The Silver Scar Read online

  “My job is to get through the barrels, Mags. Your job is to kill them,” Castile said to her. “You wanted to come along, so make yourself useful.”

  She stared hard at the slavers, acknowledging that he’d spoken with the barest of nods. Not deferential enough to suit his rank as leader, but Castile decided to take Trinidad’s advice and just drive. As he rolled forward without hesitation, the slavers started to fire on them. “Right on fucking cue,” he muttered.

  Bullets pinged off the armor and glass, putting fresh cracks in the meshed windows but not breaking through. Yet. Bullets kept peppering the dray. This was a hit, not a slave run. Trinidad and Magpie fired their weapons. He heard screams, saw slavers erased into crimson mist.

  The dray shoved through the kegs, slowing dangerously. Only Trinidad’s whip-crack aim held the enemy at bay, but they didn’t have enough bullets to stop them for long. They were too many. Castile gunned the accelerator as he shoved against a barrel. The engine whined and the tires spun against the broken road. What was in these things? Lead? A slaver rushed the driver’s door and pressed his gun to the glass. Castile raised his gun to the port by his elbow and fired. The slaver fell away.

  “I’m out,” Trinidad said, voice flat.

  Castile gritted his teeth and concentrated on his acceleration, feeling their tires slip on the rough road. Slavers crawled on top of the dray, pounding on it with fists and rifle butts. Others did the same, trying to break through the window in the back. They unwittingly pushed the vehicle and helped it gain traction. It was enough to shove through the barrels, the dray reeling and creaking as the run-flats stuck to and then jerked free of the ground-spikes set behind the barricade. More slavers swamped the vehicle, painted faces looking like a nightmare’s collection of evil gods, pressing their guns against the glass. Castile went cold. They weren’t moving fast enough. There were too many.

  A bullet punctured the meshed glass and Trinidad barked vague words, whether in pain or fury, Castile couldn’t tell. Not knowing if Trinidad was hit, he risked stalling the engine by stomping on the accelerator. For a few heartbeats the engine revved and choked. A bullet cracked the windshield, and then another.

  Magpie screamed. Castile wrenched on the wheel to change their angle, “Fight, Magpie!”

  Wind whipped through the holes. Castile kept steady pressure, focusing on the Horns in his mind’s eye, a wordless plea for passage through the flying bullets.

  With a bone-jarring jolt, the engine bellowed back to life and the dray leapt free of the barrels, throwing Castile and his passengers from side to side. It was all he could do to hang onto the wheel and steer straight. The slavers scattered from his random path. As the immediate fire faded behind them, Father Troy moaned loudly; it choked off with a cough.

  Trinidad spoke, his deep voice fatally calm. “Quickly, Cas. Father Troy is hit.”

  Bullets pelted the dray, but by then they were too far out of range to puncture the glass or metal. Castile glanced over his shoulder again, past Trinidad huddling over his priest, hands pressed to the old man’s leg, blood thick on the air. A slaver dray barreled behind them, gaining.

  Next to him, Magpie curled into a shaking ball, her breath deteriorating into whiny gasps. Realization aborted a lecture on bucking up. She’d screamed, back there— “Fuck me, you’re hit.” He reached out and laid his hand on her leg. “We’re almost inparish.”

  Inparish. Marshals. Prison. He had no place to bail outside the gates now, not with slavers behind them. His voice shook. “They’ll take care of you at the hospital.”

  “I don’t want-t to g-go.”

  “You have to,” he said. “It’ll be all right. It’ll be all right.” He stopped talking, wondering who he was trying to convince.

  A spotlight flashed behind them, glaring off the inside of his cracked windshield, nearly blinding him. He eased the pedal down a bit more, urging speed. The old dray shimmied in protest. They had reached the outlying houses of the old Martin Acres settlement, many gutted for scrap and the rest filled with desperate squatters. His jaw hurt from clenching his teeth against the jarring ride; his elbow hurt from banging into the door. Even this close to the parish the pavement wasn’t any smoother than county roads.

  Maybe the marshals came out and sledge-hammered it when they were bored, out of spite. Castile fought back panicked laughter.

