Page 30 of The Unweaver

Bane’s gaze passed between the heads of the table as if he’d lost a high-stakes poker game to a pair of twos. “Framing me.” He contemplated the burning tip of his cigarette. “How clever.”

The cigarette burst into a conflagration. Recoiling, Bane dropped his feet and the ball of fire to the floor. Flames shot across the threadbare rug and licked up the table legs.

“Verek, no!” Mother screamed.

“Get him!” Verek hurled a fireball from his fist.

Chaos erupted.

The Ferromancers unsheathed their scimitars and spun them in lethal arcs, slashing with a hiss of metal and glint of magic. Bane sprang back into the wall, then through it. Curved blades struck where he’d just vanished.

Bane reappeared behind the thugs. He dropped one with a kick to the back of the knees and wrenched the blade from the other. Before the thug could turn around, Bane slit his throat like a knife through warm butter.

Blood spurted across the room and into Cora’s screaming mouth. She dove under the table and clamped her arms over her head, suffocating on fear and smoke.

The slain Ferromancer slumped to the floor, blood gushing and eyes glazing. The other thug pushed to his feet and launched at Bane, his weapon swinging through empty air. He whirled on his heel, blade held high and expression murderous.

The Realmwalker dashed in and out of existence as blades sliced and fireballs scorched, a dizzying blur of eloquent violence.

Mother and Owens disappeared. From piles of clothing emerged a magpie and crow. Squawking madly, the corvids hurtled themselves against the high windows, black and white feathers flying, beaks pecking at the glass.

The Doberman barked, frantic, and clawed the magically sealed door. Fire leapt from the rug to the peeling wallpaper and rushed towards the ceiling in a scorching path. Acrid smoke from burning wood and fiber and fur choked the air. Flaming chunks of the room collapsed around them.

The Bestiamancer was on fire. Barking twisted into screams. The stench of singed fur became the sizzle of roasting flesh as the beast transformed back into a young man.

Dodging another fireball, Bane reappeared from above. He crashed down on Verek with a sickening crack of the stolen blade hilt against his skull. The Pyromancer dropped like a dead weight.

Bane flipped, vanishing as the thug’s blade swung. He reappeared at his back and skewered the thug from spine to abdomen. Blood and intestines spilled out. He twisted the blade deeper. Guts squelched. The Ferromancer thumped face down in a pool of his own pulsating bowels, the blade swaying between his shoulders like a conqueror’s flag. Bane stepped over the twitching body and straightened his blood-stained tie.

Glass shattered and rained down. From the broken window flew a crow and a magpie.

“That went well,” Bane muttered.

Heat seared Cora’s skin, smoke choked her airways, and a loud banging filled her ears. Not from her hammering heartbeat, but from people trying to break through the locked door.

“Verek!” came the muffled shouts. “Open the door, boss! Let us in!”

Cora was certain she was the Realmwalker’s next victim as a pair of black boots approached her. Frozen in horror underthe table, she watched Bane bend down in the burning room. Firelight played across the crests and hollows of his gore-splattered face. His obsidian eyes promised retribution.

“I’ll make you a deal, Unweaver.” He extended his hand. “Work for me, and I’ll find your brother.”

She eyed his offer like a serpent. Yet his gaze and hand remained steady. An endless moment elapsed.

The devil waited at the crossroads. Two choices. Two lives. Await the fate breaking down the door, or accept whatever Malachy Bane was offering, a lifeline or a noose.

Wood groaned and splintered as the door burst open. Shouting men surged through the smoke, their weapons and magic blasting.

Her mind went incandescently blank. The chaos came to a standstill. Cora took his hand.

A sharp tug behind her navel, then a weightless plummet as the conflagration warped and disappeared, her organs cartwheeling in the nothingness.

Chapter 8. A Grave Mistake

Nausea punched through Cora when she hit the ground. White and blue blurred under her face. A porcelain vase. Folding in half, she gripped the vase and retched. Cheap gin, she realized, burned even more coming back up.

“You get used to it,” Bane said.

I sincerely doubt that. Knees wobbling, she dropped into a wingback chair before the crackling fireplace and clamped her eyes shut at the dizziness. The rancid taste of vomit coated her tongue.

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