"Get your hands off me, you corpse-eating refuse pile," Dario snarled and slammed his knee into the bastard's groin then brought his bound arms up to slam them into his head.
When the man dropped to the ground, Dario kicked his side for good measure. "Seriously, watch where you put your hands. I know tying people up is the only way a carrion feeder like you gets to put his dick in something, but don't confuse me with the farm animals you tie up in the barn."
Fidel, already tied to the wall on the far side of the room, burst into laughter. Dario shot him an annoyed look—and barely dodged away from the fist that came flying at his face.
He had nowhere to go, not really, not when he was in chains. Two more guards came in and, ignoring the bastard still curled up in a ball of agony on the floor, helped the second guard secure Dario to the wall, wrapping additional chains around his ankles.
The man he'd leveled slowly climbed to his feet, face still pale. "I will kill you."
"Go ahead and try," Dario snapped. "But I promise that if you kill me, your boss will be feeding you to the farm animals instead of giving you an hour off to fuck them."
Snarling, the bastard punched him. Dario grunted, but did not respond. At least it felt like his nose was only battered, not broken, though he was not going to enjoy the smell and feel of blood in addition to the fact he already smelled like a barnyard himself.
Oh, well. Maybe that was why the corpse-eater had grabbed his ass. Dario just beamed as the other guards dragged the man away.
"I thought you said we should lay low and behave until an opportunity arose," Fidel said dryly.
"Fine," Dario said. "When he grabs your ass, enjoy the ride."
Fidel made a face. "No, thank you. I may be a criminal, but I prefer my partners be washed and know how to fuck properly and well."
Dario grinned, but winced when that did nothing to make his poor nose feel better. "I really wish they would let us bathe."
"I am sure your new friend would be willing to negotiate bath privileges."
Dario gestured crudely with his free hand, making Fidel laugh more. As their laughter finally faded, less amusing thoughts settled back in. "So we are in Belmonte now," Dario said. "Even with that insufferable hood I could tell that."
Snorting, Fidel replied, "The fact we rode through an entire city in hoods and chains and nobody stopped to ask if all was as it should be proves we are in Belmonte."
"True enough."
"I wonder how much longer we will have to sit in the dark wondering what is coming next," Fidel said with a sigh. "Me, I am rather tired of it. I do not have your patience. Not in things like this."
Dario lifted a brow. "When do you have any patience?"
"On jobs. Dealing with Cortez. That's about it."
"What did you do for the Brotherhood? You do not seem to be a killer like Cortez."
Fidel shrugged. "I often was her back up in case things went wrong. Mostly, I was a thief and a messenger. Especially a messenger."
Dario eyed him, not quite believing it, even if he knew better than anyone that looks could be deceiving. He was nearly as short as Fidel and compact. Nothing like Granito, who had been tall and broad and nearly unstoppable. But Fidel was a messenger, the coy criminal term for those sent to intimidate. "No, I am sorry. How do you intimidate anyone when I know children bigger and louder and meaner than you?"
"How many children do you know who can wield daggers well enough to flay a man?"
The matter-of-fact tone was far more chilling than the words themselves. Fidel clearly was not bragging, only stating what was. "I certainly can't. I don't think the palace chefs are that talented. Do you often flay for the Brotherhood?" Bits of information gleaned from years of keeping one ear always turned toward the cults suddenly tumbled into place. "Dagger," Dario said, annoyed it had taken him so long to figure it out. "You are the one they call the Dagger."
"Just so," Fidel said with a crooked smile. "I only flayed a part of a man's arm once, and that was after he did something so terrible that even the Brotherhood would not tolerate it. He tried to do it a second time, and that is when they sent in Cortez to end the matter once and for all."
Dario shook his head, amazed. "Incredible." Fidel just shrugged. "I am impressed they captured you, then. You must have been difficult to take down."
"As I said when we met, I killed two of them in the process. They nabbed me as I was travelling through the tunnel roads. I was only a day away from being back in Piedre. That will teach me to relax my guard, and I thought it was a lesson I had already learned so well." He sighed.
Dario winced. Culebra had always wanted to travel through the famous tunnels roads that cut straight through the mountains between Piedre and Verde, but he and Granito had always forbidden it. The tunnels were dangerous, and once entered, there was no way out except through the entrances at either end. They went on for miles, and it took even the hardest traveler two days to get through the longest of them. All told, it took a week, which was still better than the long way weaving through the mountains.
