in the city.”