  “Stop. Please don’t make me go in there.” Magpie sounded breathy with pain. “I’ll never c-come out.”

  You and me both, Castile thought. Bullets from the slaver dray raked the road behind them and pinged off the back window. He sharpened his voice to a command. “Strength, soldier. Just keep pressure on that wound. You’ll be fine.”

  “Slow down for the gate,” Trinidad said.

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Castile retorted, “but bullets are still hitting the back of the dray.”

  “We’ll get far worse if you rush the gate,” Trinidad said. “Let the marshals deal with the slavers. Slow down.”

  Slaver bullets came hard and fast again, the clamor pounding rapid-fire in Castile’s skull. Slaving must pay well to afford to throw away ammo like that. Either that, or someone very rich wanted them very dead. He squinted past his wind-strewn tears and focused on the gate. There was no way for the marshals to know they were friendlies, not with rabid slavers mauling his dray with bullets.

  “Stop,” Trinidad said.

  “What?”

  “I won’t let them hurt you.”

  That low voice again, filling him with confidence when he should only feel alarm. Castile let the car roll to a gentle halt, mindful of his injured passengers and twisted around to look at Trinidad. “Now what?”

  Trinidad still wore his impenetrable warrior face. “Now we wait.”

  The slaver dray careened toward them, still firing. Trinidad bent low over his priest, his face turned toward Castile, holding his gaze. Castile opened his mouth to ask for reassurance that they were doing the right thing, that the marshals wouldn’t frag their dray, that the slaver dray wouldn’t kill them on impact—

  “Faith,” Trinidad whispered.

  The slaver dray exploded into a firebomb, raining chunks of metal and worse. Trinidad closed his eyes, pushing low over his bloody hands where they compressed the bullet wound in Father Troy’s thigh. His lips moved, forming words Castile couldn’t hear. Father Troy’s trembling hand eased up to cradle the back of Trinidad’s head.

  The gate slid open and marshals ran toward them, brandishing rifles.

  “Uh, Trin? I think you’re up,” Castile said.

  Trinidad lifted up, blinking like he’d just woken. He looked at the burning hulk that had been the slaver dray. “Open your door.”

  “They’ll—”

  “I won’t let them hurt you, Cas.”

  Castile opened his door. Marshals dragged him from the seat and slammed him up against the pockmarked dray, knocking the wind from him, bruising his cheek. Other marshals pounded on Magpie’s door. He could hear Trinidad talking, calm and earnest. “Let him go. He’s a friendly. We have injured. He needs to drive us. Father Troy is bleeding, and I can’t take the pressure off.”

  A marshal leaned down and peered into the dray to speak to Trinidad. “We’ll call an ambulance. Or I’ll drive you.”

  “There’s no time to wait for one to come. He’ll bleed out. And you have more slavers to see to. There’s a blockade a klick or two back.”

  “This one’s wearing a pentacle.” Someone kicked the back of Castile’s knee and he winced against the dray, held up only by their grip.

  Trinidad met Castile’s eyes through the pocked glass. “He’s under my protection.”

  Those seemed to be the magic words. They released Castile with a shove. He slid back into the driver’s seat, resisting the urge to swagger. The gates swung open and he drove through, gaining speed. “I still feel like their guns are sighted on my back.”

  “That’s because they are. Magpie really has no
record?” Trinidad asked.

  Magpie cringed against the seat, fear casting her wordless. Castile bit his lip, not even trying to school his face to play poker. No point in it, not with Trinidad. “No. She’s clean.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “I’m supposed to stay ten klicks from Boulder Parish, per my parole.”

  A beat. Two. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “You didn’t ask.” Castile got the distinct feeling if Trinidad had a hand free, he’d have smacked him on the back of the head.

  With terse directions, Trinidad got them to the hospital and they pulled under the torch-lit throughway at emergency. Orderlies were already coming to meet them, hauling a gurney. Two marshals flanked the door, holding rifles across their chests.

  Castile eyed the marshals. Dank clouds swirled over their heads, gray against the night sky, warning of a storm. He hadn’t noticed it with everything going on.