The sound of footsteps drew their attention, and a moment later the door flew open. A man walked in, someone Dario had not seen before, though he surmised the man was probably the owner. Whoever their captors were, they seemed to like helping themselves to houses instead of using inns and hotels like normal people.
But he had not seen any reason to call them normal, so he supposed that made sense. The man hovered in the doorway, clearly terrified of them. What had the bastards said to convince him they were the bad ones? It was not even worth asking about.
Instead, Dario just closed his eyes and rested against the wall, tunelessly humming a hymn while the man slowly shuffled in and set down plates or bowls or something. When Dario heard the door close again, he opened his eyes. A bowl of soup sat next to him, smelling of lamb and potatoes.
Eating it with one hand was awkward, but after so many days of it, Dario was beginning to get fairly proficient. The man had also brought them cups of thin beer. It was not nearly as good as wine, but Dario supposed nobody was going to give him that after he'd tossed it up all over their boots.
They'd just finished eating when the sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence again. The door opened and two of the mercs walked in flanking another new man. From the way he held himself, the deference of the guards, Dario suspected he was finally getting introduced to the corpse-eating bastard in charge of everything.
Dario hated him on sight. He had always had good instincts for people; it was a skill that Granito had praised often. Whoever the newcomer was, Dario felt it would have been best for everyone if he fell over dead.
At a glance, there was nothing remarkable about him. He looked Piedren, with the darker skin more common to the mountain regions; long, dark hair; dark eye;, and the heavy, muscular build of a laborer. His clothes were good quality, but did not fit him quite right. That meant they likely had been bought second hand, which seemed to indicate he wanted to look affluent, but was not actually. That was in line with their theory that he was forming a new cult.
As he stepped further into the room, however, and the light from the windows struck him more fully, the impression that he was Piedren died. He was definitely no native, but Eyes if Dario knew where he was from. Perhaps he had a mixed heritage—half fire child would be Dario's best guess.
"So this is the notorious bodyguard about whom I have heard so much," the man said, and while the words were spoken correctly and clearly, he had the strangest accent Dario had ever heard. He could not identify it, and after years of traveling with Culebra, he knew accents.
The man walked across the room and crouched down in front of him, grabbing Dario's chin and forcing his head up. "You certainly do not look like much, though I guess under all that filth you might be passable."
Dario's retort died on his lips as the light struck the man's eyes just so, and what he had mistaken for simply a deep brown verging on black was actually a dark violet. His eyes were violet.
Violet eyes. Strange appearance. Unfamiliar accent. Eyes of the Basilisk, the bastard was a shadow child. That wasn't possible. Schatten was sealed up—nobody went in or out. Those who tried died, and brutally, if the stories from Pozhar were true.
"You are surprisingly quiet," the man said and roughly let him go.
"What is there to say?" Dario replied. "Nothing I say will get me what I want so why waste words?"
The man laughed and playfully smacked his cheek, making Dario's eyes water as that did nothing for his throbbing, almost-broken nose. "You are exactly as I was told. Though I was worried you would be difficult and so far that seems untrue."
"Do you know one of the hardest skills to learn as a bodyguard?"
Smirking, the man replied, "Learning to remain impartial? A skill you failed entirely. From what I have heard, you and your brother both failed at that. Did you take turns with the little prince? Did he enjoy being your little slut behind closed doors?"
Dario laughed. Did the man think he was going to get angry or defensive about that? Did he really think he was the first one to say such things? He and Granito had started out as poor farm boys in a dying village and climbed all the way to become bodyguards and lovers to the Basilisk Prince. Never mind that they had fucked each other long before Culebra joined them to form a triad. He was never going to feel guilty about crossing those lines, not when crossing them had brought him so much happiness.
If the man thought he was that easy to taunt, then he was a fool. That worked fine for Dario, however; fools were easy problems to fix. It was only the smart ones who were trouble.
Scowling, clearly annoyed his crude remarks had garnered nothing but laughter, the man said, "So what is the hardest skill to learn as a bodyguard, if fucking your charge is apparently harmless."
"Patience," Dario replied. "Guarding royalty requires a very high level of patience." He smiled at the man in a way that had sent more than a few people running.
