Nightfire | The Whispering Wall #1 - Chapter 70: Chapter 70

"Who are you?" Jordan gasped.
The hooded figure in the doorway hadn't moved. It hadn't so much as appeared to breathe, but he could tell it was watching him. There was no sign of the guards who had run past. No one had passed since those awful cries, and Jordan had a feeling no one would.
His lunge from the table was taking its toll. As the burst of energy wore off, his limbs began to fail him, until he was relying on the counter to stay upright. His dagger felt woefully small, even if he had known how to use it. Yddris's 'stab and run' advice only worked if one was in a position to run, and Jordan didn't think he'd be able to crawl to save his own life.
It didn't surprise him that he got no response, but all the same he felt a surge of frustration.
"Jordan..." Grace whispered behind him. "Don't."
Nearest the motionless figure, Nova had somehow gotten hold of a meat cleaver, and hefted it slowly in one hand. She didn't look strong enough to wield it, but her expression was hard, and Jordan was certain she could land a good swing if she wanted to.
He could hear the collective heartbeat in the room, it seemed, though he knew it was only his.
The figure cocked its head one way and then the other, and Jordan went cold when he realised it was examining him; he had no hood up and it could see exactly who he was. Before, the rules of the Unspoken felt oppressive, but now having his face revealed to this murderer struck him with terror.
Slowly, almost as if it was teasing him, it lowered its sword and turned away, disappearing down the corridor into the servants' quarters. Ren, who had remained eerily quiet through the whole encounter, yipped and bounded after it.
"Ren," Jordan croaked. "Get back here."
She ignored him, disappearing a flash of dark fur.
"Why didn't it attack?" Jeorge asked, sounding more curious than rattled. "I thought it killed Unspoken?"
"Maybe only trained ones?" Grace suggested without much conviction, still barely above a whisper. "Jordan, where are you going?"
Jordan paused for breath at the kitchen door, feeling sick with pain. Nova was suddenly beside him, dark eyes intense. "You're not seriously going after it?"
"Ren went after it..." he said weakly. "And it...it saw me. It knows who I am."
"And you're going to...what? Ask it nicely not to tell anyone?" the Angel hissed.
"Why didn't it attack me?" Jordan echoed Jeorge. "It didn't even try."
"There's one possibility," Nova said. "And you won't like it." She glanced behind them and fell silent as Grace hurried over, tucking her hands around Jordan's arm and gently tugging at him to come back.
"You need treatment," she said. "Let the guards deal with it."
"It killed the guards." He had no evidence, but all the same he knew it to be true. He could sense it. "The guards can't do shit. And if it gets after the others..."
"You can't do anything," Grace cried. "You warned them! That's all you can do for them!"
Jordan allowed himself to be led back to the kitchen table. He was relieved – more relieved than he cared to admit – that he'd been robbed of a chance to get answers. Not that expecting answers was particularly clever. He didn't even know if the thing could talk, and though it had walked away without touching him, he couldn't guarantee it never would. Perhaps it had been luring him out.
He blinked. The whole thought pattern sounded so unlike him it was rattling. Since when was he the type to run after murderers? He swallowed. Nictaven was screwing with his head.
Or perhaps the Listener had just smacked him around harder than he'd thought.
"I'm sorry," he croaked, still perturbed. "Don't know what I was thinking."
"I don't know, either. Your animal will come back by itself," Jeorge said, before Grace could respond. "Now hold still so I can deal with your nose, would you?"
The Angel's eyes bored into his. Jordan nodded and settled back on the counter.
"Is your sight back?" Jeorge asked, leaning back.
"Yeah. Was just really dizzy."
"The bleeding is stopping," he murmured, "that's good. Hold still."
Jordan didn't have time to ask why before the Angel pushed his nose back into place. He was gentle with it, but Jordan still cried out, flames licking along his arms as he scrambled away. "What the fuck? You could've warned me!"
He shook his hands, crackling with magic still. He tried to will it away, but it only made him angrier. Jeorge seemed unperturbed, occupying himself instead with the supplies someone had arranged on the table. For the first time he noticed that the bed in the corner of the room was occupied by Brillan, the lord's butler, and there was a woman sitting next to him with a candle, watching the doorway with suspicion. In her lap was a butcher knife. She caught him looking, and Jordan recognised her as she gave a sardonic smile; the housekeeper.
"Needs doing, boy," she said. "And most patients aren't cooperative when it comes to setting bones."
He reached up to probe the damage, but Grace grabbed his arms, pulling them away. He didn't miss her flinch as the flames dancing across his skin licked a little too close to her face, and shame flooded him. He detached himself from her grip.
"I won't touch it," he muttered, "Don't look at me like that."
