《Blood of the Guardian》


 The Fall

    It was night in the Big City, an hour where no decent person still roamed the streets. But in a city like Big City, there were enough indecent folk to keep it alive at all hours of the day, especially on a night like this.


    There was electricity in the air. Warm and dry, laden with excitement. It was a night of big things happening. Of life being lived.


    Yet wherever there is life, there is death.


    A figure flitted through the cone of light emanating from a street lamp in Coulson Street, in the industrial quarter. Tall and lean, moving with a sense of purpose, with a sense of complete certainty as if every step had been carefully planned in advance.


    It was the Guardian of Big City, clad in his recognizable uniform. A creme tunic made of a heavy cotton weave. Crisp, clean, ironed, reaching down to his thighs, where his dark pants and solid shoes completed the look.


    Back in the shadow, he paused and sniffed, just to make sure he hadn''t lost the scent. He wasn''t going to lose the thing this time. For three weeks, he had been tracking it all the way to the industrial quarter. Night after night of stalking, carefully narrowing down its hunting grounds.


    The foul stench of the thing permeated the air. An acrid odor that burned in the nostrils. It reminded him of damp, moldy cellars. Of rotting meat and spoiled milk.


    The trail led him south, down Crab Street. It was deserted but he couldn''t shake the feeling of being watched. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. Even that far away from the beating heart of Big City''s nightlife, something should have made a noise. A car door slamming or a distant siren. There was nothing except for his own, barely audible, footfalls.


    The Guardian stood at the entrance to an alley without a name. A passage between the grimy brick wall of a chicken processing plant and the blackened plaster of a warehouse. It wasn''t on any map he knew of, and he knew Big City like the back of his sword hand. Layers of dirt and oil caked the asphalt. It was an alley that had been forgotten by the tides of time.


    Normal men would have taken one good look at the impenetrable darkness and fled instinctively without ever knowing why, but the Guardian wasn''t normal. He wasn''t even truly a man, they said. Decades of rigorous training had made him something more.


    He was a weapon.


    And he was pointed straight at the thing.


    The Guardian took one step forward into the alley without a name and he knew that he reached his goal. He felt the fetid presence of the thing. His hackles rose.


    "Reveal yourself," he called out into the darkness, advancing. His clarion call echoed, bouncing between the walls, demanding an answer.


    Guardian, the thing said wordlessly. It wasn''t a word produced by a tongue but rather a projection of a concept, filled loathing and hatred. The word materialized inside of his head and he felt unclean.


    "What are you?"


    One of the shadows, a spot darker than the surrounding murkiness, moved. It solidified into a twisted, black shape in the form of a person, yet lacking any characteristic that made it human. It was an affront to nature. His eyes seemed to slip off the figure as if he were trying to pick up oil.


    Every fiber in the Guardian''s body demanded its destruction. He placed one hand on the hilt of his sword. It was a clear threat. Nobody in Big City would fail to grasp the significance.


    There was only one reason why the Guardian would ever draw his sword.


    To carry out Justice.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    I am your end. I am the end.


    "I cannot let you exist."


    The Guardian drew his sword. It sang as it left the scabbard. The wide, double-sided blade glittered in the darkness, reflecting an unseen light.


    The thing sprang into motion. Its limbs bent in unnatural angles, propelling it forward.


    The Guardian dug in his heels and prepared himself, coiling his muscles, ready to unleash. Two decades of rigorous training made his actions as natural as breathing. The blade was just an extension of his body. A deadly tool but a tool nonetheless. He was the weapon. It was his will, carried out through steel.


    It was not a time for planning. It was not a time to think. It was a time to commit.


    That was the most important lesson he had ever learned. To put his heart, body, and mind into every single strike. To not hold back because the enemy would not.


    The thing flew at him as fast as a speeding car, little more than a dark blur. The Guardian raised his blade. Sweat tickled his forehead. Excitement bubbled up inside of him.


    The sword swung through the air, whistling as it descended on his target. It landed precisely between head and shoulder, ready to slip between the cervical vertebrae and separate the spinal column.


    If the thing had been human, it would have been a lethal blow.


