Damian FINUCANE's Arc

Chapter 7 of 57

Damian pressed his sleeve tight to the cut and forced himself up. The masked man had staggered into the trees. Blood marked the grass where he had knelt. That trail would fade fast. If Damian lost it now, the killer would vanish and heal, and the next fight would start over. Rolo Nash reached the tree line first. She was a runaway acrobat who had joined him with hard-won knowledge of the killer's moves. She dropped to a crouch and read the ground like a page. "He's bleeding on his right side," she said. "Look. He's dragging that leg." Damian knelt beside her. Red drops spotted the roots. But the drops stopped where the soil turned dry and hard. He turned in a slow circle. No sign. His heart sank. "We've lost him." "Not yet." Rolo jumped onto a low branch, balanced, and pointed up. "He can't climb. He went low. Wet ground holds a boot." She led him past a cluster of tall palms, their curved trunks pale against the dark leaves. There, in the soft mud below the fronds, a bootprint pressed deep. Then another. The killer had cut through here, dragging his wounded leg. Damian's raven dropped from the branches and glided ahead. The bird landed on a root, cocked its head, then flew a short way and landed again. It was following something. Damian trusted it. He unwrapped the gemmed sword and held it ready. They moved fast now. The trail curved toward a shallow ravine. Damian heard breathing, ragged and wet. He rounded a boulder and stopped. The masked man sat slumped against stone. His hand clamped his side. Blood soaked through his robe. His plain sword lay a foot from his fingers. When he saw Damian, he did not reach for it. "You tracked me," the man said. His breath rattled. "The girl's eyes. The bird." Damian raised the runed blade. He could end it now. His arm shook, not from the wound, but from wanting it. He thought of his father. His mother's scarred face. One thrust. But the man was beaten and unarmed. Damian remembered the master's lesson. Control was the whole point. He stepped forward and kicked the plain sword away, out of reach. "You don't get to run again," Damian said. The masked man laughed, low and broken. "You think this ends here." His hand moved fast to his belt. He hurled a fistful of gray powder at the ground. It burst into thick smoke. Damian swung his arm across his face and lunged, but he caught only stone. When the smoke thinned, the man was gone. So was his blade. But he had left something behind. In the mud lay a torn strip of his robe, and beneath it, half-buried, a small iron token stamped with a mark Damian did not know. Rolo picked it up. "This isn't his," she said. "Someone gave him orders."