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Content warning: this chapter contains violence.

 

Chapter 11

 

Letvino turns without releasing its arm, an ugly sneer on his, “Or what?”

Micka steps forward, his fists clenched at his sides. “Get away from her.”

“Make me. I’ll wreck your face,” Letvino growls. “But if you guard the alley while she does me, you can go second.”

“Let her alone,” Micka says, taking another step, “or I’ll tell the Door Warden and the Dirarch of House Silinie.”

Letvino’s eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t.”

Micka closes the distance between them until they are chest to chest. He points his chin at Kelti and Partonin. “I have witnesses.”

“Fuck your witnesses.” Letvino shoves it away, and squares off, feet apart and planted, hands at its sides in fists. The stance meant for intimidation rather than fighting. “Try me.”

It steps behind Letvino, hikes up its skirt,  and delivers a kick to his groin so hard that the sound of it echoes off the buildings. Letvino lets out a strangled cry, falls to his knees, and starts vomiting.

Micka jumps back, eyes wide. The other two students stare in shock.

“That worked!” It exclaims as if surprised. It reaches out and grabs Micka’s hand. “My sister told me it worked. We should go before he gets up.”

“Go,” Kelti says. She nods at Partonin. “We’ll take care of him.”

It pulls Micka into the night. It knows that Letvino won’t get up any time soon, but doesn’t tell Micka. Instead, they run toward the river until Micka, gasping for air, stumbles to a halt.

When he can speak again, Micka says, “I’m so sorry.”

“You were wonderful,” it says, because it’s what Silinie would say, and because Micka tried to help. Micka smiles and straightens. He offers his arm, and it lowers its chin to look up through its lashes, like Silinie when she wanted something from Ralleen. “I’d rather keep holding your hand. If that’s all right.”

Micka blushes and takes her hand. He doesn’t speak as they walk, which is fine because it’s so very tired and doesn’t think it could manage a conversation.

Holding Micka’s hand feels different than holding Silinie’s, and not just because Micka’s is larger. It doesn’t dislike the sensation, but it doesn’t affect it the way it does Micka.

“Can I ask where your House is?” Micka says as they reach the street beside the river.

“On the left bank,” it says, “Near the islands.”

He’s silent a moment, and she hears him swallow hard before asking, “Should I meet you there tomorrow?”

He sounds like the boys in Silinie’s group, when they spoke to the girls they admired. Most times the girls teased and flirted, leaving them frustrated. Once in a while, when the girl liked the boy back, she’d speak straightforward to him.

So it looks him in the eye and says, “I’d rather come to you. Would lunch time tomorrow work?”

“Yes!” He blushes again, embarrassed by how excited he sounded. When he speaks again, he sounds calmer. “Just tell the Door Warden you’re visiting Micka Gebraltin. I’m in the east quarter, third floor, of Learning House Martyr Pelinol.”

When the public dock comes into sight, Micka stops. He still holds its hand, though, and says, “I had a great time tonight. Sorry Letvino tried to ruin it.”

“He doesn’t matter,” it says, and steps closer to him. “You made the rest of my evening very pleasant. And I am looking forward to tomorrow.”

Which is when it spots Galitro, Master of Death for House Glarin, twenty yards behind Micka walking toward them. It tries to hide its fear, but Micka sees and looks. “What the matter? Who is that?”

Think of something think of something think of something. It raises a hand, waves at the man and calls, “Uncle! What a surprise!”

“Uncle?”  Micka sounds surprised. “You have an uncle?”

“I do.” It puts on a smile. “You should go. He has a dim view of me being alone with boys at night.”

“I should escort you to the boats,” Micka protests.

“He’ll do that. If you aren’t gone quickly, you’ll spent the rest of the night answering questions about your intentions.” It rises onto its toes and kisses his cheek, because that’s what Silinie did to stop boys arguing. “Now go, Micka of Learning House Martyr Pelinol, east quarter, third floor. I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch.”

It walks toward Galitro, its stomach knotting and its muscles tensing for a fight. “Uncle, how nice to see you.”

“Niece,” Galitro’s voice rings out over the dock. He sounds stern, but it hears his amusement under it. “I assume you have a reason to be out with that young man?”

“An excellent reason, uncle.” It turns and waves Micka away while mouthing, “Shoo!”

Micka smiles, bows once, and heads back to the university.

“Does that reason explain why you were kissing him, my niece?” Galitro demands as Micka rounds a corner and disappears from sight. Galitro snorts in amusement. “Uncle?”

“He doesn’t need to know what I am,” it says, hands reaching for its daggers.

“A Houseless Death you mean?” Galitro asks. “Or cursed?”

“Either.” It waits for Galitro to make a move, but he stays where he is. “What do you want, Galitro?”

“Master Galitro.” Before it can say, “not mine,” he adds. “Take your hands off your daggers, little Death. The Houses want to talk to you.”

“Houses?”

“Houses,” he says, and the Masters of Death of Houses Tralique and Paskoni step out of the darkness.

“We’re not here to fight, Little Death,” Dwingtal of House Tralique says. “We’re here because something is murdering the Lords and scions of our Houses.”

 “And you’ve finally realized it isn’t me?” it asks.

“It is a demon,” says Flindega, House Paskoni’s Master of Death. She stands as tall as the men, her face dark, narrow and severe. “And it threatens to destroy us all.”

“All the attacks are on the House lines,” Dwingtal says. “Legitimate and otherwise. Twenty are died so far.”

“So what?” it lets its anger out to cover its surprise. It hadn’t known so many were dead. “Your Houses Cleansed mine. I don’t give a single fuck about them. Let your scions die screaming.”

“The demon grows in strength,” Flindega says. “That’s why you saw it when it killed Felleen.”

“I still don’t give—”

“The demon will destroy the city,” a voice behind them says. It turns and sees three more Masters of Death: Pliseta, a short man from House Darlona; Slenitil, the thin woman from House Recinta; and Kileiteria, a wide strong woman and the Death of House Flecina. All their hands are open and empty. Kileiteria, the one who spoke, looks earnest, though that means nothing. They are Masters of Death and will lie about who they are killing while twisting the dagger in their victim’s flesh.

“Killing the scions of our Houses frees the demon to wreak havoc and destruction,” Kileiteria says. “It will kill every person in this city, and when the last one lies dead, it will roam the world, killing at random for eternity.”

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