Into the Catacombs
They reached the temple steps in minutes. The world around Prem was leeched of color, turned to cold shades of gray under the light of the moon. Even the bright coats of the Guardsmen looked dull and cheerless at that hour.
The Cult of the White Hand worshipped Morda, but their style of worship showed very little of the unrestrained madness that their Red Eye brethren had. White-Hand temples were dedicated to the deceased that they cared for, serving as giant mausoleums for the dead rather than houses of worship for the living. Some of the cult’s acolytes were condemned criminals, serving their debt to society in service of the deity of death rather than wasting away in a cramped cell. Anyone foolish enough to try and desert their posts were dealt with severely. Prem could attest to that—she’d fulfilled a contract or two for the White-Hand Mordites in the past.
Inside the temple sat a single statue of the deity in female form, sitting cross-legged in a recessed alcove on the far wall above a simple altar used by visitors wishing to leave an offering. There wasn’t another soul in sight, living or otherwise.
The Guardsmen knew what to do without having to wait for orders. One man and woman pulled the Explora rifles from their backs and took positions on either side of the large stone doorway, weapons at the ready. The other woman pulled out a pair of mineral spirit lamps from a sack on her back and had them both lit in moments—Preet took one lamp, and Pranay the other. Prem could sense a tension in the group, an uncertain nervousness in their hushed voices.
“This place gives me the shakes,” Preet said. “We just got here and I’m ready to leave.”
“Going through tobacco withdrawal already?” Prem said. The mood between the two of them had cooled since their spat on the palace steps—they had a job to do, after all—but Prem couldn’t resist sneaking one barb in.
Preet snorted. “You wish. Herjee, Zail, stay here and watch the door. Prem, you’re on point.” Prem stared at her, not quite understanding, until Preet waved towards an opening at the end of the room and a set of stairs leading down into the dark. “That means you’re in front.”
“Oh. Right.” Prem led the way, with Pranay and Anash just behind her; Pranay held her lantern aloft to shine the light ahead of them. The stairs were wide enough for three people to descend side by side. They came into a wide chamber with long, narrow shelves cut into the rock. On each shelf lay what appeared to be a body covered with a white sheet, topped with lavender and bay leaves in an attempt to keep flies away. The smell of death and decay filled the air, a scent Prem recognized well, yet one she’d never completely gotten used to. It was especially strong when combined with the herbs, and several people began coughing into the sleeves of their coats, covering their mouth and noses in hopes of masking it.
“Gods, but I’m tired of smelling dead people,” Preet said between fits of coughing.
“This must be where they lay out bodies before burning them,” Pranay said. Her voice sounded reed-thin, ready to crack from the strain of shallow breathing. “Still no sign of any Mordites,” she added, coughing into one shoulder before catching her breath. At the far end of the room, three open doorways waited, black mouths leading further into the catacombs. “Which route do we take?”
“Anyone got a three-sided coin?” Preet said.
“Pranay and I will take the one on the right,” Prem said.
“Why pick that one?”
“Just a feeling, I guess.” Prem shrugged, not having any better explanation than that.
Preet looked from one sister to the other, then back again. “Alright, but take Kurien with you.”
For a second, Prem thought about disagreeing, but the look on Preet’s face cut her short. For the first time that she could remember, Prem caught a glimpse of just how much responsibility Preet carried on her shoulders—whether they got along or not, Preet only wanted everyone to get home safe. If she insisted Kurien should go, then Prem wouldn’t argue. “Alright.”
“Good. We’ll cover the other two.”
“Here, take this,” Pranay said, handing her lantern to one of the other Guards. “I can make my own light.”
“Remember what I told you,” Prem said, scanning the other’s faces. “Don’t underestimate Gomati. And don’t let your weapons make you overconfident.” She coughed. “We’re underground: this is his turf, where he’s the strongest. Someone like that might not be stopped with just one bullet.”