    It wasn''t. The blade met no resistance. The Guardian felt that swoop inside his stomach, knowing something was wrong. He should have felt something. Anything. The thing slithered past him like a wave of nausea.


    But there was no stopping his blade once he committed. Unencumbered by flesh and bone, it continued traveling towards the asphalt. Sparks flew as the tip of the blade dug a deep gouge into the alley.


    The Guardian whirled around, ready to defend himself, but the twisted form just stood there, five feet away, cackling. I am your end, Guardian.


    "You''re repeating yourself," he spat.


    Warmth ran down his forearm. He risked a glance to see a nasty laceration on his sword arm. The tunic had been torn to shreds. Four claw-marks ran from the middle of his forearm to his elbow, skin peeling out in a jagged wound but not a deep one. Superficial damage.


    There was no time to dwell on it. The thing came at him again.


    The Guardian raised his sword, pointing it forward. The shadow ran right toward the tip, impaling itself on the three-foot blade. It seemed to work; at least, the thing came to a halt.


    Pain flared up inside of the Guardian. He looked down and saw wicked claws sticking into his abdomen. The thing pulled its claws back and blood began to seep into his creme tunic.


    Goodbye, Guardian, it jeered and walked forward. Through him.


    Black tendrils crept out of the wound on his forearm. An army of vile caterpillars, crawling up his arm.


    The Guardian dropped to his knees. The sword slipped out of his grip, clattering on the concrete. His head slammed on the ground.


    Pain. Unbelievable, overwhelming agony coursed through his body. The soothing, cool darkness that waited for him was a welcome relief.


    <hr>


    "He''s here! I found him, sisters," a mousy woman with flaming red hair in a spotless, olive cloak called out.


    "Where?" another woman asked. She was grim-faced and wore the same olive cloak but she was taller. More commanding. Her blonde hair was tied into a tight bun.


    "Down there," the first woman said, pointing down the alley without a name.


    A dense fog covered the ground. In the distance, the mist roiled over a barely noticeable lump on the ground.


    "Quickly," the tall woman said, setting out in confident strides.


    The moonlight reflected on her white cloak, casting its silvery light into the alley. It drove away the fog and the darkness. More women followed her. Six altogether, each radiating like the flame atop a candle.


    The lump on the ground turned out to be a body of a large, imposing man. He laid in a pool of blood, his right arm black and mangled, his tunic red from the chest down. Eyes closed, face twisted into a mask of agony.


    "Is it too late?" they whispered.


    They all recognized the injured man before them. The Guardian. The undefeatable warrior that protected Big City. Square jaw and strong nose. Shaved head and clean face.


    The tall woman knelt down beside him. The hem of her cloak soaked up the crimson from the pool below. She touched her hand to his throat, feeling for a pulse.


    "He''s still alive," she said. "Quickly."


    The woman ringed around the fallen man, grabbing his legs and belt and arm. None dared to touch the corrupted limb, however.


    Together, they lifted him and ushered him out of the alley without a name.

 The Butchers

    There was nothing at first. Just a ruthless, empty void. Then came the lights. Tiny pinpricks, flickering in the distance. Dozens of them. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Millions. Billions.


    The Guardian had seen stars before, back on earth, but never so many. Unimpeded by the atmosphere and the pollution of Big City, he saw them all. An uncountable number of galaxies, overlapping each other into a glaring white sheet.


    But in front of that glimmering wall, much closer, was something troubling. A roiling, billowing form of cloud, circling the planet. Dread quelled up inside of him.


    It was Hress, the Eater of Worlds. The great serpent of destruction. The herald of doom, foretold by the Aaken Cycle. The gargantuan snake coiled herself around the planet, squeezing it.


    It seemed to remind him of something he had seen before. A figure made out of dark smoke, yet still solid. Except... he couldn''t remember where exactly he''d seen something like that before.


    And then Hress lifted her head and turned her flat face toward him. Her eyes were like two galaxies of their own, piercing his soul. She looked right at him and he saw nothing but evil.


    Terror gripped the Guardian. A deep, animalistic instinct inside of him that even centuries of training could not overcome took control of his body. Self-preservation. He turned and fled.


