Reaver(65)

“Come on,” she rasped as she tugged on his hand. “We need to get inside Persephone’s Playground.”

His backpack had fallen off at some point, and he grabbed it as they bolted past the two thrashing assassins. Harvester released him to scale an incline. At the top, she came to a halt next to a massive crystal carved into the shape of a goat-headed demon skull.

“There.” Harvester pointed down, into the bottomless canyon that dropped sharply on the other side of the ridge. Creepy animals clung to the sides or skittered in and out of crevices and holes, and in the darkest rifts, glowing eyes stared out.

“There, what?”

Harvester bit into her wrist and dripped blood onto the crystal carving. Crimson rivulets ran down the skull’s forehead and into the eyes and nostrils and finally reached the pointy teeth. There, Harvester’s blood was sucked inside. Next to them, an opening and staircase appeared out of thin air, disappearing into the canyon.

“Let’s go.” Harvester leaped into the chasm and took the stairs two at a time. Crazy female.

The opening and stairs disappeared behind them as they ran, leaving them in an earthen tunnel, and Reaver wondered what would happen if they turned around and tried to go back up.

“Do you hear that?” Harvester looked over her shoulder at him. “Music. We’re almost there.”

“I wasn’t expecting a concert.” Laughter and voices joined the sound of music.

Harvester stopped on the stairs as the tunnel gave way to a huge, cavernous area filled with hundreds of species of demons, colorful tents offering food and drink, jewelry, toys, weapons, and a lot of things Reaver couldn’t identify.

“It’s not a concert. It’s a market,” she said. “But it’s not just any market. You know how, in the human realm, there are places where evil gathers to see blood spilled at dog fights or to sell human children? Well, in Sheoul there are places where nonevil people can meet with their own kind and not be judged.”

“So none of these people are evil?” He eyed a tall, white-haired Neethul male testing a sword edge at a yellow tent nearby. Most Neethuls made their living in the slave trade, and those who didn’t still found vile ways to support themselves.

Harvester shrugged. “Oh, he’s evil. But just like a Christian white-bread male might fall to temptation and sneak out for a night of drinking and debauchery, people like the Neethul sometimes get the urge to be rebels and visit the other side of the tracks now and then. The good side.”

So this was an evil being’s version of rebelling. No doubt all the evil ladies got hot for a rebel “good boy.”

Reaver frowned. That didn’t even sound plausible.

“So what now?”

“Now,” she said, “I should leave you to fend for yourself. Yenrieth.”

He was wondering when she’d start up on him again. He had a feeling he was in for a long, long day. And an even longer eternity.

“You wouldn’t do that,” he said, and she snorted.

“Clearly, you don’t remember all the times you pissed me off.”

Actually, one memory did flare up, a time when he’d teased her about screaming like a little girl when a suckling pig burst out of a forest where they’d been hunting hellrats. She’d blown her stack, whacked him with a summoned stick, and stormed off.

“I know you’re capable of it,” he said, “but I know you won’t. You want answers too bad.” Answers he doubted he could give until he had his full memory back.

“Arrogant ass,” she snapped. “Come on. We need to get the darkman enchantment from the sheoulghul removed.” She waved him forward. “This way.”

They picked their way through the crowd, weaving between tents and demons, and just when Reaver thought he’d seen it all, he nearly jumped out of his skin when a fangy demon dressed like a clown popped out of a box as they passed by a circus-themed tent.

Harvester cocked a black eyebrow at him, and heat flamed his cheeks. “Clowns are freaky,” he muttered. “And demon clowns? Man, they’re in a freaky category of their own.”

“Aw.” Harvester shot him a snarky, fake pout over her shoulder as she slipped between two demons haggling over the price of some sort of fish. “Reavie-weavie is afwaid of a widdle cwown.” She trailed her finger along the rim of a wine barrel as they passed. “Speaking of Limos, you know, your daughter, how are the Horsemen?”

Awkward. Reaver suddenly felt like his boots were crunching on eggshells.

“They’re fine,” he said warily. “Limos is pregnant.”

Harvester looked back at him in surprise, and with the tiniest hint of a smile. “Good. She’s been wanting that for a long time.” She turned into another row of tents. “Do they know about me? Who took my place as Watcher?”