“Then I’ll give him all six and see if that’ll do the trick instead.” Preet smirked and pulled the revolver from her belt, spinning the gun’s chamber. Then she nodded at Kurien. “Watch their backs.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“All of you—come back alive,” the Seneschal said.
With that, Prem led the way across the room. The others followed her down the tunnel: Pranay with Anash just behind her and Kurien at the back, still carrying his battle hammer.
“Anash.” When Pranay whispered the spirit’s name, to Prem it sounded like a command, and it seemed her jinn immediately knew what his Mistress wanted: a light appeared over their heads, glowing bright and steady to show the way. The tunnel was tall enough that none of them had to stoop. It was made of thick, square stones packed so tight together there was no need for mortar. On each wall, burial crypts were stacked three-high, each a narrow space of about two feet square where remains lay interred behind a stone cap. Most had dates going back more than a century, and the years progressed backwards with every step they took. The air was oppressive and very still—they were intruders in that place, uninvited and unwelcome.
“So many crypts,” Anash said, the first thing Prem had heard him volunteer on his own since Pranay summoned him.
“Not all flames burn as hot as yours,” Pranay said. “The bones and ash have to go somewhere after the pyre runs out.”
“Assuming they even got one,” Kurien said. “My oma told me how bad things got back during the war; regiment after regiment of the dead were just thrown into pits and covered over with old mud. Battlefields were ripe with wandering spirits for decades—some still are, I hear.”
“How awful!” the jinn said.
“These crypts must be very old,” the soldier said. “There’s no telling how many tunnels might be down here. We should be on our guard. Do you think we’ll run into anyone down here besides the assassin?”
“I hope so,” Prem said.
“Why?”
“Because if we do, that means Gomati hasn’t killed anyone else yet.”
Something twinkled in Pranay’s light, so faint that Prem wondered if she’d imagined it. But her old instincts were on high alert—she stopped immediately, holding up a hand to halt the others, then extended a finger in a silent request that they wait. With her other hand, she pulled one of the kukris from behind her back, held it point-up at arm’s length, and took two more steps forward. There was a hint of tension in the air when her knife came in contact with something followed by a very faint, off-note metallic pinging sound, like plucking the string of an out of tune toombi. “Thought so.”
“What is it?” Pranay said.
“It’s called a murder-wire.” There was a soft, metallic scraping sound as Prem carefully sawed through the metal strand, making sure to stand as far back as she could. “When someone walks—or runs—through one without seeing it first, they get a very…nasty…surprise.” The wire broke with a sharp ping; Prem pulled her hand back and shielded her face. The twin pieces of broken metal cord sprang back, scraping against the walls before hanging limp and useless.
“Maybe that feeling of yours about Gomati was right after all,” Pranay said.
Kurien grabbed one piece of wire in his gloved hand and giving a sharp tug. “Gods, that’s wicked. How did he manage to get a wire embedded in the wall?”
“Gomati’s possessed by an earth spirit, remember?” Prem said. “He can probably walk through walls. Be careful and keep an eye out for more wires.”
They found almost a dozen more murder-wires further down the tunnel. Prem dispatched every one, but it made for slow going. They encountered sharpened stakes made of bamboo and pilfered bones planted into the walls and floor. At first, that required all of them to carefully weave their way between the obstacles, but soon Kurien started smashing them to bits with his hammer. There were also rusting tin cans suspended on strings from the ceiling designed to sound an alarm when they were jostled. Anash simply walked right through the dangling wires, his body turned as incorporeal as a soft wind, then he lifted them out of the way for the others to pass. But no breeze would suffice for the next obstacle: iron caltrops were scattered across the floor, their sharp spikes blending in with the dark stone.
“This is taking forever,” Pranay said. “Anash, assist me.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Prem watched as her sister picked up one of the caltrops, a four-pointed piece of twisted metal with jagged points, and balanced it in the palm of her hand. Pranay then puckered up her lips and began to blow on it, as if the ugly thing might drift away like a dandelion seed. Instead, the dark metal began to bubble and bloom as small pustules spread across its surface. Prem could feel moisture begin to gather in the air, a fine mist that stuck to her skin and clothes; she took in a soft breath and tasted salt on her tongue.