    <hr>


    There was another light in front of him, though his vision was blurred. It was warm and bright. The glow of a candle. Soothing and comforting after his experience in the void.


    But there was more than just the light. There were smells, too. The clean sting of antiseptic, the mellow fragrance of ethereal oils, and something sickly sweet he did not recognize.


    The Guardian blinked and his sight grew clearer. It was a candle. The flame flickered and bounced atop the white shaft, like a happy dancer, merrily crackling loud enough for a bonfire. The candle seemed to smile at him, leaning over his... bed?


    Blink.


    It wasn''t a candle at all. It was a woman with the most flaming red hair the Guardian had ever seen. Long and curly, draping over her shoulders down to her bosom. She studied his face with curiosity, her green eyes flickering from his face to his arm to the door. The Guardian wanted to laugh. She reminded him of a mouse, sniffing at a piece of cheese. Furtive and interested, but also quivering with fear.


    Except she was no mouse. She was dressed in all white, a simple linen shift. Over her shoulders was draped an olive cloak. That marked her as a Butcher.


    There was a dove on the windowsill. A white bird who looked around the room with curiosity. That was odd.


    "You''re awake," the woman said in a sing-song that, on any woman other than a Butcher, sounded pleasant.


    The dove seemed startled and took flight, disappearing into the dark night. The Guardian opened his mouth but found his throat too cracked to reply. His body felt numb and his limbs were leaden, too heavy for him to lift. The blanket alone was enough to keep him still.


    "My apologies, Master Guardian," she squeaked and turned to the bedside table to pour a glass of water from a pitcher. "It''s so wonderful to meet you," she babbled. "I''m a big fan of your work."


    The room was sparsely furnished. The walls were made of light stone and the ceiling was supported by thick wooden beams. A fire roared and crackled in the firepit opposite the bed. The door to the small room stood open, a bright hallway beyond.


    It was the Butcher''s manor, dubbed the bloody palace, quite a ways outside the metropolis. The people of Big City did not like the Butchers but in all of his time of service, the Guardian had never been called to exact justice upon them. What they did was not evil. It was neutral, at worst. A service that none else wanted.


    "Here," the woman said, placing the glass, half-full of water, at his lips. He sipped the refreshing liquid eagerly.


    Despite the salacious rumors, the white women of the bloody palace were not in the business of whisking away children and stealing husbands. They were the last respite for the terminally ill. A last home for whom the hospitals could do nothing and had no other place to go. All it cost was to let the Sisters of Mercy, as they called themselves, use the earthly remains for their magic.


    It was precisely that business which imbued him with more than a passing familiarity to the sisterhood. A long time ago, it was decreed that those who fell to his justice were given to the Butchers for the greater good. As such, the sisters seemed to revere their benefactor, who used his sword like a scalpel. He was the lethal artists and they were the clumsy aspirants who dropped the brush as often as they connected with the canvas.


    Their nickname was well deserved


    "Sword," the Guardian said. The word burned in his hoarse throat.


    "I''m sorry, we looked, but it was not there."


    Above everything, he had to recover his sword. Without justice, he was nothing. Fear lent him strength and he sat up. Or at least, he attempted to. He swung his upper body and braced himself on the mattress but his right hand only found air. The woman stepped back as he nearly toppled out of the bed.


    The Guardian looked down at his right arm and dread filled him.


    "Oh no," the sister squeaked, wide-eyed. "I should have¡ªYou weren''t supposed to¡ªOh no!"


    There was nothing where his forearm should have been. His elbow ended in a stump, tightly wrapped in gauze. His stomach revolted. As if seeing it made him aware, intense pain flared up inside of him. Every part of his body hurt.


    A smile crossed the Guardian''s lips. He took solace in that pain. It meant his other body parts were still attached. Only his right forearm and hand. Only... he thought, grimly mocking his own relief. His sword hand was gone.


    The Guardian without sword or instrument to wield it. Even dead would have been better. Even Butchers were better than him now.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Are you in pain?" the sister inquired cautiously.


    "Sword," he repeated. It was important to him. He was the sword and the sword was him. There was no room for anything else in his mind.


