9. Nine

Ryurikov convulsed with a startled outcry.

Panting, he stared wide-eyed at beanstalks, the clucks of the chicken—chickens nearby. There were two now, the second a deep black, slivers of sunlight highlighting its emerald shimmer.

A sideways glance, and he saw Awimak inhaling the last of whatever pleasant dream he should have had. A spine-chilling exhale from the demon, and Ryurikov leaned back against the tree with a trembling breath.

THANK YOU, said Awimak.

“Do you have control over the dreams you give me?” Ryurikov asked, although didn’t especially care about the answer when it wouldn’t make a difference either way.

NO. YOUR MIND DOES THE WORK FOR ME. Awimak shifted, one hoof sliding out to stretch a massive, muscular leg. I SHOULD SAY, YOUR CONSCIENCE DOES.

Ryurikov narrowed his eyes at the bright sky. “I don’t like what you’re implying.”

THE SKIN CRAWLERS.

Burning eyes held a meaningful look. Ryurikov wasn’t sure how he knew the look was meaningful. Awimak’s eyes were riveting, but emotionless.

He sighed. “Yes, them.” Then he turned a baleful look at the demon. “I’m not sure how long I can keep this up if…” If his past was going to chase him through his mind like this. “I don’t exactly need to be reminded of…” Not his sins, per se, but…

Ryurikov released a puff of air, lips vibrating. “You’re turning me into a mess.” And he didn’t like admitting that, either. He didn’t know why he did admit it. Something about Awimak’s lack of judgement made it easier—

WE CAN CONSIDER THE DEAL VOID, IF YOU PREFER.

Awimak’s wraith-like snarl was a touch more wraith-like. He shifted to stand, casting a cold shadow as he loomed over Ryurikov, holding out the broom. Ryurikov stared, then the meaning slid into place.

“You fucker,” he said in a snarl of his own. He stood and brushed nonexistent dirt off his ass. “Yeah, that figures. You’re a demon, after all. The deal is still on. Keep hold of the broom, snap it if Jezibaba steps out of line, and I’ll feed you dreams in exchange.”

He stomped past the chickens—three now, the third a fox red—and up the porch’s steps.

SO ANGRY, HUMAN, ABOUT A DEAL YOU MADE WITH GREAT EAGERNESS.

“Fuck you.”

Ryurikov slammed the door shut behind him.

“Lover’s quarrel already, toad spawn?” Jezibaba’s sneer followed him as he stalked through the cluttered hut to the front door, which he kicked open.

“Stop the hut, I’ve got things to kill!”

“We haven’t started moving,” said Jezibaba.

“And fuck you too, beldam!”

For the third time that day, Ryurikov stepped over the collapsed arch of Eastcairn. The twitching woman was gone as he passed that same alley, moving through the streets, making his way to the largest—and unscathed—building up a slope. The Jarl would likely await him there. Or rather, what was using his skin as a suit. Up a grey bricked path flanked by odd, swirling trees with pink blossoms, the knell of a church bell accompanied his steps. The ocean lined the horizon, smoke dwindling it to a briny haze in the distance.

As Ryurikov approached the lavish edifice, it was less intact than he first thought, its east-wing burnt down to blackened struts, stark against the blue skies above.

Fucking Skin Crawlers.

The large blue door was heavy, its groan loud through an empty foyer. Dark, and warm. He stepped inside, ash kicking up, his footsteps hollow echoes. Sooty windows barely allowed light to pass, still enough to illuminate an abundance of deer antlers adorning the walls and chandelier.

At the top of a long, winding staircase stood a maidservant, motionless but for the jerking of her head.

So there were at least two Clutchers hiding somewhere in this town.

Ryurikov slipped out his long dagger and scowled at its demonic cross-guard before moving to ascend the stairs.

The door slammed shut. Shuffling behind him had Ryurikov spinning ’round. He arched back, dodging a swipe of someone’s arm—the woman in the brown dress, movements like a clumsy marionette with loose strings. And she was slow.

He drifted behind her, clapped his hand around the side of her head and rammed the blade into the base of her neck. There was no blood, only the crunch of a severed spine. Dispassionately, he watched the body fall face first to the stone floor. A halo of ash bridled up in curls of grey, the large hole in the back of her skull, through which the Clutchers had liberated her organs, gaping at him.

The maidservant moved down the staircase, the wet crunch of broken ankles grating Ryurikov’s ears. He darted up to meet her, footfalls near silent on the chalky blue runner. Within an arm’s reach, he jumped up onto the balustrade, back down behind her. His blade punctured the maidservant’s spine, and her body crumpled down the stairs in a series of thuds and cracks.

With a sharp flick of his wrist, blood flung off his blade. The maidservant must have been a more recent capture.