The caltrop began to dissolve—what might have taken years or decades of time took only moments as the metal rusted and broke apart into irregular chunks in Pranay’s hand. As it did, the other caltrops showed the same advanced decay, all of them falling apart until they lost all shape and collapsed into small piles of dust—red-brown spots dotted the floor like a bad rash, stretching out ahead of them and into the dark.
Pranay brushed her hands clean. “Gomati’s wasting our time. Is there no end to these terrible catacombs?”
Somewhere in the blackness ahead came the sound of a pistol shot, followed by two more and the sound of muffled shouting in the distance.
“Sounds like they found him first,” Prem said.
The group hurried on in the dark, going only as fast as they dared in case of more traps. There was no more gunfire, but the shouting continued as they approached, echoing off the thick walls of the tunnels. The dead watched them pass in silence.
Prem heard a loud grinding sound, the scraping of stone on stone, and the shouting grew sharper, wild and panicked, before it was cut off. Then the grinding sound returned, but now it was much closer. As they all rounded another dark corner, Prem saw a light ahead, much brighter than Anash’s small flame—it was the bright, steady glow of another lantern. A section of wall was sliding closed ahead of them, so Prem hurried and leapt through the gap, landing in a tight tumble before rolling up to her feet. Kurien and Pranay were both right behind her, but they couldn’t slip through in time before the stone wall closed with a snap. Up ahead, the bright light went out. Prem could feel her quarry slipping from her grasp and ran into the darkness, ignoring Pranay’s muffled cries beyond the stone barrier. There was no time to explain—Prem was listening to her instincts and knew it was time to go on the offensive.
The room up ahead was much larger than the cramped, enclosed hallways. Everything was almost pitch black, but Prem could smell alcohol and fresh blood, two things that had no business being in a place like that. There was the humming sound of a weapon cutting through air. Prem ducked her head and raised both of her kukris at the same time and a bright spark flashed as the blades connected. Prem caught the briefest glimpse of a man’s face and two wide, brown eyes. He was wielding a dandpata, a long, straight sword with a steel gauntlet that covered his entire hand and wrist. All these things she saw in the instant before the darkness returned, but it also meant that Gomati saw her.
Prem had no time to talk him down, to reason with him or to coax him into surrendering. She only heard Gomati’s grunting as he lunged at Prem again. She brought her blades up, crossed together, blocking his attack high as she kicked at his leg, hoping to strike a knee. He twisted away from the blow but also lost his footing for a moment, going down onto the other knee to compensate.
“Panka, help me!” Gomati cried. He thrust his blade at her again, but Prem turned the blow aside with one knife while stabbing up at his exposed belly. She thought she had him, but then came another spark when her knife struck something hard and glanced off. She swore and backed up a step, out of range of his sword. Prem could see the outline of her target and knew her blow was true, but his flesh felt hard as the rock under their feet.
The man snickered, his confidence returning. “You’ll have to do better than that, Sachin.” His brown eyes lit up, burning away the blackness, showing her that the power of his Kushin was awake inside him. “Don’t think you can best me so easily.”
When Gomati used her other name, it had a strong effect on Prem. It made her feel like Sachin again, so sure of herself: confident, strong, fearless. Prem, Sachin—both of them smirked in the dark. She knew he could see her eyes as well, see the demon’s power shining in them. “I never realized I was so popular.”
“I knew you’d come for me. But it doesn’t matter: no blade or bullet can pierce me in this place.” He swung at her again, and Prem’s vision had adjusted enough so she caught the faintest twinkle of his dandpata, enough so that she dipped her head left and letting the slice pass over her right shoulder. “Were those your friends? I wonder if the woman’s bled to death yet.”