The man just stared back at him, unmoved by the smile, but clearly understanding Dario's message. "I see."
Maybe not entirely a fool, then. Unfortunate.
He really wished the bastard would go away again, but he only continued to stay crouched beside Dario, staring and pondering only the gods knew what. Finally he said, "So what is it like to love a god?"
The question almost made Dario roll his eyes. What was it like to love a god. To fuck a god. To protect a god. To work with a god. He had been asked some variation of that question for all the years he had protected Culebra.
Why did everybody who asked it believe he was the first one to think of it? "I don't know," he replied. "I don't love a god."
"If you don't think he's a god then what would you call him?"
"A man," Dario replied, remembering how warm and soft Culebra was in his arms, the sweet, pliant way he surrendered to their every desire. The way he smelled of silk and honeyed wine at the start of the evening and like sex and them by the time they were done. How his nails had dug so hard into Dario's shoulders they drew blood, the way sweat had glistened on his perfect skin while he rode Granito's cock. His lips stretched and swollen and red around Dario's cock, white skin flushed pink, the bandages around his eyes soaked through with sweat. The way he fit so perfectly between them. His real smiles, bright and warm when he offered them.
Whatever anyone said or thought, Culebra was as human as anyone. "Is your next question going to be about how he is a reincarnation and so on and so forth? Don't bother. I've had this conversation more times than I care to count and it never ceases to be boring. Culebra is only a man, whatever the color of his skin or power of his eyes."
"Don't you fear that he might someday become a god? It is ultimately his destiny, however many lives it takes to fulfill it."
"What do I care?" Dario asked. "What does it matter? Culebra is Culebra, and nothing anyone says or does will change that. I love him whatever he is, whatever he may or may not become. Stop playing your tiresome games because I promise men better than you at them have failed to get a rise out of me. You cannot say anything that has not already been said somewhere in four countries. Stop boring me and come to your point."
The man smiled. "No point, only curiosity."
Dario ignored him, letting his head fall back against the wall he was up against and closing his eyes. He listened as the man finally stood and walked back to the door. He spoke to the guards, but the words were unfortunately too low for Dario to catch them. Then they left, and Dario could not figure out what the bastard had hoped to accomplish with all his irritating questions—and if he had accomplished it.
"So you get questions like that, too?" Fidel asked, sounding amused.
Dario opened his eyes and raised his brows in silent question. Fidel's mouth quirked. "No one asked me what it's like to love a god, but I get variations on it with Cortez. What's it like to be her friend. Her lover, though we never were lovers. What it's like to work with her. They call her the Black Princesa."
"The Black Princesa," Dario repeated. "I've heard that name before. She's an assassin who works for the Brotherhood. Every time I hear someone say it, the tone is fearful. They say she's never failed to kill her target."
Fidel's smile faded. "No small skill, indeed. I have seen her work and understand why people say she has a talent for it. But talent is not the right word for it. It's much more like an instinct, a natural element of her. She kills the way fish swim and birds fly. It's beautiful in a terrible way. She is always very selective of the jobs she takes, which always angers people. She told me once she only takes jobs that feel right. I occasionally hear about the jobs she refuses, that others took; they never end well."
"Intriguing," Dario said, not certain what else to say. She sounded terrifying. He did not like the idea that she had been sent to kidnap Culebra—that right that very moment, he was her captive. "So why did you both leave the Brotherhood? Given she is the Black Princesa, I am more surprised than ever that they let her leave."
"She killed someone she did not want to kill. As I said, she was particular. She does not kill idly. But she lost her temper, lost control, and killed a man. It was brutal because she was angry enough he did not die quickly. Afterward, when her rage eased, the grief broke her. She has never forgiven herself for succumbing to what she calls her evil side. Father Yago let her leave, which really came as a surprise to nobody. He has always appeared to have a soft spot for her."
"Appeared?" Dario asked.
Fidel shrugged. "She and I fought about it often. Yago took her in when she was nothing but a whore, maybe all of sixteen? Seventeen? She had already killed people by that point, but quietly she told me. Nobody knew she was the one who had done it. But Yago took her in, taught her to read, write, all of that. Helped her develop her skills, especially her killing skills. Always treated her fondly. She is normally so smart, but has a blind side when it comes to him. Gratitude is all well and good, but too much of anything is a poison."