He peeled back his shirt. Scrapes and bruises already littered his abdomen, making his skin look mottled over the layer of Unspoken markings. They had spread across his torso, and there were a few in there now that resembled runes. He didn't know why that disturbed him so much, but he usually made a point of not looking at them. Now he couldn't look away; he was close enough to Unspoken to be considered a target, and the hooded figure had walked away. A fresh spike of fear went through him at the thought that it would now go after someone in the guild because he hadn't pursued it. It was irrational – what good would he do? – but he glanced again at the doorway.
And spotted Marick.
He hadn't seen the leader of the Devils since he had been kidnapped, and the sight of the man brought it all rushing back. Then, as he had just minutes ago with the demon, he had thought he was going to die, and the reminder made him cold.
Marick smiled, blue eyes glacial. Jordan's breath left him. Usk was manageable, but Marick terrified him in a way that he couldn't put into words. The Varthian – hell, even Arlen - at least behaved in a way that suggested there were lines he wouldn't cross, but Marick had never given that impression. Marick was unpredictable, evidenced by the fact that he was standing in the middle of Harkenn's castle like he belonged there.
"Shit," Jordan whispered. He looked at Grace and then back at the door, heart stumbling over itself when he found it empty.
"What?" his sister asked. Something had distracted her; she hadn't taken her eyes off his magic, and he couldn't read the expression in them, but at that moment he had more pressing concerns.
"I just saw..." he mumbled. "Wait here."
"Are you serious?" she cried, "We just had this conversation!"
He was already out in the corridor, hands pressed against his abdomen to stop his ribs from shifting. He limped in the direction of the servants' passage, and encountered the guards within a few yards. They were arranged in a macabre pile in the middle of the corridor, laid out like they'd fallen asleep on top of each other. A dark puddle had spread out around them.
Grace hurried up behind him, followed by Nova at a distance.
"What are you doing?" she snapped, casting a frightened glance at the bodies and then looking away as if struck. "Oh my god, Jordan, come back in, please."
"I'm not going after it," Jordan said. He took her hands in his, remembering too late they were covered in blood. "I promise. I just need to see something."
"Then I'll come with you," she said.
"No," Jordan replied, too quickly, and he was abruptly aware of Nova's eyes on him. It disturbed him that the Angel knew about the Devils, even though he was optimistic that she wouldn't rat him out to Grace. It would upset her too much, and at that thought guilt shot through him like an arrow. "Two minutes," he added, "Two minutes and I'll be back."
Before she could speak, he hurried away as best he could in the direction Marick must have gone; the other way, Lord Harkenn was still giving orders and the castle was swarming with soldiers. The Devil leader was skilled, but there was a limit. He only glanced back once to make sure Grace hadn't followed him.
He hobbled down the darkened hallway; someone had put out all the braziers. He could hear Grace's voice still, raised in anger, and tried to tune her out. He needed to know what Marick was doing here. Perhaps he knew something about the figure he'd seen.
But mostly, Jordan just needed to know that the guildmaster wasn't here for Grace. Jordan had deliberated on answering about his cooperation for as long as he dared, but seeing Marick here made him worry that he'd put it off for too long.
The man proved incredibly elusive. Jordan scanned every recess, disorientated by the lack of runes inside the castle, and found no one. He was torn between relief and fear; why would Marick make his presence known if he wasn't here for him? He was on the verge of turning back, the pain in his ribs only growing with every step, when he heard a noise behind him. A subtle noise, so quiet Jordan almost thought he'd imagined it. He turned, and ducked as a curved blade whistled past his ear. It embedded itself in his shoulder, and the cold that followed was so sudden and complete that he was left breathless. He reached for his magic, the pounding of the current.
Nothing.
It had been a trap, and he'd walked straight into it. He hadn't even been sure Marick had gone this way, but he'd seen the figure with the curved blade walk down this corridor.
Gasping for breath, disoriented as Nictaven's cold air touched him for the first time in weeks, he scrambled to his feet. The figure stood still, watching him with its head on one side.
A crossbow bolt thudded into its shoulder.
The noise that followed was unlike anything Jordan had ever heard. It was like the wind howling through a cave system, only more solid; haunted, almost. It wasn't a demon cry. Even demons sounded more natural than this. Jordan stumbled back, still grasping for magic that wasn't responding.
He yelled as someone grabbed his shoulder and yanked him round a corner. A calloused hand clapped over his mouth and a second person ducked into his field of view, a finger pressed to their lips. Jordan's eyes were drawn to the grinning horned mask tattooed on his forearm, and he stopped struggling.
"Do you know what the fuck that thing is?" Usk whispered behind him, letting him go. "Chased me round the castle near twice, the freaky bastard."
"We better be going," someone else said, skidding to a stop in front of the alcove; a skinny man with shaggy hair that Jordan had also seen in the kitchen. A crossbow was in his hands. "That just pissed it off."