Prem heard a heavy crashing sound coming from back up the tunnel. She wondered if he meant Preet, but Gomati could be talking about any of the Guardswomen, or he could even just be bluffing. She caught the next thrust between the curved spines of her blades, trapping the sword as she made an experimental kick at his exposed belly—as expected, it had all of the give of a cement wall, sending a brief shock back up into her leg.
Gomati laughed. “Don’t you ever learn, girl?” He was the same man she remembered: self-sure, cocky, enjoying the sound of his own voice. Prem had heard stories of how Gomati enjoyed squeezing his victims to death, laughing at the sound of bones breaking, of blood squeezing out of every orifice as he smothered the life from his prey. She had no intention of giving him that opportunity. Prem pushed all of her weight with the same foot planted against his stomach. It threw him backwards, lighting up the air with more sparks as his sword’s edge scraped against her knives. When he hit the ground, she could hear the scraping of stone as he rolled, but Gomati found his feet in seconds, coming after her again, laughing. “If you give up now I might promise a quick death, but who knows if I’ll bother keeping it?”
It was easy enough to dodge his strikes, but Prem knew her knives were useless against him. Gomati had all the advantages, and their battlefield was on his chosen turf. She took a defensive pose, jumping backwards to avoid a swipe at her belly, pushing off the floor with both hands and landing in a crouch while catching her breath. “Do you fight half as well as you talk?”
Gomati clicked his tongue at her. “Someone should’ve taught you to respect your elders, Sachin.” Prem still couldn’t see his face clearly, but could hear the leering in his voice, the smug satisfaction of his invincibility. The banging in the tunnel continued, like the stones were crashing to the floor—another of Gomati’s traps, most likely. She could only hope that Pranay and Kurien, that all of them, were alright.
He rushed forward, stabbed at her again, but even as Prem started to turn the blade aside she already knew she’d been too slow. It was impossible to dodge out of the way fast enough as Gomati grabbed her wrist with his spare hand. His skin felt cold and possessed the a texture or grain like hardened clay. He started to squeeze and Prem dropped her knife in shock and pain, crying out in protest as the bones of her wrist ground together.
“You have a lovely voice,” Gomati said, pulling her close, cooing into her ear. “I want to hear it some more.” He squeezed tighter. Something popped and Prem screamed as crimson light flashed in her vision. She shoved the other assassin hard with one shoulder, trying throw him onto his back, but Gomati’s footing was as solid as the stone beneath him. This place was as much home to him as the Genja was to her, and she couldn’t shake him loose with mere physical strength.
“Mistress Prem, shut your eyes!” The last thing Prem expected to hear was Anash’s voice, but she obeyed the order immediately. A bright flash exploded, one so bright she could still see it with her eyes squeezed shut. Gomati shrieked with pain and stumbled backwards, pulling her after him.
Prem opened her eyes again. They were standing in a vast underground hall. The walls were lined with skulls and assorted bones, endless rows of them, piled up right to the ceiling, a display of leering death. In one corner of the room lay a dirty mat and an unfurled blanket surrounded by broken clay bottles and bits of half-eaten food. In another corner, a trio of white-robed corpses were propped against the wall, their bodies so fresh that the pooled blood under them was still a half-dried, sticky mess—that explained the absent cultists, at least.
“They’re nearly through,” the jinn called. “Just hang on!”
Gomati was a tall, rail-thin man just like she remembered, only now his brown skin was hard and turned almost black in places, streaked like silicified umber. The flash of light had surprised him, but now he bared his flat, brown teeth in anger as he squinted in the new light. Gomati started squeezing her wrist again and Prem knew he wouldn’t stop until he’d maimed her, or worse.