Ryurikov proceeded further up. Blue carpets and white walls led him down several hallways into a manifold of rooms, most of them empty. Those that weren’t were occupied by more victims of the Clutchers, heads twitching. Some tried to attack, others took no notice. The nest of Clutchers had to be within this very house.

Entering a sizable kitchen, the air pungent with blood, he discovered his suspicions correct. The dark, cloaked forms of Clutchers weren’t easy to see behind all the floating viscera. Organs, arranged with anatomical care, held up by pulsating cords protruding from beneath their soaked robes. Steady clicking noises became restless, excited even, at Ryurikov’s arrival.

He slipped free the serrated dagger, a blade now in a hand each. He jumped over a bloodied counter, the blades slicing sinew and blood vessels and gore to make way. Guttural clicking and wet slaps of mashing organs followed, the Clutchers moving away from him as a collective.

Stone painted incarnadine was slick underfoot—Ryurikov lunged forward, swiped the blades into the pulsating cords, emancipating the stolen remains. They slopped to the floor. The Clutcher angrily clicked at him, its face hidden in shadow, raggedy robes dragging through blood as it shuffled forward, fleshy tendrils regrowing, whipping toward him. Ryurikov ducked, narrowly missing one reaching for his forehead.

No thanks. He liked his brain where it was.

A swing upward, but he missed. More tendrils shot toward him. He leaned to the right. To the left. Cut the one making for his guts and hurtled himself forward. The long dagger found its way into the side of the Clutcher’s hooded skull.

It dropped with a damp smack. Ryurikov decided not to rid the others of their bounty of organs, instead lunged and sidestepped until he could plunge his blade into their veiled heads. The serrated dagger pulled free damp cloth and soggy hair, human remains slapping to the ground with each Clutcher that died.

The nest of nine were done away with quickly, the floor more slippery still, and Ryurikov’s saunter became an awkward dance of flailing limbs. He trod on something bursting under his boot, squirting fluid from either side, nearly sending him down to his ass had he not caught himself on a bloodied countertop.

He emerged from the kitchen drenched in viscera, took a moment to deliberate, then wiped the blades on his breeches before resheathing them. His clothes were beyond saving now, anyway.

Walking along a dark hallway, portraits leered down at him. They all looked related—and unattractive, he didn’t fail to notice.

The Jarl had yet to show themselves. Nudging into what turned out to be a storage room of some kind, Ryurikov’s ears pricked with a crash. Loud, like a vase meeting its end. It wouldn’t be more Clutchers, they only ever gathered in one place as far as he knew.

It had to be the Skin Crawler.

Ryurikov huffed, nerves setting root in his stomach. He’d never actually gone looking for one before, they just tended to show up. And he tended to run away from them.

Following blue runners up the main flight of stairs, he took a moment to ponder his reason for being here. To prove some kind of point, probably. Assuage whatever plagued his subconscious, perhaps. Lessen the burden of his deal with Awimak, possibly.

His brows furrowed. He stopped halfway to glance at the state of his boots again. Burgundy with blood, strings of gore clinging to the leather.

Killing the Clutchers had been surprisingly fun, but he didn’t need to face the Skin Crawler. There was no point in risking himself for… For these people, who were slowly being consumed, their lives ruined as their town turned into another wasteland.

He owed them nothing. This wasn’t his fault. Not really.

Well, maybe a little.

A long line of black snaked through the runner, down each step toward his feet. Blue flames sprang up around him with a sizzling hiss. Ryurikov’s focus snapped to the top of the staircase. His heart flipped backward in terror, then propelled straight out of his ass.

What was left of the Jarl stood there. The four-legged demon had long since outgrown the body. From the middle of the Jarl’s face, a bird-like skull protruded. Elongated tibia and femurs had ripped through wrists and ankles, broken human feet and hands outstretched at the sides, eerily, like they waved at him.

“No, thank you.” Ryurikov took a cautious step back, then another.

The harrowing demon cocked its head, not unlike a bird, empty sockets watching. Blood dripping from the stretched Jarl turned to embers, raining down with hisses and fluttering smoke, setting all ablaze. Even the stone caught fire, flames burning a deadly blue, flaring as the Skin Crawler screeched, tearing a chill through Ryurikov’s spine.

He darted down several steps at a time. Sizzling and rapid snaps of elongated limbs gave chase. Ryurikov vaulted onto the balustrade, narrowly dodged a swing of a scythe-like arm overhead, and jumped.

His fingers closed around the antlers of the chandelier. Its chains rattled as he swung forward—his grip slipped, leather gloves too blood-slick. His feet met the dusty stone flooring with a crack, wrenching free a startled cry. Ryurikov fell back, sibilating in pain.

“Fuck!”

The Skin Crawler scrambled down the rest of the stairs, fire trailing, fore and hindlimbs akin to blades of bone. It halted, cocked its head again, and scrabbled forward while Ryurikov crawled away.