    Tears welled up in the woman''s green eyes, though she tried her best to fight them back, unable to reconcile her desire to help him with her inability to do so. She was younger than he''d judged originally, though appearances could be deceptive.


    "I will get Elder Anne," the young woman said after overcoming her inner turmoil. Three long strides and she disappeared into the hallway with a swish of olive.


    The Guardian closed his eyes and meditated. The city cried out for him in pain, its screams of agony ringing in his ears. The bitter taste of helplessness bubbled up inside of him. He cast out his presence for Justice but he found nothing. Not even a direction. It was as if the sword no longer existed.


    Perhaps he was too far from the city. He had to reach his home, right at the heart of Big City. That was where the pulse was strongest. The Guardian opened his eyes and cast aside the blanket.


    At least that was his intent. His right arm swung uselessly through the air, unable to even shoo away a fly, let alone grip the cover. For such a simple task, his left sufficed. His shoulder ached as he tossed it away and swung his legs out of bed. He was naked, save for his underwear.


    Bandages were wrapped around his torso and chest. Dimly, the memory of that night returned. The thing had wounded him. The acrid smell returned to his nostrils and he felt nauseous. He remembered the seething pain the claws left on his arm. The claws, sticking out of his stomach.


    It was the first injury that had left more than scars. Of those, he had many. His entire upper body was bedecked with them. He had scars on top of scars.


    A tall woman wearing the Butcher''s garb entered, immediately filling the room with her presence. Austere and formidable. She looked at him sitting at the edge of the bed with a scowl. "Guardian."


    "Butcher," he replied coolly.


    Behind the leader of the Sisters of Mercy, the young woman who watered him squeaked and blanched at the slur. She shook her head from side to side, eyes urging him not to upset the Elder.


    "That''s all I get?" Elder Anne asked, smirking.


    "Where is my sword?"


    "Stubborn as ever, Guardian," Elder Anne said and sighed. "Alas, we do not have it. Was it on you when¡ªoh, don''t glower at me like that. Yes, of course, it must have been. It was not in the alley."


    "I must find it," the Guardian persisted. The few minutes he had been awake was the longest time he had ever been separated from Justice. It felt like someone cut off his arm.


    "Are you in pain?"


    "Yes. What happened to my arm?"


    "I''m sorry about that. It was infected with... something awful. And the infection was spreading. We did not know how to cure it but we could not leave it to fester."


    It had only been a skin-deep wound. A laceration by the thing''s sharp claws. He remembered seeing black tendrils creep out of the wound just before he... died?


    "Cutting up people is your specialty after all," he said grimly.


    "No, it is not! We are care¡ª" the young woman cut in but when both the Guardian and Elder Anne turned to glare at her, her voice faltered.


    "You must rest. You are weak and need to recover," Elder Anne continued as if nothing happened.


    "How long has it been?" At least his voice seemed to have returned to normal.


    "Nineteen days," she said nonchalantly and placed a fist on her hips as if she expected him to get upset.


    "How is the city? I can hear it screaming..."


    "That it does, Guardian. That it does. It''s a grim business."


    "Will you take me to the city, Butcher?"


    "We are not butchers, we are the Sisters of¡ª" the young woman blurted out.


    "Quiet. The Guardian may call us whatever the Guardian wishes," Elder Anne interrupted her and nodded at the Guardian, who seemed amused. "I implore you to stay and rest. Your wound is not yet healed. At least go to a hospital, though I daresay they wouldn''t even know where to¡ª"


    "I need to see the place where I di¡ª"


    "Where you were injured. Fine. I will arrange a car," Elder Anne said and sniffed as if she took personal offense at him leaving. As if her umbrage wasn''t good enough. It wasn''t. "Out of curiosity, who attacked you?"


    "I don''t know."


    That startled the young sister. "How can you not know?" she asked accusatorily.


    "You think I am omniscient, little Butcher?"


    "I am not a Bu¡ª" she snarled, hands fists, shaking with anger.


    "Calm down," Elder Anne admonished the young woman before she rounded on the Guardian. "And you might show her a little more respect. She was the one who found you, if it wasn''t for her we''d never have gotten there in time."