Prem didn’t have to beg Vati for his power: it was hers whenever she wanted it. That was his boon, contrasting with the curse of his constant, malevolent presence. She’d been reluctant to call on the demon for help, but now she willingly summoned him—the alternative was subjecting herself to the mercy of a cruel, vengeful man who might tear her own arm off and beat her to death with it. The sensation of the demon’s essence filling her up was indescribable, as if every pore and follicle were suddenly flush and brimming with energy. It was like sex, being frozen in the midst of a climax at its highest peak, with all of its pleasure and none of the aching emptiness that came afterwards. Prem screamed and threw her head back, hearing it echo through the hall. It felt good, it felt right, and she wanted more of it. Vati was awake and aware inside of her now
She and the demon were finally one again.
Her entire body dissolved with a splash, slipping through Gomati’s fingers and onto the floor—her clothes fell with a wet thud while her kukri clattered on the stones. She slithered between Gomati’s legs like a liquid serpent before taking shape again behind him, pounding at his exposed back with her fists. Water smashed against living rock, and the force of it knocked him forward before he turned, stabbing at her with his dandpata. She never even felt the sword as it passed straight through her and out the other side—it couldn’t harm her now. He tried to grab her neck, but all he could do was clutch and grasp as the water slid through his thick fingers.
“Is that all you have now, Gomati?” She pushed closer, her body shaping and reforming itself around his arm that was stuck through her midsection. She reached out to stroke his face, watery fingers leaving wet trails behind. “Where did all that confidence go?”
Gomati growled and yanked his arm free of her body with a wet, slurping sound before he continued trying to slice her to pieces. The sensation of the blade passing right through her, water breaking and reforming, was slightly disconcerting but she felt no pain. Rather, it irritated her, made her angry, remembering how Gomati toyed with her. She wanted to teach him a lesson. She wanted to hurt him, to show him what real suffering felt like.
“Nothing but useless tricks, Sachin,” Gomati said with a snarl. “You can’t stop me from killing your friends if they break in here.”
“You think so? Let me show you one of my better tricks, then.” Her body lost its shape again with a splash. She slid across the floor and reformed, quickly rising up behind him, then planted her feet, wrapped her left arm around his neck, and slid her other hand across his cheek and pressed her fingers against his mouth. “Open wide.”
Gomati tightened his jaw and pushed his lips tight together, but no seal was perfect and he had to breathe, so she forced her way up into his nose instead. This caused him to gag, and then she could finally get into his mouth when it opened. The inside of it felt warmer than she expected, and even with his physical transformation, she wondered what kissing a man made of stone would be like. She flooded both mouth and nose with fluid, filling it up with her liquid essence before sliding down his throat. He began to thrash around, stumbling, limbs flailing everywhere, twisting at his waist to dislodge her, but no amount of physical strength could shake her off.
“Nothing else to say?” she cooed into his ear. “So disappointing. I thought you liked to talk. Tell you what: if you ask now, maybe I’ll promise you a quick death, but who knows if I’ll bother keeping it?”
The demon’s hunger for violence and death was in full effect. His mouth opened and closed, as though wanting to beg her to stop—as if they cared about anything that he might say. More viscous liquid poured down his throat and into his lungs until he was drowning hundreds of feet from any water source, and they could feel him doing so. It was glorious, sensing the frantic rhythm of his heart as it pounded in his chest, the way his throat constricted and throbbed around her arm and hand.
The strength in Gomati’s legs failed as they drove him to his knees. He threw his gauntlet-sword on the ground before curling his fingers around his throat, thrashing and flailing in his panic, but that wouldn’t save him. It felt good, feeling him die. If Gomati died, Nakushi’s murder would be answered for. Their family would be safe. They would be safe.
“Tell me how you miss my voice, Gomati,” they said. “Tell me again about how I never learn. Just—one—word…and I’ll stop.” They were gloating, but they didn’t care if it showed. Gomati’s pounding heart was starting to slow, fluttering, failing. It would’ve been so simple to pierce one of his lungs, wrap their tendril-fingers around his stuttering heart, feel it quiver and then give a hard squeeze—
“Prem!” A familiar voice broke their concentration. The demon turned their head and saw a group of red-coated figures standing at the other end of the hall; the looks on those faces ranged from shock and amazement, to horror and disbelief. One came closer approached, looking serious and frightened at the same time. “Prem? You can hear me, can’t you?”
