Page 70 of Prince of the Undying

Outside the door to the catacombs, footsteps echoed down the tunnel. It sounded like only one person, though they weren’t even trying to be stealthy.

“Get rid of it,” Wendel muttered.

“What?”

“Your damn burning sword. Quickly!”

I sheathed Chun Yi and plunged us into darkness again. I edged toward Wendel, my arms outstretched like a blindfolded child playing a game. Sweat trickled down my back in the clammy air. My breathing sounded far too loud, like I was taking great ragged gulps of air, and I forced myself to calm down.

“I’m here,” Wendel whispered.

He touched my shoulder. I felt my way along his arm and pressed myself close to him. His heartbeat thudded against my chest.

I lowered my voice until it was barely audible. “Your plan?”

He shrugged. “Kill the assassin?”

I shut my eyes, though it made no difference in this inky black. Why did he always have to besoarrogant?

The door creaked open.

Wendel stepped away from me, leaving me grasping air, and I heard a hissing that had to be Amarant cloaking him in shadows.

Footsteps.

I thought it was Wendel retreating deeper into the catacombs, but I couldn’t be sure. What did he expect me to do? Stand by and watch? God damn it, I was going to kill him myself if we survived this assassin.

There was a scraping sound, a whoosh, and then a lantern flickered to life.

I flattened my back against the slimy wall, my fingers tight around Chun Yi, and held my breath. The light stung my eyes. On the threshold of the catacombs, there was the silhouette of a sinewy man with a crossbow.

The crossbowman leaned over the threshold and loosed an earsplitting whistle. Was he summoning his allies? That meant he wasn’t alone. If I moved fast enough, maybe I could disarm or disable him before?—

A pungent aroma tickled my nostrils. I sniffed the air.

Naphtha.

My stomach clenched. You never wanted to smell naphtha in combat. And definitely never underground in some godforsaken catacombs. When the crossbowman stepped aside, my fears walked into the room.

Pyromechanics.

24

Ihad seconds to size up my opponents.

Two pyromechanics in gas masks and black-and-yellow asbestos armor. Salamanders. That’s what people called them. They lumbered into the room, their backs burdened with tanks of naphtha—fuel for the flamethrowers that made them infamous.

I breathed in the stink of naphtha, my fingers frozen on my sword.

One of the salamanders squeezed the trigger of his flamethrower and jetted a lazy sweep of fire through the air. The inferno blackened bones and illuminated the catacombs with infernal light.

The shadows wouldn’t hide me much longer. I backed into the darkness.

Where was Wendel? I had to warn him.

The crossbowman shouldered his weapon. “Don’t move.” He spoke German with a thick accent that could have been Turkish.

“What do you want?” I bluffed.

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