    That was something the Guardian hadn''t expected. "Her?"


    "Yes, Master Guardian. It was the first successful divination I ever cast. Used up a whole leg doing it," she said proudly.


    "Lia has a rare gift of farsight," Elder Anne said, putting a name to the face.


    "It was a thing," the Guardian said, rerailing the conversation. "I don''t know what. It called itself ''my end''. The end. It appeared as a man made of black smoke."


    "No," Elder Anne uttered and took a step back. She braced herself on the frame of the door.


    "Do you know it?"


    "Yes and no. It is the end. Literally. The end of everything. A husband of Hress."


    The flickering light of the fire cast a long shadow of Elder Anne against the wall. The room felt colder as if the topic itself sucked the life out of it.


    "I saw Hress in my dream," the Guardian confided.


    "You saw the eater of worlds?" Lia asked, terrified, but impressed.


    "Only in a dream. It circled the earth, its jaw wide open as if it was about to swallow it whole. Then it saw me and stopped. Turned to look at me." An involuntary shudder ran through his body and the air chilled.


    "This is... troubling, Guardian," Elder Anne said. She snapped her finger at Lia. "You, run and get him some clothes."


    "But¡ª"


    "No buts. Go. Now. And be quick about it."


    For a split second, it appeared that Lia contemplated arguing but she thought better of it. She practically sprinted out of the room. Her loud footfalls echoed in the hallway.


    "You must come with me at once, Guardian."


    The tone of voice left no room for arguments. Despite her imposing stature and commanding presence, the Guardian felt no urge to do as she said. But he also had no reason not to. "Where to?"


    "The Archive."


    "What''s in the archive?"


    "Our collection of the Aaken Cycle."


    The Guardian braced himself to stand up and tipped to his right. He cursed himself. The change would take some getting used to. On bare feet, he followed Elder Anne out of the little room.

 Gone

    The last time the Guardian set foot inside the Bloody Palace had been nearly two-hundred years ago. A lot had changed since then; the hallways were lit with electric lights providing a steady glow and the leaky windows had been fixed, replaced with double-paned insulated glass.


    It felt like a lie. Back then, the Butchers'' manor felt ominous, befitting their grim occupants. Now it felt more like a hospital and they pretended they were healers. Only the hardwood floor that squeaked with every other step was evidence that it hadn''t been a trick of his imagination.


    Times changed, generations came and went, but they adapted. It wasn''t that hard when everybody in the Big City already pretended the Sisters of Mercy didn''t exist. Just when they were older and their bones were hurting and their lungs were rattling, they seemed to allow themselves to recall that there was an alternative.


    It was not like that for the Guardian. Always on center stage. The mythical hero, the beacon of justice and objective truth. The Guardian. Everyone knew who he was. It was not a good thing or a bad thing, that was just the way. It was his calling.


    And now, his calling led to him walking through the corridors and down the grand marble staircase in nothing but his underwear, accompanied by Elder Anne, the leader of the Sisters of Mercy.


    At a distance that was deemed safe, a gaggle of sisters followed them. Even the Butchers were not above gossip and the famous Guardian treading the hallowed halls would surely send them into a chittering frenzy. Especially if said man''s chiseled body was on display. They were Sisters of Mercy, not nuns.


    Their procession led down into the underbelly of the Bloody Palace. There, at last, history seemed to have prevailed. The bare stone walls flickered with the orange glow of sconces. The arched ceiling was blackened from countless decades of soot.


    It invigorated the Guardian. The deeper they descended into the heart, the more he felt the layers upon layers of magic baked into every stone. Not the clean, flawless power he drew upon but the Butcher''s unique blend. Blood and pain and love and life and death and every other human emotion mixed together.


    Walking down the staircase was like listening to an orchestra of humanity. The good and the bad. He reached out with his remaining hand, letting his fingertips graze the manually hewn limestone. The deeper they went, the warmer it got, nurtured by the fire inside the planet''s core.


    "Is everything alright, Master Guardian?" Elder Anne asked.