The voice stopped them for a brief moment. The name being spoken was familiar…and yet, it wasn’t. The demon frowned and coiled tighter around Gomati’s spasming body, readying herself again for the killing blow.
The figure raised a hand towards her. “Prem, stop!” The woman wore a red coat, had a long braid pulled over one shoulder. “Let him go, Prem. You need to let him go.”
Again, their reverie was interrupted. Now they hesitated, unsure of what to say, or whether to say anything at all. When they did speak, it was reluctant, resenting the interference. “We’re going to kill him. He needs to die.”
“Maybe he does, but not like this. Let him go, Prem.” The woman bent at her waist, coming very close, extending one hand.
They frowned, shut their eyes tight, trying to block out the voice. Gomati was the enemy. He wanted to kill them, so they had to kill him first. Now he was helpless, his body gone limp, without even the strength to hold himself up or to even breathe for much longer. The time was now, to eliminate him at last. Gomati’s heartbeat was just a whisper by that time—a sluggish rhythm deep in his chest. The toughness in his flesh had vanished, leaving a soft, sallow sack of meat behind. He was unconscious now, and that meant he couldn’t hurt anyone. The more they thought about it, the more the demon realized how simple it would be to end Gomati’s life with just a gesture, a second of effort.
“Let him go now, Emi,” the woman said again, her voice soft and tender. She was so close now, crouched on the balls of her feet, still holding out her hand. Her face was so soft, so gentle. The kindness in her eyes seemed sad behind small, round spectacles, but there was tenderness and love in them too. “Please.”
The assassin looked at that offered hand, then up into the woman’s eyes. It would’ve been so easy to stay right as she was, to follow through, to slay her target. Gomati deserved no less. She wanted that…but also knew she needed him alive.
Killing him wouldn’t bring true satisfaction. That was why she stopped.
Prem pulled her arm and hand out of Gomati’s throat before rolling away. Vati’s magic broke and her physical body returned—soft, weak, vulnerable. The demon’s will could be so seductive at times, like warm lips around her earlobe or a kiss on her neck, but now he was shrieking in her head, demanding that she go back and finish Gomati off; the worst part was that Prem wanted to obey so, so badly. Instead, she lay on the floor, wet and naked, hair stuck to her face, neck and shoulders. She shuddered like a fish on the stones, trying to remember how to move, how to think, even how to breathe again. The musty air burned in her lungs like white fire as she sucked it in. She began to cough, then rolled up to knees and elbows and vomited, tasting the sharp tang of river water as it passed over her tongue, splashed on the floor and back in her face, smelling both sweet and foul at the same time.
“I think she’s alright now,” Pranay said.
Something warm fall over Prem; her sister had draped the thick red coat over her shaking body. The elder sister knelt next to the younger, stroking her forehead, pushing her wet hair away from Prem’s face like she was drunk, spewing up a night’s worth of debauchery into the gutter.
“Get to work,” Prem heard Preet say to her soldiers. “Secure the prisoner.”
Prem shivered as she wrapped the fingers of one hand around the collar of Pranay’s coat.
Pranay crouched down next to her, hugging her tight. “Welcome back,” she said with a kind smile.
A harsh, phlegm-filled cough stole Prem’s breath away. “You haven’t called me that…in a long time,” she said, her breath a raspy whisper.
“Well, it worked, didn’t it?”
Before Prem could answer, Preet hurried over—a thick white bandage stained with blood was wrapped around the Seneschal’s wrist and forearm.
“You’re hurt?” Prem said, looking up at Preet. Her burning throat meant it hurt to talk, but she forced herself to do it all the same, croaking the words, swiping away excess drool clinging to her lips.
