Wicked Bronze Ambition

112

I didn’t abandon reason. That was unnecessary. Violet sparks identified my roommate.

How the devil. .?

While we were making the changeover from Morley to me. Had to have happened then.

That didn’t matter, though, did it? The critical thing was, the coffin now included a double dose of misery for whoever slipped its lid.

Could Tara Chayne be playing a practical joke? Why shoehorn that thing in here with me, otherwise? Unless inside the box was the only way to get it past Magister Bezma’s wards and traps.

Kevans began barking about being manhandled, reeling off blistering threats because somebody was mistreating somebody who wasn’t conscious-without once invoking her dire grandmother. The girl had guts.

Magister Bezma proved himself small by mocking her.

Mikon upbraided him for bullying a girl.

I was pleased, within limits. A man in a coffin certainly has those.

The yelling did bring home an important fact: Kip Prose was alive and probably healthy, if a little bit unconscious.

Bezma yelled some at someone about being more careful painting those damned lines. Ritualistic artistry was in progress. Kevans barked questions like a kid on a field trip instead of the altar, or victim, meant to be offered the darkness that would facilitate Bezma’s ritual.

She wasn’t frightened? Was she clueless? Stupid? Sure that help would swoop in on time? Or was she just unable to believe that anyone could be what Bezma was?

She had Shadowslinger for a grandmother. She could not possibly be that naive.

So. . Algardas were weird and she was a leader in the category.

The coffin shifted. The centipede scrambled. People outside grumbled. Bezma shrieked at somebody. Stress was getting to him. His henchmen weren’t being patient, just out of fear. He was being cut some slack because he was under such ferocious pressure.

Maybe he wasn’t a first-water asshole one hundred percent of the time. Maybe there were people who actually liked him.

No matter. He had my kids and his intentions weren’t good. He would’ve used my dead wife as a counter in his game, too, if I hadn’t gotten there first. I would cut him no slack. I wouldn’t be understanding.

Wouldn’t matter if I was. The Black Orchid and the Algarda tribe were thirsty for his blood. His own son was after him. The Machtkess sisters were stalking him. And then there was the little blonde, her friend, and his family. They fit in somewhere, too.

Purple sparks. Tiny, invisible claws digging in. A change in the racket from outside. .

Singing?

They were chanting in Old Karentine, which isn’t all that old. Most people can follow it if they concentrate and the speakers don’t rush or go all mush-mouth.

The Ritual was under way. And Kevans went right on making her opinion clear, loudly and explicitly. Why didn’t they put that gag back in?

The coffin shuddered as somebody pulled at the lid, untroubled by the fact that it wasn’t glass. Maybe they didn’t know.

Maybe Mikon really would help scuttle his cousin’s game.

Maybe he’d do the right thing now that the crunch had come.

The chanting grew a little louder, a little faster. I picked out four distinct voices, two of those intermittent and unsteady. The men who had carried the coffin into the house, I presumed. None sounded enamored of their song.

The centipede crawled up on top of me. Several thousand chitinous claws scrabbled around on my face, tugging developing whiskers, getting into my nostrils and mouth, tasting like. . I don’t want to take my imagination there. I could conjure a thousand ugly ideas about where those claws had been.

The chanting circled the box.

The lid slid aside.