    The Guardian blinked. They were already at the bottom of the staircase and he had just been standing there, listening to the sing-song of a housewife, laundering clothes in the spring. A breeze stirred the garments hanging on the clothesline, carrying the scent of mown grass and livestock. She had been so happy at that moment, entirely in the flow.


    "I recalled why I do not like this place," the Guardian answered, scowling.


    "And why is that?"


    "Because you are keeping all these lives imprisoned here. Their memories. Trapped."


    "And what would you have us do, Guardian?"


    The argument was as old as time. Older than Elder Anne. Older than the Guardian himself, even. Is it okay to take a life to save many more? The sisters, at least, never took anyone who wasn''t willing.


    Not anymore.


    The Guardian wondered how much of their own history Elder Anne knew. If anybody there did, it had to be her. He chose not to answer her question, for he did not have the answer.


    At least, they reached their destination. Two Butchers were waiting for them at the heavy door, carrying lit oil lamps. Their eyes went wide at the sight of Elder Anne being trailed by a mostly naked man. The stench of magic was overwhelming. In a place like that, modern technology faltered.


    Flanked by the sisters, they entered the cavern. The ceiling was low enough that the Guardian feared of hitting his head. Row upon row of sturdy oak bookcases, set into the rock itself. Ornately carved side panels inlaid with amber. One on each side, fifteen feet deep. Five rows were visible by the glow of the lantern, beyond that laid darkness. Records. Contracts. Last wills and testaments. The Butchers were meticulous in their bookkeeping.


    A strange sensation overcame the Guardian. He felt something in the darkness but not anything he recognized. A sense of loss, almost.


    They came upon a reading alcove, not much bigger than his room upstairs had been. A plain, wooden table with four chairs, standing on an olive carpet that looked to be well-worn. But what caught the Guardian''s attention was what stood on the table. A bell jar, containing a gaunt, twisted limb.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    It was his forearm. There was nothing familiar visible to the naked eye, but it yearned for him. Barely more than skin and bone. Waxy and sickly, stretched tightly over the skeleton. The flesh had been eaten away.


    "Ah, I see you recognize it," Elder Anne said bemusedly.


    "Why is it here?"


    "It must be studied. We have yet to determine what caused the corruption, and... it is powerful. You have no idea what any of us give to be able to channel the blood of a Guardian."


    "Ooh," sighed one of the lantern-bearers. "I''d be happy with just a fingernail."


    One of his limbs used up for their magic? "I do not give my permission," he said gravely.


    "Wouldn''t do much good even if you did. We can''t even touch it without suffering from terrible nightmares for days. Not your fault, of course."


    Drawn to it, the Guardian reached out for the bell jar. His fingertips touched the reinforced glass.


    A spike of pain jolted through his nervous system. Enormous, glowing eyes focused their intense gaze on him. Cold as ice, burning with the intensity of an entire galaxy.


    YOU''RE ALIVE.


    Each syllable hit his head like a sledgehammer, reverberating inside of his skull until he wanted to scream and stab his ears.


    <hr>


    The Guardian blinked. He was on the ground. It was cold. Five women stood in front of him, looking down with concern in their eyes. Their mouths were moving but only a buzz reached him. The young woman was there, too. Lia. When had she arrived? She clutched a stack of clothes to her chest.


    Dazed, he reached to inspect his ear, remembering to use his left hand. It was wet to the touch and came back stained with crimson. With the help of two of the sisters, he stood up.


    "Are you okay?" Elder Anne asked, muffled but comprehensible.


    "Yes."


    "What happened?" Lia asked.


    "What did happen?" Elder Anne asked.


    All the other faces seemed to ask the same question. What did happen? The Guardian did not know. Had it really been Hress? "Keep that thing safe," he said, nodding at his former arm. "Don''t let anyone touch it."


    "What did you see?"


    Their conversation was interrupted by a flock of terrified, pale Butchers. They looked worse than he felt.


    "Elder Anne, they''re gone," the leading sister blurted out, bracing herself for a blow.


    "What is gone?"


    "The books. The Aaken Cycle. All of it. They''re gone."


