Vivienne’s mind drifted as the daemon’s boot ground down on her neck, forcing her head beneath the floodwaters. She’d been close to death before, but the closest had been the day Achaemenes bonded her. It was an act of extraordinary generosity.
He had nothing to gain and everything to lose.
When Tijah met him, he was seventeen and she was twenty. Her first daēva, Myrri, wasn’t even dead a fortnight. Tijah had sought her own death, courted it with reckless indifference. She’d found it on the sword of a necromancer. Then Achaemenes had bonded her with a set of cuffs he found inside the prison fortress of Gorgon-e Gaz. It was done while she was unconscious. He’d seen no other way to keep her alive. When she’d woken up and discovered what happened, she’d thrown a water jug at his head.
It had taken her years to get over Myrri. Once she accepted him, the thought of losing Achaemenes was unbearable. Now Vivienne was just thankful she would be the one to die first.
Her lungs burned as she resisted the urge to take a great, gulping mouthful of water. It was habit. Reflex. The body didn’t want to die, even when the mind gave it permission. Even after all these years, more than she was meant to have.
Darkness pressed at the edges of her vision. Her skirts billowed in the water, heavy and tangled. Vivienne’s fingers scrabbled for a hidden slit that gave access to a sheath around her thigh. Her last knife. So many layers of clothing in this age. Tijah had worn a simple tunic and trousers. She would have been out of this mess already.
Her hand finally brushed a metal hilt. The knife caught in her skirts so Vivienne worked the edge like a saw, slicing through multiple petticoats, a chemise, and finally the gown itself. When the blade broke free, she stabbed it into Alec’s bad knee. With the other hand, she pressed her own cuff against the bare skin of his forearm.
That, at least, still had an effect.
White-hot pain rebounded through the bond. Alec screamed. It gladdened her and broke her heart at the same time. She tried to roll away, but he was on her again in an instant, wrenching the knife from her hand.
“Oh, you poxied bitch,” he growled.
He adjusted his grip for a gutting slice. Images of the White Chapel women flashed through her mind, the things Dr. Clarence had done to them before and after death. Vivienne fought back but knew she was no match for him. The fact that it wasn’t Alec didn’t matter. It was his body. His daēva physiology, superficially human but so much more. She’d never bested him without weapons. Not even once.
The knife came down in a descending arc. Vivienne shut her eyes. She didn’t want to see Alec’s expression as he carved her up.
“Farrumohr!”
The hand pinning her tensed. She heard Alec draw a slow breath.
The voice seemed to come from miles away, echoing down the stone corridors of the Tombs. It was accented, the R slightly rolled. A Russian?
“Do you remember me?” Louder now. Closer.
Alec emitted a bestial growl of hatred. The weight on Vivienne’s chest shifted. She blinked, trying to make out the speaker’s features. He was tall and dark-haired, handsome in a wolfish way. He was also dressed for a party, in a formal tailcoat, starched shirt and white cravat. She felt certain she didn’t know him. She had an excellent memory for voices and she’d never heard this man’s before.
Vivienne scooted away. Pain flared through her body. Her right arm was swelling and wouldn’t move right. It felt broken, although at least the bone hadn’t pierced the skin. The hand burned like fire where Alec had touched her. She used her left to scrub dirty water from her eyes. A sharp snick of metal jerked them open.
The man had snapped an iron collar around Alec’s neck. Chains led from the collar to a bracelet around the man’s wrist. They clanked as he jerked them tight. Alec let out a wail of fury. His fingers clawed at the collar.
What madness was this?
“I should have killed you before,” the man said to Alec. He gave a strange laugh. “We went our separate ways, you and I. And yet here we are, together again.”
Sounds of inarticulate rage bubbled from Alec’s throat. He writhed and bucked, tearing at the collar. The man watched him without emotion for a long moment. Then he jerked the chain again. This time, a look of blank dullness fell across Alec’s face like a curtain. A thread of drool dangled from his lower lip.
A necromancer.
Did he help summon the daemon? If not, how had he found them?
Vivienne’s pulse raced. She had to do something before he collared her, too. It was a fate far worse than death to be a necromancer’s slave. She would become an automaton, subject to his will as surely as if the daemon had taken her. He would drain her life force, quickly or slowly depending on the temperament of the necromancer. Sometimes it was very slowly indeed.
Seeing the thick collar around Alec’s neck made her physically ill. She groped in the water for her knife.
“Don’t interfere,” the man said, shooting her a warning glance. “I won’t harm him. Trust me, Lady Cumberland, this is the only way.”
Trust him?
Vivienne almost laughed. She ignored the pain shooting through her arm and kept rooting around for the knife.
The man dragged Alec away from her by the chain. Then he took out a straight razor. Her breath caught in her throat, but he used it to open a shallow cut on his own palm. Blood dripped into the water. He muttered to himself. Not Russian, she realized. Hungarian. A dialect from the Transylvanian Plain, or possibly Székely. She had an ear for languages, and once Vivienne heard an accent, she never forgot it.
Still gripping the chain in one hand, the man used the other to remove an object from his coat pocket. It looked like a shell, the edges twisting so that they blurred the eye. Vivienne recognized it as a talisman of Traveling. He spoke more words, this time in a language far older and harsher, a stream of guttural consonants and jagged syllables that made her think of a snapping dog.
The words of opening for a lesser gate.
“I suggest you hold onto something,” he said without looking at her.
Vivienne swore under her breath. She knew what was coming. She managed to pull herself to standing and locked her uninjured arm around the bars of the cell.
The floodwater began to swirl, slowly at first but quickly gathering speed. Wind howled down the length of the corridor. The gas jets blew out, leaving only the fey light of the talisman.
“Agzardamon, Farrumohr!” the man cried. “Dhest kundixighan!”
Alec’s jaw clenched, every muscle tensing. Black fog oozed from the corners of his eyes. It hovered in the air for a moment, a writhing ball. Then a single hair-thin tendril stretched toward the whirlpool of darkness at the man’s feet. The substance of the daemon fought, but the thread grew into a thick tentacle. A low, moaning wind battered against the walls of the old prison.
Vivienne’s ears popped as the daemon vanished through the lesser gate and it winked shut. Alec slid into the water. She crawled over to him, the collar ice cold beneath her fingers. Almost as cold as his skin.
The man leaned down until his face was close enough to touch. He reached for Alec and she knocked his hand away.
“Don’t, or I’ll kill you myself,” Vivienne snarled.
The man took a deep breath. His eyes had a hunted look.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
The man’s hand slipped around the back of Alec’s limp neck. Vivienne slapped him across the face. When she tried to do it again, he grabbed her wrist. She heard a click and the collar fell open. He’d been feeling for the catch. One smooth movement and he was on his feet, the chains trailing into the water.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “What’s your name?”
He stared at her for a moment. Then he strode away down the corridor.
“Who are you?” she screamed at his back.
He didn’t turn around.
It didn’t matter. She’d find him if it took the rest of her life.
Vivienne pressed her face against Alec’s icy cheek.