Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [103]
With a heavy sigh he reached for the pitcher Karril had left beside him, and poured himself yet another drink. Since the moment when he had first awakened in his hotel room his thirst had been insatiable, yet drink after drink failed to moisten the dryness in his throat. Was that thirst born of fear, perhaps, instead of bodily need? Had a clear view of Hell and the creatures who thrived there given him a new perspective on their conflict with Calesta, and made him realize just how unlikely it was that a war like this could be won?
Gerald Tarrant groaned, and shifted upon the plush couch as though in the grip of a nightmare. Seeing him, Damien couldn’t help but remember the thousands of women who inhabited his private Hell, and his stomach tightened in loathing at the thought. What kind of man was this, that he had made his ally? What kind of man was he, to have accepted him?
With a sharp moan the Hunter stiffened, and his eyes shot open. For a moment it seemed that he wasn’t focused on the room, but upon some internal vision; then, with a shudder, he looked at Damien, and the truth seemed to sink in.
“Where am I?” he whispered. His voice was barely audible.
“Karril’s temple. Storage cellar.”
“Karril?” His brow furrowed tightly as he struggled to make sense of that. “Karril’s Iezu. Why would he ...?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I don’t ... not him ... I remember you. You came for me.” His tone was one of amazement as he whispered, “Through ...”
“Yeah,” he said quickly. Not anxious to rehash it. “Through all that.”
The Hunter shut his eyes and leaned back weakly. One hand moved up to his face, to where the newly-made scar cut across his skin; his slender fingers explored the damage, and Damien thought he saw him shiver. “We’re back,” he whispered. A question.
“You were given a month’s reprieve. Don’t you remember?”
“Not clearly. I wasn’t ... wholly cognizant.” Again his hand raised up to his face, seemingly of its own accord, and traced the disfiguring scar. Then his eyes unlidded, and fixed on Damien. “Why, Vryce?” The words were a whisper, hardly loud enough for the priest to hear. “Not that I’m not grateful for the brief reprieve, mind you. But it is only that. Was that worth risking your status for?”
He stiffened at the reminder of his professional vulnerability; it wasn’t a welcome thought. “I need you,” he said curtly. “We’re fighting a Iezu, remember? I can’t do that alone.”
Wearily he shut his eyes once more; his tired flesh seemed to sink back into the cushions, as though soon it would fade away entirely. “And I’m to give you all the answers? In one month? You should have just left me there.”
“Maybe I should have,” he snapped, suddenly angry. “Maybe the man I went through Hell to rescue didn’t make it back. Oh, his flesh is alive enough—as much as it ever was—but where’s the spark that drove it? I must have lost track of it, somewhere on the way back.”
“He’s a Iezu,” Tarrant whispered hoarsely. “We don’t even know what they are, much less how to fight them. If we had unlimited time to come up with new theories and test them, time to do research, then maybe, maybe, we’d have a chance. But one month? You’re going to figure out how to destroy the indestructible in one month? Not to mention,” he added hoarsely, “that if I don’t find another means of sustaining my life by the end of that time ...” He winced, and the shadow of remembered pain passed across his face. “Can’t be done,” he whispered. “Not like that.”
With a snort Damien rose from his side and walked away, moving toward the door that Karril had used for his exit. Heavy planks banded with cast iron, now securely shut. He listened to see if any sound could make it through that barrier,