Wrath & Bones (The Marnie Baranuik Files Book 4) by A.J. Aalto

Author:A.J. Aalto [Aalto, A.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pixiegrind Ink Publishing
Published: 2016-05-31T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

I ducked, but not fast enough. The flat underside of a shovel clipped me in the forehead and glanced off my noggin to hit the wall with a ringing clang. I reeled back, blinded by pain. I felt Batten surge into motion as my own training kicked in; I jammed my right foot forward and connected with my assailant’s knee, then launched up and grabbed for the shovel blade, giving a hard twist. The Blue Sense roared to life strong enough to raise goosebumps; there were more angry bodies approaching.

Whoever it was, their grip was too strong, so I shoved the blade edge as hard as I could. The shovel handle lurched sharply toward their mouth; I heard the wet crack of teeth breaking and the skittering noise of enamel chips hitting the floor. He howled and bolted back, stumbling away.

Batten moved to give chase, but I grabbed his arm.

“No time. Leave it. Let’s just get the fuck out of here.” I cupped my throbbing forehead. “While we can.”

“That was Lyubomir Yordanov,” Declan said, leading us down the east-facing corridor. “Elana Vulvolak’s Second.”

Vulvolak and Sarokhanian, sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. “And that’s why it’s time to hit the ice, Irish. He won’t be the last.” And I don’t wanna kill anyone if I can avoid it.

“Nice shot,” Batten admitted.

“I’m a big fan of my work,” I agreed. “I’ll text Hood later. He’ll be so proud.”

“Hit him with his own shovel,” he noted.

“My take on a classic,” I said. “Next time, maybe he’ll think twice and come at me with a pillow.”

We came to a small room jam packed with what first appeared to be junk; old brass cups piled on dusty tables, oil paintings and sketched portraits draped with drop cloths, shadow boxes with diplomas that had yellowed and strings of what appeared to be tarnished military medals on faded ribbons. There was pianola music on a punched metallic roll, but no player piano. Beside a basket of old dollies with scuffed porcelain faces and eyes missing paint, there was a bottle containing a preserved, three-headed lizard that might have been a baby albino dragon from a long-extinct species. In a clear Lucite box, there was a dented crown with missing stones. It may have at one time been gorgeous; here, forgotten, it looked like a flea market find.

“Declan, what is this place?” I asked.

“I heard my master refer to the ‘king’s collection’ once. Things he acquired. Things that had meaning for him. Perhaps this is it? Oh. Oh dear.”

“You sound like Harry,” I commented, following him to a big metal cabinet with big hinges, standing upright in a corner. There was a small window in it like the slotted visor of a helmet. “What is it?”

“The Silver Maiden. A torture device for revenants dating back to the twelfth century. This might be the only one still in existence. Most of the silver spikes were short, designed to go into the flesh and hurt, burn, but not kill. The

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