Huric reached for the library door and threw it open. “Miss Saveign!”
The Eastern Time Mother panted. She watched as a horde of men spewed down the staircase, a waterfall of flesh and iron. Elowyn ran into the library and reached out for Huric’s hand to pull him in with her, but he refused, using the rod of his halberd to force her farther into the room.
He downed another aggressor, the closest to them before he backed into the room himself. With his free hand, he threw the door closed, just as a bullet fled from the barrel of its gun.
Huric shoved his halberd through the open handles of the newly locked door. An insurance policy, should the lock fail them. The door rattled under the pressure of the men outside. “What now, Miss Saveign?”
Elowyn rushed over to a window and threw it open. She then ran behind a desk and threw up the hidden entrance on the floor. The entryway to the catacombs below was exposed. “These lead to the nearest coast. Get in.”
Huric’s brows knitted together. He did not attempt to disguise his surprise. “How long have those ...?” The man served the Eastern division for years and was never made privy to the existence of any underground catacombs.
The faux-wood of Huric’s halberd cracked as it bent. His eyes flashed to the door. They were seconds away from entering.
Elowyn’s eyes pleaded with him from fifteen feet away. “Huric! Hurry!”
The soldier stepped back. A blade cut its way through the door, making a window for the soldiers to see. Huric’s broad body blocked the vision of those seeking entry. He did not wish to remove focus from the door. He did not wish to draw attention to Elowyn’s position. He couldn’t move unless he wished to risk giving away her hiding place. “Go, Miss Saveign.”
“Huric!”
“Go!”
Another blow to the door. Elowyn lowered herself into the catacombs as a second halberd made a larger hole. She ground her teeth together as she lowered the hatch, burying herself in darkness.
She heard every sound of the scuffle above. She had no doubt Huric fought with valiance. The only solace Elowyn took from that moment, was that the noise of the exchange above was short. She hoped with every ounce of her heart that Huric did not suffer long.
Footsteps clamored above her. The sound of shifting furniture. Books being tossed from their shelves. Pages ruffling. Confusion. It took all of her volition to still her strenuous breathing. To quiet the scream that hid in her throat over the loss of Huric. To still the rising rage that tempted her to burst through the door and slaughter as many as she could. But what difference would that make? What sense was there, to seek revenge on men who barely knew what they did?
Their voices were muffled. Scarcely audible through the thick layer of stone flooring that protected her. Elowyn listened as best as she could.
“She must’ve fled out the window,” a footman guessed.
“She won’t get far. We should return to Pymlena.”
“Without the Time Mother? That would displease her.”
“Pymlena is all-forgiving. She will guide us to our new objective with mercy.”
Elowyn did not know who Pymlena was, but her racing mind held an educated guess. Her nostrils flared as she tried to breathe quietly. She heard several men grunt as they lowered themselves out the window. No doubt an attempt to track her. Others continued searching the room. Some left, their footsteps leaving the library behind them.
She couldn’t move. Her back pressed against the cold, carved rock of the catacombs. Where was there to run? Who was left to trust? Those crippled by the lesser gods’ madness looked every bit the part of regular men and women. No identifiable factor remained to pick them from a crowd, save for the clear absence of conscience.
The only remaining individuals Elowyn trusted with her life lived outside Eastern territory. She couldn’t chance leaving. Not with the looming fear that she might not return. Putting the remainder of Eastern’s stable people in even more danger simply wasn’t an option. Not for Elowyn Saveign.
In the bitter chill of the underground, she felt something warm fall on her face. Though she couldn’t see in the surrounding darkness, she felt the liquid trail down her forehead, over her eye, down her cheek, until it reached the corner of her mouth. It tasted of iron. The blood of Huric rained down on her through the thin cracks made by the hidden door. Too cautious to move until the sound of the footmen above faded away, Elowyn Saveign stood in shadows and blood. Holding her breath, she counted the seconds until she started her new life as Eastern’s underground leader.
Chapter Seventeen
The torn cloth smelled of fire. It struck Umbriel’s sensitive nostrils in an unforgiving manner. She stared down at the make-shift parchment for what felt like hours, though it had only been moments since it was hand-delivered by a diplomatic courier. Scrawled in soot across the textured fabric, the ominous message haunted her:
NW in flames. Need assist.
-K.
The woman curled it into her fingers as she stared out the open door. Nicholai had finally found rest in his bed. His deprived body needed it greatly. Though Umbriel knew he awaited word from Kazuaki with incurable impatience, she did not wish to wake him. Not just because he needed sleep ... but because Nicholai Addihein needed one less thing with which to concern his already fragile mind.
She eased herself back into the house, careful to close the door with as little noise as possible. Her hand rested on the knob while she thought.