He rolled over, narrowly avoiding the lunge of a stalked leg, and hopped up to face the demon with a swing of his arm. The blade of his long dagger plunged deep into a bony elbow. He twisted it, heard a hollow crack, and yanked it free to dodge another lunge.

Ryurikov limped, ducking around a slew of embers flung his way. He rounded a corner and hid behind a thick stone archway. Smoke wafted up, and he sucked in a breath, realising his cloak had caught fire. Swift pats to the already ruined fabric sorted that out. Unfortunately, his situation would not be resolved as easily. He should’ve left when he had the chance. He shouldn’t even have come here in the first place. He should’ve—

Another piercing screech made him clench so hard, he feared the squeak of his ass cheeks would give him away. The Skin Crawler was directly behind the arch where he hid. There were no breaths, only palpitant fire and the clack of bone hitting stone flooring with each slow and deliberate step.

“Prince Ryurikov,”it rasped, the sound sharp and oddly distant. Too human. “Let us in. It won’t hurt.”

He doubted that.

Ryurikov glanced down the hallway. Dark, and there were no exits. He made to edge away, ignoring the throb in his ankle. Sharper hisses were his only warning before a scythe-limb swung in through the archway, catching him in the biceps of his right arm. He cried out as it dug deep, through flesh and bone, jerking him forward. He planted his feet firmly on the ground to resist, to pull free.

His arm split down to the elbow.

The Skin Crawler poked its elongated skull in through the archway, pulsating with pleasure at his ululating cry. Ryurikov ran his dagger into the thin layer of stretched skin across the scythe. Ripped the blade out. Drove it back in. Feverish in his attempt to get free.

It drew him in no matter how wildly he knifed it. Until Ryurikov was tugged forward in full, released, and fell to the floor with a wet smack, the stone freezing under his cheek.

The Skin Crawler shuffled to position itself behind him. The ridged edges of its limbs nudged his back, pushing into the skin as if ready to burrow. Ryurikov’s mind flicked to the fact he wouldn’t be a much better fit than the Jarl.

His vision swam, the tide of his own blood drenching his face, spattering with each desperate breath whipping past his lips. A sudden gust of wind eased the pressure on his back, its chill biting, followed by a distinct pattering. Chunks of ice pelted him, the wind kicking up a storm of dust, carrying shrill shrieks and clacking of bony limbs.

Ryurikov grunted, fighting to push himself up on the elbow of his good arm. A pair of bare feet slapped down in front of him, toes wiggling with long, blackened nails.

“How you’re still alive is anyone’s guess, dimwit.”

He cast Jezibaba a resentful look even as she extended a hand to help him up. Ryurikov accepted, only because he wanted to get the hell out of there. He got as far as to his knees before he swayed. Jezibaba tutted and untied one of the many sashes around her waist.

Thick hooves clopped across stone, followed by the unmistakable sound of horns ramming into the Skin Crawler. Its thin, four-limbed form flew sideways and crashed into the white wall. Ryurikov gasped in pain when Jezibaba jerked his arm, the sash tight and secured around it. He used her bony shoulder to push himself to his feet, turning in full to see Awimak standing among a whirl of ash and hail, broom slotted within the coils of his horns.

Red splatters coated the white wood where the Skin Crawler now twitched on the floor, its limbs flailing as it fought to rise again. Woozy and limping, Ryurikov fled to the large door.

Fuck them all. He was out.

A mere few dashes away from the exit, and another screak echoed through the foyer. Different, deeper. Another Skin Crawler skidded to a scraping halt in front of the door, blocking his path. What might have been the Frue stretched over its bony body, long dark hair matted with blood clinging to the curved skull.

Ryurikov swung the serrated blade to stop a lengthy tibia from connecting with his face. He pushed away from it just as a powerful, icy whirl smashed a bottle against its ribbed chest. A plume of orange smoke encased it, gossamer-thin skin bubbling and sizzling and bone corroding.

“Don’t get too close,” Jezibaba called over the gales, no longer visible in the miasma of smoke and fire.

Ryurikov didn’t need telling twice, hobbling to the bottom of the stairs, where he collapsed, too light-headed to remain upright.

Awimak fought the other Crawler nearby, his enormous claws around the bony scythes of its forelimbs. He yanked it forward, slammed a hoof against the arced stomach, and pulled. Cracks and blood-logged snaps—the forelimbs tore from its body, slung aside with casual ease. The Crawler collapsed to the ground, all its blood spreading like burning oil slick fanned by the hailstorm.

Roaring blue fires surrounded, undulating across the floor and ceiling, whirling up the door where the other Crawler gradually regained itself. Ryurikov’s heart hammered, vision spinning, the heat smothering his lungs, scalding his throat. Scars throbbing with the memory of being caught in a similar firestorm, thirteen years ago.

His breaths, already too rapid, turned desperate.

The last thing Ryurikov saw were the rolling flames consuming a once white ceiling.