"I can't," Jordan said, gasping for breath, "My sister. I...I can't feel it. It's gone. Fuck."
His thoughts span. His magic was gone. He felt like someone had cut off a limb, carved something out of him by force.
"Jes," Usk said, "You go one way, Akiva go the other. Draw it off."
"Wait," Jordan said, shaking himself out of his cloak and handing it over. "This might help."
Jes took it, grinning. "I like the way you think, witch boy."
The thing had stopped shrieking. Akiva fired off another bolt which sounded as though it missed, and Jes shrugged on Jordan's cloak before taking off.
"Quiet, kid." Usk clasped Jordan's shoulder, and they both held their breath, watching the corridor. A moment later, the hooded figure darted past.
"At least we know it's not that bright," Jordan managed to force out. He was in agony; the cold made his broken teeth click together with painful force, and he had even lost the protection of his cloak. He flexed his hands, which remained stubbornly flame-free. "What the fuck is on that blade?"
"Your magic is gone?" Jordan turned to look at Usk, and the Varthian's eyes widened. "Oh."
He felt a flash of panic. "What?"
"Your eyes stopped glowing."
That was it, then; it was gone. Was it permanent? He might have been relieved, only it wasn't the reprieve he would have imagined. It hurt for its absence. It didn't feel like a burden had been taken off him, only like someone had gouged something out of his insides by force.
His head, spinning; cold, aching both inside and out, unsure what to do.
"I need to find Yddris," he gasped, bending double as his ribs shifted. He sank to the floor, shaking uncontrollably. Usk hovered over him, expression unreadable.
"You cannot stay here," he growled. "It might come back."
"But the other two..."
"Can handle themselves," the brute interrupted, a wry smile at the corners of his mouth. "They are masters of escape."
"Is there any way you could find Yddris?" Jordan said, panting. The longer it went on, the deeper the cold sank into his bones. He tugged down the neck of his shirt, inspecting his shoulder. It was only a shallow cut. The Listener had dealt him wounds many times worse, but they were somehow easier to cope with. "I'll...I'll owe you. A favour, any favour."
Usk cocked his head, amused. "Careful what you offer, witch boy. But it's a deal, if I can swing it."
He turned to leave, and only as he was walking away did Jordan realise he hadn't asked about Marick.
He put his head back against the wall, trying to focus on his breathing. Was it just him, or was the noise outside receding? He couldn't tell. The whole world felt quieter without the gentle rush of Nictaven's current in the back of his mind, which he had become so accustomed to he only noticed when it was gone.
"You really should wash that out."
A voice spoke, and a shadow fell over him. His eyes snapped open as Marick crouched down opposite him in the alcove. His blue eyes glinted. More coldness.
Jordan said nothing. He couldn't get back to the kitchens in this state, and he had a feeling the Devil leader knew it, but he wasn't about to admit as much. His skin rolled with sweat.
"Did it cut your tongue out?" Marick asked. His face didn't quite form a smile; his brow was knitted together. He was unhappy about something. He reached into the recesses of the cloak he wore and brought out a waterskin. "Show me."
It carried the odd impression of trying to make friends with a wild animal; it looked well-intentioned, but he knew it could strike at any moment. But he was hardly in a position to refuse the help, and as sense returned he was eager to have the wound washed out. He wondered if Grace was coming to find him, and hoped she hadn't. Akiva and Jes's distraction might not work for long, and the thing had seen her with him. He certainly didn't want her anywhere near Marick. He needed Yddris, but he was increasingly unconvinced Usk would be able to find him in time.
Marick dribbled water over the cut, which made a faint hissing noise and sent burning pain down his arm. He clenched his teeth, head aching with robbed breath, as the Devil leader used his fingers to coax the wound to bleed. He said, "You're lucky, you know. I would bet that even a few more seconds might have been the end of you."
Jordan focused on his breathing instead of responding. A bead of sweat prickled as it ran down his face, and he tried to find any spark of magic, any faint hum from the current. It was so cold; his chest ached with it. Several times he dipped out of consciousness, and forced himself alert again with the reminder of who sat beside him. He hissed through his teeth as more sharp pain bit into his shoulder, and glanced round to find Marick staring at the blood on the tiny knife he'd just used to open the wound further.
"Not bleeding enough," the man grunted. A thin line of red rolled down Jordan's arm and soaked into his sleeve. He didn't dare speak. "Do you feel anything returning?"
Jordan shook his head. Marick grimaced and gave the cut another squeeze.
"Why..." Jordan croaked, but stopped and changed tack. "Why are you helping me?"
"Vested interests," Marick replied lightly. A noise in the corridor caused him to stiffen and look round, but after a second he relaxed. "And since Arlen is currently incapacitated, the answer I wanted from you has not been forthcoming."
