He lashed out with his left hand and set the target bag to swinging. The serpent kept coming for him, lowering its head to stay out of the arc of the swaying bag. Caim took a quick step to his right and punched another bag. As it swung toward the creature, he crept sideways toward the window. When the serpent reversed course to cut off his escape, he attacked. He lunged with his right-hand knife extended, the point aimed at the serpent's blunt snout. As the creature reared back, Caim threw himself forward onto his knees. He slid underneath its bulk and thrust upward with his left-hand knife. Its point skittered along the monster's belly, unable to pierce the tough scales.

Caim gasped as the pressure in his chest returned, twice as strong as before. Unprepared for the sudden onslaught, he almost lost control. Every muscle in his body tensed as he fought his powers. They clawed against the walls of his mind like a pack of sewer rats trying to escape the rising tide. Above him, the serpent reared.

Caim leapt away, evading its curved fangs by inches, but the creature looped around and pulled him close. So quick, it flowed like a rushing stream. Pain blossomed around his rib cage as the rippling, muscular body wrapped around his middle. His legs strained under the enormous weight. The knife fell from his left hand and he stabbed at the beast over and over with the right, but it had no effect. Every breath was a struggle. Black spots appeared before his eyes. His muscles slackened. And still, his powers fought for release. Caim clamped down on them with every scrap of resolve he could muster. This battle had become more than a struggle for release. Either he would control his abilities, or they would control him. His lips stretched back in a grimace as he strained.

Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the pressure vanished.

Its abrupt departure left a hole in Calm's chest, a void that bothered him almost as much as the pressure had, but he had more urgent concerns. The serpent had looped another layer of coils around his midsection. Its crushing embrace threatened to squeeze him in two. He reached up with his free hand. The giant wedge of the creature's head swayed above him, just out of reach. His fingers found purchase at the back of the neck. Smiling through the pain, he struck.

The serpent shuddered as the knife pierced its eye. Caim tried to hang on, but the writhing coils flung him about like an infant. A mighty convulsion threw him across the room. Battered, he lay prone on the floorboards. His lungs burned as fresh air hit them. The serpent thrashed in the center of the floor, his knife still stuck in its eye socket until its violent throes hurtled the weapon free.

Caim crawled to his knees, but the creature had given up the fight. Black ichor dripped from its ruined eyeball as it undulated into the far corner of the room. Draped in shadows, it vanished like the remnants of a dream, and the eerie sensation with it.

Caim climbed to his feet. He ached from neck to toe, but he had survived. He tore his gaze away from the corner and hobbled to the door, down the hallway. The girl had a good lead on him, too damned good by half and him with an injured foot, but how well did she know Low Town? Not at all, most likely. He glanced through a grimy skylight as he passed under it. Night had settled over the city. That worked to his advantage. The darkness would make her flight more difficult. She might wander the Gutters for hours before finding her way to a landmark she could recognize. If Kit was doing her job, he would find Josephine in plenty of time, unless someone else found her first. An image of the girl, cornered in an alley by a Low Town street gang, blasted through his mind as he reached the stairwell. He leapt down the steps three at a time, heedless of the burning pain in his ankle. Down the stairs and across the foyer. He shoved open the heavy door.

Knives bared and ready for anything, he limped out into the night.

CHAPTER TWELVE

og swirled around Josey's ankles as she dashed across the slick cobblestones. The night's cold went right through her nightgown. She had to find help. But who would aid her? She didn't even know where she was. Shabby buildings leaned over the street like drunken titans. Where were the streetlights? Impenetrable darkness swathed everything.

She went to the nearest door and found it locked tight. The windows were dark. She pounded on the thick timbers, but didn't wait for an answer. The killer would be right behind her. She dared not glance over her shoulder. If she saw him, chasing behind her like the shadow of Death incarnate, the fear would paralyze her.

A faint clink of metal echoed in the fog somewhere ahead. Josey couldn't identify the sound in the dark, but she was past caring. Anything was better than falling back into the clutches of her father's murderer.

She ran toward the noise. Her breath came in short gasps. A nimbus of spectral light illuminated an intersection of three streets. At their nexus stood a man holding a lantern, the point of a pike glittering above his head.

"Who's that?" he called out.

Tears sprang to Josey's eyes as she made out the black coat of the night watchman's uniform.

"Help me, please!" she cried.

The watchman raised a hand to his lips. A whistle's shrill call cut through the gloom and fog. More watchmen appeared behind him. Josey staggered toward them. Leather-clad arms caught her as she swooned. Piercing eyes stabbed at her from behind steely faceplates.

"She ain't no Gutters wench," said one. "Think she's the one we was told about?"

"What's your name, girl?" asked another, rolling his r's with a thick western accent.

Josey drew in a deep breath. Her heart bounced hard against the inside of her ribs. "I am Josephine… of the House Frenig. Please, help me."

The westerner nodded. The stripes sewn onto his sleeve marked him as a higher rank than the others. "We've been looking for you, m'lady. Your disappearance has caused quite a stir."

Josey allowed herself to nestle in his arms. She wanted to cry. It was over. She was safe. Then she remembered what the killer had done to the men in her father's bedchamber.

"There's a man after me!" she said. "He's dangerous. He killed my father."

"You're safe now, m'lady. Can you walk?"

"Yes, I think so."

She leaned on the watchman's strong arm and let him escort her down the street. The lantern-holder led the way. She glanced over her shoulder, but there were only fleeing shadows. She let out a cleansing breath. He's gone. He can't get me now. But I'll see him hanged, for Father's sake.

Caim. That was his name, the name of a dead man. She tried to convince herself it was over as the watchmen fell in around her, but the memories of her trials buzzed inside her head like a swarm of cicadas.

There was no sign of the girl at the intersection of Winder and Silverpike Row.

A night fog had rolled in from the bay to blanket the cobblestones. Two shapes slouched in the alley across the way. He couldn't tell if they were drunk or dead, but both were decidedly male and not his girl. He'd heard footsteps running in this direction, but the fog caused weird echoes, making noises difficult to pinpoint. He wished Kit would return with some good news. He was a blind man searching for a hare in a field of willowtails.

His foot burned where he'd been bitten. His toes squished with every step as his boot filled with blood. Was it envenomed? Probably not. A snake that big would pump out enough poison to kill a herd of warhorses. He tried not to think about it.

A glowing shape appeared from a nearby alley.

"Did you find her?" he asked.

Kit shook out her silver hair. "She's not in Buckwald Den or Dyer's Lane. I doubt she could have gotten farther than that before me."