Carnival of Souls

CHAPTER 12

AFTER KALEB HAD DISCOVERED that Mallory felt like pack, that she felt like she was his, he knew he had to try to talk to Haage. Crossing Haage was the sort of action that ended a black-mask’s career. Most often, the only reason to cancel a contract was the assassin’s death. To add pressure to an already explosive problem, Kaleb wasn’t at the carnival for but a few minutes before he heard about Marchosias’ pronouncement. If Mallory had been found by someone who reported to their ruler, Kaleb’s time was even more limited. Unless he could get to Mallory before she was brought to The City, he risked crossing both Haage and Marchosias. Even if he could reach her first, he’d have to confess what he was. Every direction he could turn felt deadly.

He mulled solutions as he walked from assassin stall to assassin stall. There were kinder words etched on the stalls, but they were what they were. Calling them “conflict resolution consultants” didn’t change the nature of the service they provided. Murder for hire was a thriving business — one that had provided steady work for him for several years.

At the third stall, Kaleb found Haage. The older daimon was easier to locate than most assassins: he never wore a mask. With Haage, his career was a sign of pride. His ability to do his work without needing a mask spoke of skill and brutality, both prized traits in The City.

The two daimons with him, however, were masked from brow to chin. Vibrant blue masks protected the customers’ identities as they solicited murder; despite that, they still stepped farther into the shadows when Kaleb approached.

Haage turned his back on them with the confidence of someone who knew he was terrifying. His meaty arms and bare chest were covered with so many scars that the flesh was raised in intricate textures in more than a few places. He wore those scars with the pride that came from killing nearly every daimon he’d fought. The one notable exception was Marchosias. Years ago, long before Kaleb had been born, there was even less chance of caste movement. Marchosias and Haage had led the daimons who’d routed the witches from The City, and then Marchosias had led his troops to the palace and made himself ruler. Haage had thought his brother would reward him — and he had, making Haage head of the militia, a role Haage had subsequently lost by trying to repeat his brother’s action and declare himself ruler. It had been treason, selfish power-grubbing of the sort that should have resulted in Haage’s death. Instead, Marchosias had laughed and offered forgiveness.

“I wondered where you’d been,” Haage said by way of greeting.

“Around.”

“You’re a credit to our kind in the matches,” Haage allowed. “The last cur to nearly win was corrupted by my brother.”

The compliment would’ve thrilled him a month ago. Today, it meant nothing. Mallory was the future.

“I can’t kill her,” Kaleb began. He didn’t get any further before Haage’s fist smashed into his mouth.

Haage grabbed Kaleb’s shirt, holding him upright and shaking him. “You seem to forget what you were sent to do.”

“I didn’t forget.” Kaleb spat the blood from his mouth. “You said find her. I did. You said watch her. I am.”

Haage dropped Kaleb. “And when I say kill her, you will.”

“Marchosias has found her though.” Kaleb stayed on the ground. “And I’m not exactly anonymous these days.”

“She’s old enough to breed. That means he’ll have two possibilities for an heir.” Haage scowled.

A witch-wrought spell meant that some ruling-caste daimons were able to have only one living child every eighteen years, so unless the child died, no more children could be born until that child reached majority. This meant that some children were left to die — or were simply killed — to allow for a new child to be born. For years, the common knowledge in The City was that Marchosias’ daughter had died. When no new heir was born, Haage had begun to suspect that the child, a daughter, lived, but he had wanted her to live so that no new heir would be born. “Better a girl child than a useful heir,” Haage had pointed out. Unfortunately for Mallory, she would reach majority in the next year. That would mean that not only could Marchosias father a new child, but he could also allow his daughter to be bred by a daimon he found worthy.

Kaleb didn’t bother getting up. “She doesn’t know what she is, and none of your other black-masks know where she is.”

Haage said nothing for several minutes. His gaze traveled slowly across the stall. The few remaining occupants walked toward the exits. In moments, the slap of one of the heavy cloth doors signaled the departure of the last of the customers and killers. Daimons who dealt in the business of death were more discreet than a lot of The City’s residents, but they were also cautious. Discretion and caution helped increase survival odds.

Haage stared down at Kaleb. A grimace came over his jowly face, and he made a noise that sounded like a cross between a grunt and a snort. “You accepted the job. Word everywhere is that you’re too proud to take easy jobs, but you’re a good spy and a better killer. I picked you. Are you breaking the contract?”

“I did the job. I found her.” Kaleb came to his feet slowly. The injuries from his fight were aggravated by Haage’s rough treatment, and the pain in Kaleb’s leg throbbed like an extra heartbeat. Even at his best, he didn’t know if he could take Haage, and he was definitely not at his best.

Haage folded his massive arms over his heavily scarred chest. “And you knew that the contract would include eliminating her when she reached her majority or if he got close to retrieving her. The rules of the competition changed. That means he knows where she is and that she needs to die. It’s not complicated; now, is it?”

Kaleb bowed his head briefly, offering the submission that Haage sought. “I suppose not. You’ll need to pay more if I’m to be killing her…. Unless you have someone else who can find and kill her?”

Haage shook his head, but he was grinning. “Now, that’s the cur I hired.”