  The orderlies climbed in next to Trinidad and exchanged terse words as Castile got out to help Magpie. The marshals watched with intent curiosity but didn’t change position. Magpie was smeared in blood, but Castile breathed a sigh of relief; the wound was in her arm, not her body, like he’d feared. Maybe they’d just patch her up and he could take her home.

  The first sleet from the storm pelted their faces. It smelled stale, of dirt and smoke. Trinidad started to follow Father Troy on his gurney and then stopped and looked back at Castile and Magpie.

  Magpie started to resist again as soon as she saw the gurney. Castile hugged her close, trying to suppress her struggle. “You’ll be all right. Magpie. They’ll take care of you.”

  She clung to him. “Please don’t leave me. Please.”

  After Castile had returned home from prison, Lord Hawk had suggested he marry his sister Magpie to secure his position in the coven. Castile had said it wasn’t fair to Magpie if he didn’t love her, if he could never love her. Hawk had retorted that there was a higher cause than love, one of procreation. Magpie had clung to him when he’d refused her, just as she did now, digging her fingers into his back, her tears soaking his chest as the orderlies tried to pull her away.

  “Come along, miss,” one of them said. “We’re just going to see to that wound.”

  Her fight gained in viciousness. She swung wildly at the orderlies, and then Trinidad was there. He pried her off Castile with hands still bloody from Father Troy’s wound and placed her on the gurney. She surrendered to his touch, but she gave Castile a bruised look.

  “You’ll be all right,” Castile said, hands hanging at his sides, helpless as they rolled her away.

  A marshal approached. Sleet glistened on his helmet and froze against Castile’s scalp. “Archwarden? I’m Lieutenant Quinn.”

  “Trinidad,” he answered, bowing his head with stiff courtesy.

  “I have a few questions for my report,” Quinn said.

  “There’s not much to tell. We were chased by slavers outside parish walls,” Trinidad said. “Two of us were injured, as you see. The guards at the gate sent us on.”

  “And this Wiccan?”

  Castile reached for the pentacle hanging at his throat, thought better of it, and let his hand fall back to his side.

  Trinidad took hold of Castile’s arm. He shoved Castile inside the back of the dray like he was a prisoner, pushing his head down with a firm hand to make sure he didn’t bump it on the roof. “He’s my business. My bishop is inparish. I’m certain she’s been in contact with the mayor’s office. They’ll have more information for you.”

  “I’m here, now,” the marshal said. “What’s so secret?”

  Trinidad slammed the door shut and spun to face the marshal so fast Castile thought he was going to hit him. Castile couldn’t hear what he said. The marshal didn’t look too happy, but he didn’t protest further.

  Castile scrubbed the wet from his head with his fingers as Trinidad pulled off from the curb. Sleet tap-danced across the windshield and slipped in through the bullet holes in the dray. He climbed over the seat into the front despite Magpie’s bloodstains.

  Trinidad clenched the steering wheel, but his gaze was steady, moving over the road ahead calmly. “You keep looking at me like you have a question.”

  Castile turned away from the hard, clean lines of Trinidad’s profile and cleared his throat. “What was that about the bishop and the mayor?”

  Trinidad shrugged. “Each fights for the upper hand. It’s a distraction. Hopefully it lasts long enough to get you somewhere safe.”

  Castile grunted. “And Magpie?”

  “They’ll let her go if she’s got a clean record. She’s the least of our worries. Those marshals are curious about you. They’ll message the gate. When they find out you’re not expected, they’ll detain you for a background check.” He gestured to a street lamp, glowing faintly against the sleet. “Power’s on. Comms are working. There’s no way we can beat that call to the gate. Which means I can’t get you out of town.”

  SIXTEEN

  The wind whipping through the bullet holes in the dray’s windows tore at Trinidad’s raw throat with every breath. He drove steadily toward the church. Hardly the best place to seek refuge but he didn’t know where else to go. Roman would beat them both senseless if he took Castile to his apartment. Besides, the marshals were smart enough to make that connection, and Roman’s place was under marshal jurisdiction. The church was not.

  What would Father Troy advise? Father Troy … it took everything he had not to turn the dray back around.