"Yes," Dario said quietly.
"I wish I had gone with her then," Fidel said with a sigh. "But I was too much a coward to leave the Brotherhood and risk the unknown. It was all I knew before I met Cortez. For a very long time, I believed the doctrine. I suppose I still do, somewhat, but not with that fervor that made me think it was okay to flay people. We argued when she left. I refused to leave the Brotherhood though. Funny, that she was the one closet to our leader, but I the most devout. If I had just gotten over myself and left with her ... "
"It's likely you would be in this position anyway, since they clearly want her to do their bidding without fuss, and you're the only leverage they possess," Dario said. "Though, at that, I am surprised they did not use this Father Yago she was apparently so close to."
Fidel frowned at that. "That is strange, but then again, he is the head of the Brotherhood. They would not want to risk angering the Brotherhood to that degree. Nobody will pick a fight over me, except for Cortez. I just wish I had listened to her!"
Shaking his head, Dario said, "I can tell you from experience that those 'what ifs' will turn you into a drunkard if you let them get to you. If not for this kidnapping, I would still be trying to drown them in cheap wine."
Fidel smiled wryly. "I was nearly reaching that point myself when they grabbed me. I suppose this stupid situation has been good for something. But if we get out of it alive, I feel we are entitled to a few bottles of wine."
"I agree completely," Dario replied. "Have you seen him before, that man who was just bothering me?"
"No. I've heard them talk about him, but that's it. They call him Jorge."
"His eyes were violet."
Fidel's eyes popped open wide. "That—that is not possible. Schatten is sealed. Most believe there is nobody left alive in Schatten, that the Shadow of Licht destroyed them all centuries ago. How could a shadow child be all the way here in Piedre?"
"I don't know, but I don't like it. No shadow child should have an interest in Culebra, and the fact that he does ... " Dario shook his head, not certain what to make of the situation, but truly afraid for the first time.
"What do you think they're going to do?" Fidel asked quietly, sounding exactly the way Dario felt. "I thought this all to be typical cult feuding, and while that is troublesome, I am accustomed to it. But this—shadow children, Belmonte, the Lost Temple. I do not like the idea of a shadow child mucking about with the Basilisk. Whether he is good or evil, the Basilisk is our god. He does not belong to Schatten. He has no right to come here and interfere in our holy matters."
"I agree," Dario said. "But I think for now we must stick with the original plan: hold tight and wait until Cortez and Culebra arrive, or we know for certain they will not be coming. No more impulse escapes, all right?"
Fidel grimaced. "I have behaved since the one and only time I tried, have I not? I admit that being idle is getting to me, but I could not run now even if I wanted. Do you really think they'll find the Lost Temple? The Brotherhood and the Order have explored every rock and leaf on the Azul Mountains. If we cannot locate it after nine hundred years, why should some shadow child be able to manage it? If the temple is still there at all, surely it's nothing but barely recognizable ruins at best?"
"I don't know, but I'm sure if he is going to this much trouble that he must think he knows something special, something important. I hope to the gods that it's not as useful as he thinks because the only thing more foolish that restoring a god is for an ignorant foreigner to attempt to restore the God of Death—especially since no one has ever figured out if the Basilisk was murdered or committed suicide."
His stomach churned to think of Culebra being subjected to that, being forced to assume powers that were best left dormant. So far as he was concerned, the gods could stay Lost.
"There are rumors going around," Fidel said quietly. "I first started to hear them in Verde in the port towns. I dismissed them at the time because such rumors always come and go, but now I wonder. It seems to incredible to believe, but ... "
"But what?" Dario asked.
"They say the Dragons of the Three Storms and the Holy Firebird have returned. That they are no longer lost. They say that ancient prophecies are beginning to come true."
Dario sighed and hoped the rumors were wrong, and he did not care that all of his reasons for not wanting to see Culebra become a god were entirely selfish. He wanted Culebra to take him back, knew that despite everything that a stupid, niggling hope was growing that the whole stupid situation would give him a chance to win Culebra back.
If Culebra became a god, what possible use would he have for Dario?
No doubt it was better for the world to have the God of Death back—dark and grim as he may be, Death served a purpose and had a place. But Dario didn't care what was best for the world. All he wanted was Culebra.