    "What do you mean gone?" Elder Anne asked, rushing off toward the darkness with a speed that surprised even the Guardian.


    All the Butchers looked around with fear in their eyes before rushing off after their leader. Even Lia, curious as always, turned to investigate the commotion.


    "Are those for me?" the Guardian asked, placing a hand on her shoulder to keep from her darting off.


    "Yes, Master Guardian," Lia said, proffering the pile of clothes. They were far from anything he was used to. A pair of jeans, red plaid shirt, and sneakers. "I''m sorry, it''s the best I could do on short notice. We never host anyone of your stature."


    It was better not to ask where exactly the clothes had come from, though he had a very strong suspicion. Doing it one handed was a struggle but he refused Lia''s offer of help. Sooner or later, he would have to dress himself anyway and he welcomed the challenge.


    Always conquer your shortcomings. The Guardian did not cut and run.


    "What happened to your ear?" Lia inquired, showing not even a pretense of modesty.


    "What do you know of that?" he deflected, gesturing at the bell jar.


    "Ooh, isn''t it fantastic?" Lia squealed with eagerness. "It''s so powerful, isn''t it? I don''t know if you can tell, can you? I get all tingly inside just looking at it. The spells one could cast with it..."


    The fervor with which the Butcher spoke reminded him of an addict in the middle of a high. It was fascinating to watch. The woman seemed to have almost forgotten him, staring longingly at the bell jar. She leaned forward and one her hands slid up her body to cup her breast.


    He cleared his throat and Lia jumped so high she nearly hit her head on the cavern''s ceiling. Her face turned as red as her hair.


    "It''s... powerful," she mumbled.


    "It''s dangerous."


    "It''s worth it," Lia countered, grinning.


    "Ah, the folly of youth, little Butcher."


    Lia''s smile was instantly wiped off of her face. She scrunched up her nose and glowered at the Guardian, advancing toward. "Do. Not. Call. Me¡ª"


    "Guardian," Elder Anne spoke loudly, interrupting them. She walked on steady feet and her face portrayed no emotion. It was only through the Guardian''s lifetime of experience that he could read the deep and profound fear in every one of her actions. "It seems as though the matter is much more serious than I anticipated."


    "The books?"


    "They''re gone," the proud woman admitted and her shoulders sagged. "Irreplaceable tomes. Notes. Studies by Sisters of history. Taken by... someone."


    It was only the slightest of hesitations before the word but the Guardian knew what she had meant. Taken by a Sister. Someone who knew what was in the archive, acting at a critical moment in history. There was a traitor in their midst.


    "It is now more important than ever that you recover quickly from your injuries. You must go and lie down, we need you healthy," Elder Anne continued, putting on a calm tone.


    "I must defend the city," he said, jaw locked.


    "And how are you going to do that?" she snapped, her veneer of composure eradicating.


    "I am the Guardian."


    Elder Anne whirled around and snatched a heavy, leather-bound tome off the shelf. She hurled it at the Guardian, putting her entire body into the action. It was not a move he had anticipated but he had defended himself against worse.


    Calmly, he reached for the book, snapping it out of the air. It thumped against his chest anyway, knocking the wind out of him. It was the wrong arm.


    "Is that the kind of protection you offer Big City?" Elder Anne derided.


    "I don''t think the citizens are in any danger of flying books."


    Elder Anne''s eyes bulged and she looked like she wanted to strangle him. In his current condition, she might even have been able to accomplish it. The anger faded and she massaged her temple. "I will not let you leave here vulnerable as a lamb. Give me five minutes and I will prepare a delegation of the finest Sisters to keep you safe."


    There was no possibility of the Guardian leaving the palace in tow with a gaggle of doting wannabe wizards. Yet Elder Anne might just have been the one person in all of Big City stubborn enough to do that whether he wanted it or not.


    "Fine. I''ll take the pipsqueak," the Guardian said, pointing at Lia.


    While Elder Anne still spluttered and Lia looked around wildly, trying to figure out what just happened, the Guardian turned on his heel and strode in the direction whence they arrived.


    Ten seconds later, he heard the pitter patter of a young woman''s feet, hurrying to catch up.