  “You’re going to be in a lot of trouble over this, aren’t you?” Castile crossed his arms over his chest, hands tucked in against the cold whistling through the bullet holes. “I’m surprised you didn’t just leave me with the marshals.”

  Trinidad had performed a vast collection of nasty things during his archwarden training. One of these hardening exercises had been to throw executed convicts into the prison incinerator. Every single body bore torture marks. He glanced at Castile. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  Castile blinked, drew an audible breath. “We have a safehouse against the west wall. If I can get there, I can get out of the parish. Just let me out here, yeah? We’ll regroup later.”

  “It’s after curfew.”

  “I’m good at ghosting.”

  No one was that good. “The church is the only place inparish that marshals don’t have jurisdiction. You’re safer there than anywhere.”

  “You’re going to have to answer to the bishop, right?”

  And maybe she’d have to answer some of his questions, too. God forgive her for lying, Trinidad thought. God help me. “The Church will give you asylum. My vows—”

  A sharp pitch of tension corrupted Castile’s voice. “Your vows blind you to the truth. You don’t belong there. You are a witch. You can rove.”

  “No. I’m an archwarden who can rove. You probably hoped it would be an advantage, my having a foot in both worlds. But you don’t get to use what I am and then insult me with it.”

  Castile rubbed his hand over his face. “We were friends, yeah? Like brothers. More, even. I just thought—”

  “You thought you could control me. But I don’t answer to you. I answer to my order, my Church, and to Christ.”

  The shining bell-tower emerged from the smoky darkness amid the hills and buildings of downtown, still a couple of blocks away. Lights flashed against the inside of the windshield from behind them. Trinidad twisted around to look. A marshal’s street comber, gaining on them. He punched the accelerator as he turned a corner, the run-flat tires jarring his bones over every pothole and crack in the rutted street.

  A siren sounded and more lights approached from a cross street as Trinidad rolled through the intersection. The bell tower beckoned, belying the snipers policing behind the merlons—snipers culled from marshal ranks.

  The gates to the churchyard hung open. Against his archwardens’ advisement, Father Troy had ordered them kept unlocked at all hours. All
were welcome for worship or sanctuary, risks be damned. They needed quick sanctuary tonight, so Trinidad would never complain about the gates again.

  A novice or archwarden would be manning the gate. Trinidad recalled the schedule and chilled; Wolf had duty tonight. Maybe he wasn’t there, maybe he was still sick and sleeping … but his brother stood up in the little gatehouse and gaped at the Wiccan dray careening past him.

  Trinidad hit the brake, but they slid on the frosted ash coating the pavement inside the gate and crashed against the low wall surrounding the labyrinth. They both slammed forward. Trinidad’s armored chest hit the steering wheel and his knee banged the dash casing.

  Castile tumbled into the dash. He righted himself and rubbed at his forehead gingerly, but he didn’t seem hurt beyond blood welling from a small cut over his eyebrow.

  Trinidad shoved the door open, but Castile caught his arm. Blood ran in a steady stream down his face. His breath made sharp little noises. “I remember what we had, even if you don’t.”

  “I spent a dozen years trying to forget.” Trinidad’s words came out rough. Castile didn’t move, just held his gaze. Trinidad reached up and rubbed his thumb over Castile’s eyebrow, wiping the blood away from his eye. “Stay here, Cas, where it’s safe.”

  He walked back toward the gate as the marshal’s comber rolled to a more conservative stop, its front wheels resting where the churchyard gates would close.

  A marshal got out of the front seat. Trinidad put himself in the comber’s path but didn’t draw his blade or a gun, not yet. That would be something he couldn’t come back from. The comber’s engine hummed almost silently, but it shifted slightly. Packed with marshals.

  “Archwarden,” the marshal said, spreading his hands wide. He gripped a pistol, ruining the portrayal of imploring reason. “Your Wiccan is a convicted terrorist.”

  Wolf peeked through the window of the gate tower and Trinidad twitched his chin at him, indicating retreat. Wolf glanced toward the dray and Castile before joining Trinidad, taking position to his left.