"Incapacitated?"
"He's hardly running across the city with half a leg," Marick said. "He looked half-dead last time I saw him. But he'll live."
"You sound sure." Jordan tensed, regretting the words the minute he spoke them, but Marick only seemed amused.
"I am." He didn't elaborate, and Jordan didn't push it. He waited, not wanting to look too eager to offer his choice. Harkenn's face loomed in his mind.
When it became clear the man was waiting for him to make the first move, he said, "I want to accept." The tremble already in his voice worked in his favour.
"Good." Marick looked behind him again, and then straightened. "Your sister is on her way. Keep it bleeding for as long as you can."
"Wait..."
He was gone. Jordan blinked at the empty space, reeling. He could hardly believe that any of it had really happened. He felt cornered, even though he was alone, like some great trap had just clamped itself around him. He didn't have much time to think about it, though; his shoulder was bleeding freely, and he could still feel no magic. His limbs were numb and heavy and his head was pounding in a nauseating way. Grace rounded the corner a minute later, hair sticking up in every direction and face frantic, and she cried out when she spotted him. He supposed, dully, that he looked quite horrifying by this point.
"It's gone," he said to her. "It's gone. I'm so fucking cold."
Somehow, he made it to Harkenn's dining hall. As Grace and Nova half-marched and half-carried him past the kitchens, he barely had the wits to ask what was happening outside. The hall had been transformed. Time had lost all meaning since Jordan had first left the castle to raise the alarm, and it must have been much longer than he'd thought. He almost laughed. He'd always assumed it would be the other way around.
There was now a makeshift triage centre in the middle of the vast room. Soldiers groaned on pallets at the front of the hall as they descended the steps, and at the back, a little way away, were also a few Unspoken being tended to by other members of the Guild. Jordan might have taken more notice of that if he had not felt half-dead himself.
"Jordan?" someone said. His eyes rolled to a hooded figure hurrying over to them, but couldn't match a voice to a name. "By the night, what.... Night take me."
The man came to a stop.
"Where's Yddris?" Jordan croaked. He had to tell someone about Marick, and it worried him that Usk didn't seem to have found him.
"He's...he's..." The figure turned and pointed at one of the Unspoken lying on the pallets. Jordan's eyes burned as he instinctively searched for his tutor's aura and then remembered he couldn't.
"What happened?"
"He'll be fine. He overexerted himself, that's all. But...Jordan, what..."
Dully remembering Marick's words, Jordan detached his arm from Nova, who stood silent at his side, and clawed the clotting blood from the wound on his shoulder. "Here," he gasped, through the bite of pain, "It cut me here."
"Bring him over." Nika's voice – it was Nika – turned abruptly brisk and practical.
"Come on," Grace murmured, gently urging him with her hands wrapped around his arm. It was the closest they'd been since Jordan had manifested, he thought, without the crackling barrier of his magic between them. It was one thing he mourned, while the rest of his body clamoured to have his magic back. If it had not so painful, and so empty, he might have left it alone. As it stood, it felt like the blade had scored through every one of his veins instead of just his shoulder.
He sat on one of the benches that had been dragged into the middle of the room to treat wounds. Nika neatly ripped the rest of his shirt from him and removed his own gloves, before prodding around the cut with careful fingers, much lighter than Jeorge's.
"I can't see anything," he sighed after a minute, a short, sharp huff.
"Cut it away if you've got to," Jordan whispered. "Just bring it back."
"Isn't that dangerous?" Grace said, her calm voice from before now carrying a shrill note.
"I'll take a blood sample," Nika said, gently squeezing the wound and letting it run into a glass vial. "And then..." He peered at Jordan's shoulder. Then he dug in his satchel and produced a length of cream-coloured cloth. He wound it tight around his hands and held it out. "Bite down."
Jordan bit down. It had been his idea, but now he was battling the urge to scramble away. He had thought himself too dulled to the amount of pain he was in to be scared of more, but his heartbeat had other ideas.
"You're at risk of bleeding out if I remove it altogether," Nika murmured, producing a flicker of green flame in his palm and running his scalpel through it. He produced a leather strap from his bag and tightened it around Jordan's armpit. "But..."
Jordan squeezed his eyes tight shut as the blade bit into his flesh. Grace's hand clutched his, and he held onto her twice as hard.
"Tell me if you feel anything. If this doesn't work, I have other ideas," Nika said. Something hot licked over the wound, and Jordan cracked open an eye. He immediately closed it again. His arm was glistening crimson. It had pooled on the table, dripped on the floor, and his fingers were turning faintly blue.. Nika was gently running small wisps of magic over the open gouge, stinging it.
Around the gag, Jordan groaned. "I can't..."
In the pit of his stomach, he felt a crackle of static.