“Pranay told us about your murder-wire, but not before we found it for ourselves.” Preet kicked the abandoned dandpata away from Gomati’s prone body. The unconscious assassin was being bound hand and foot with rope, and a black sack was fitted over his head. “Narsi got it worse than I did. She should live, but if we’d been in more of a hurry it could have taken her head off. I sent her back with an escort to wait for us.”
“What about you, Prem?” Pranay said. “What happened to you?”
Prem shook her head, still coughing as she slowly sat up. Her throat was on fire. “Tell you later.”
“Anash, help me.” The jinn popped back into view from behind Pranay as if he’d been standing there the entire time. “Up, up,” Pranay said, “gently now.” Together, they both took Prem by the arms to help her stand. They were both around the same height and taller than Prem, so they stooped over while she tested the strength of her legs.
Prem was finally able to support her own weight, but she was too tired even to button up the coat, or to care about modesty at all. “Thank you,” she said, unsure who to direct her thanks to. “If it wasn’t for Anash…” Her throat ached and her voice trailed off. She felt awkward again, tongue-tied, inept. Just like she always was. More and more, Prem was reminded why she hated that part of herself.
“It seemed smartest to send him to help you out,” Pranay explained. “Anash, fetch Prem’s things, please.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
It took the remaining three men to carry Gomati through the tunnels. Kurien helped after giving Preet his zaghnal to carry.
“What about them?” Pranay said, motioning to the dead priests.
“Have to leave them behind,” Preet said. “We can send someone back for them later.”
By the light of the lanterns, the party left the crypt and its foul décor behind, heading back up the tunnel Prem had run down a short while ago. Gomati’s fake wall was broken into pieces on the floor, with a round hole in the middle tall enough for someone of Prem’s height to walk through without stooping.
“Anash did that?” Prem said, looking at Pranay.
Pranay shook her head, but Preet answered: “Kurien.” Her tone and satisfied smirk said it all. Prem saw one to match it on Kurien’s face.
Without anymore traps or surprises to slow them down, their ascent took just minutes. Prem clutched the coat close to her body, still enjoying its warmth. She felt cold again, with ice water in her veins and a frozen knot in her belly. It was impossible to tell how much time passed while they were in the catacombs, and Prem wanted another hot bath and a nice, long rest—not that she was likely to get either one anytime soon. Vati’s wordless screaming had returned to a whisper, trying to tempt her again—it would’ve been so simple to let the magic take hold, to leap on the helpless Gomati and slice him to bloody ribbons. Prem didn’t even look at him, which made the whispers easier to ignore, but they didn’t go away entirely.
Herjee and Zail were still standing watch by the temple door. The injured Narsi sat beside the empty altar while another male Guardsman crouched next to her. The female Guard’s neck and chin were wrapped in blood-soaked bandages, but she was a dark-skinned woman and it was too dark for Prem to see how healthy her color was. Given how Narsi’s head was drooping and that her eyes were closed, her prospects didn’t seem promising.
“Seneschal!” Herjee motioned to the open portal behind him and the early morning sky. “Vina’s signal!”
A signal flare was floating in the sky, high above the river. For a moment, the rocket left a white stream of sparks falling after it in the night sky before it exploded in a cerulean blossom, painting everything in a blue glare.
“Already?” Preet sighed, pounding a fist against her thigh. “Damn.”
“That’s her second flare,” Zail said.
“Then we’re out of time,” Preet answered. “The Police are on their way. We have to get to the bridge; there’s a bus waiting for us there. Kurien, you’re the largest, so you carry Narsi. Swap with me.” She tossed the zaghnal to one of the male Guards. A momentary rush of activity broke out as everyone made ready to go: rifles were shouldered, weapons holstered, lanterns and packs secured. Prem took her boots back from Anash, dumped out any leftover water, pulled them on and buttoned Pranay’s coat. Preet buttoned up her coat as well, then took Gomati’s arm from Kurien. “Prem, Pranay, spirit—keep up. Heejay and Zail, watch our rear. Let’s move!”