32 One More Job

Present Day

CANAAN FELT PAIN throughout his body. Hitching the hem of a turquoise cloak, he sidestepped masonry and stone. His own he’d discarded several streets away when he’d changed form. His boots, also from a dead man’s feet, scrunched glass underfoot. His body was healing, slowly, the skin charred and the flesh bleeding in numerous places. Sight had returned in one eye, the left one a gaping wound. The soul splice lay in the rubble half a city away. The Spectrum be damned if he was going to go back for it.

He’d moved across the city as a warg this time, and had entered the slums beyond the walls, a shade in the predawn. He could not bring clothing or weapons in bestial form, but it had given him time to heal, recover. He had also moved far quicker, despite his wounds.

He had held the splice in one fist, Todralan in the other. Still, he had failed and that fool woman was to blame. Andromeda had underestimated the Plagueborn’s strength, and the help he had in those Aidari meddlers. She had promised him a world of his own, but now he knew it would not happen.

The building he occupied stood near the abandoned scaffolding on Byrsa’s walls. Part of the roof had caved in. Whatever its function had been, the house was shattered, the outer walls crumbled. Fallen beams barred the entrance into the next room. It had remained that way since the quakes. Soon the earth would tremble for a different reason. Already the giants had begun their bombardment.

How could she have believed he could control that? Todralan was death itself. Canaan knew he had met his match, and the viral would grow stronger. He could not stop the mage. He had planned to get Todralan away while the thraels ran interference. Thraels, another of her useless ideas. What a waste of angelic power, giving them shards. Once bound, they were loyal to a fault, but they were still humans with fancy blades. They were so fragile that using the power killed them. It was by blending human and angelic souls at birth that a satisfying result could be obtained. However, she was too impatient for such methods.

Gog could stop Todralan, yes, but Canaan no longer believed they would allow Andromeda to gain control of this world. She had failed too much. No, in the shadows, the Titans waited, their favourites. From the day Liviana Avitus had left for Raddhon, Andromeda had miscalculated everything. If she had not outranked him, he would never have followed her idiotic plan. She had dangled the prospect of a world to call his own. He had hoped to bring order and justice to such a world, as he had once to the Spectrum. He suspected she had lied about all of it.

The chimera sensed the other approach. Liviana had managed to secure the throne, and the capital city, but without the Key, she would not rule for long, despite being possessed by Andromeda. Still, he would not put it past Andromeda to succeed despite her failures. It would be just like her. She would need to offer someone else in her place, to appease them. It galled him to think she might rule this world, while he suffered a thousand torments in her place.

His stalker, Altus, arrived behind him. ‘What happened to you?’ asked the thrael. ‘You don’t look too good, you know.’ He croaked a laugh. Altus had become too familiar. They all had, and the time for their usefulness had ended.

Perhaps fate had led him to this, but the thought was fleeting. Such human notions were pathetic. Fate was a fallacy. There were those who did what needed doing, and those who did not.

‘She’s on her way, you know.’ Altus hacked phlegm and spat. There was a faint whisper of iron on leather. ‘She will be waiting for you at the Blue Palace. She wants you there to report once she arrives. I think she’s a little upset with you.’

‘I know.’ With a faint smile, Canaan whirled, his hand twisting into a claw. It slashed the human’s throat. The thrael fell to his knees, neck gushing blood, and keeled over. He still clutched the soul shard. Not a copy either. The chimera stared at his hand, human in form again. He stared at the swirling pattern of fire within his veins. Coming to his senses, he turned and left the ruined building.

There was one more job to do.