Disturbing Nicholai was not an option. But leaving Kazuaki’s message unheeded wasn’t either. Umbriel glanced over her shoulder, her eyes falling on what little she saw of the Southeastern Time Father through the small crack in the door leading to his room. Her eyes then flicked to the official stationery at his writing desk.
She could handle this herself.
Umbriel set the torn cloth on the small table near the door as she crossed the distance to Nicholai’s table. Delicate hands seized his quill and dipped it in the nearby ink. With equal parts care and haste, she started to pen a sanctioned decree, diverting Southeastern soldiers to the Northwestern division.
Avigail crept out of the kitchen, her eyes on Umbriel as she bent over the desk. She seemed consumed by her task. The young Houton daughter lifted a cup to her lips and took a silent drink before her attention fell on the tattered fabric of Kazuaki’s letter.
Her eyes narrowed. She scanned the contents. NW. Northwestern. Signed with only a K. Avigail gasped quietly. It must have stood for Kazuaki. The man her father followed into the pits of the Underworld.
Umbriel searched through old documents that cluttered Nicholai’s usually meticulous station. She studied his signature, taking mind of the common loops and structure of the individual letters. Her hand lowered to her formal order, where she forged the Time Father’s name.
After stuffing the letter into an envelope, she turned, jumping at the unexpected sight of Avigail before her. Umbriel blinked, taken aback more so by her surprise than Avigail’s presence. That she was unable to sense her company caught her off guard. Then again, as concerted action consumed most of her focus, broken concentration was to be expected. “Avigail—I’m glad you’re here. I need to tell you something.”
The girl stiffened. She gripped her cup tighter, fearing the worse from Umbriel’s lips. Did it have to do with Kazuaki’s letter? Did it have to do with her father? Her heart threatened to destroy her ribs as she whispered, “What is it?”
Her reaction seemed strange. Unwarranted. But Umbriel hadn’t the time to assess it. “I have something very important I need to do,” she said, clutching the sealed envelope in her hand. “Please, watch over Nicholai until I return. I wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t a time-sensitive matter. I will send Malcolm over to help you. Can you do this for me?”
Avigail scraped her front teeth against her bottom lip, waiting for the ball to drop. But Umbriel made no mention of Kazuaki or her father. “Is everything all right?” she asked, nervous.
&
nbsp; “Everything is as it is,” Umbriel said as she walked passed her, and stopped at the door. When she spied the cloth with Kazuaki’s message on the table, she seized it in her hands, burying it in her palm. “But we do with it the best that we can.” She smiled, in the hopes of banishing the young woman’s obvious fear. “Can you do this? Not just for me, but for Nicholai, as well?”
Avigail opened her mouth to speak, paused, and looked over her shoulder toward Nicholai’s room. “I ...” She watched him sleep, knowing full well he needed the rest, just as much as Umbriel knew. A frown crossed her face. She returned her eyes to the Earth Mother. “Yes. Sure.”
Umbriel smiled once more. She reached over to give Avigail’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Thank you. I’ll make haste.” With that, she stole one final glimpse of Nicholai and whisked herself out the door.
Avigail stood in the silence of the main room, with only the mocking sounds of a ticking clock to accompany her. She saw that letter. There was no denying the severity in which it must have been penned, given the material used and the worrying message it held. She pictured her father, surrounded by fire, following Kazuaki and the crew into demanding circumstances to do ... whatever it was that Revi Houton did.
He saved Panagea, she remembered. Nicholai had admitted as much to her. Avigail’s father was a key component to reintroducing nature, destroying time-honored faults within the archaic system, and ... and throwing everything to the wayside to do it, family included.
Avigail clenched her jaw. The sound of her teeth grinding together did little to rattle her. It wasn’t only what Nicholai had said. Umbriel’s words filtered through her mind too. Her confession about her own father. That she wished she had more time with him. That he made mistakes, like any other person, as was the human condition. That above all else, she would have loved to have one more moment with him ...
Avigail hated Revi Houton. But she loved him too.
Without realizing what she was doing, her feet carried her into the small room that Nicholai and Umbriel had let her stay in. She shoved her few possessions into her backpack and strode to the kitchen. Perishable and unperishable foods alike fell into her bag without delay, but food would only get her so far. She couldn’t get to Northwestern fast. Not without money.
A small attack of conscience bit at her. But Avigail was accustomed to handling the incessant feeling; her upbringing forced her into many situations where she needed to make debatable decisions. She lived with the demons who plagued her for most of her life. They were almost family at this point.
She crept over to Nicholai’s desk and pulled open a drawer. Nothing of use. She tried another. No go. When her hands tried the third, Avigail discovered a small satchel that clinked when she pushed it aside. It was the undeniable sound of rattling coins.
Careful hands eased it out of its hiding place, and she spilled the contents into her palm. It was all Southeastern currency. She had hoped for a variety to get her through Northwestern when she arrived. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. Or in this case, thieves.
Shoving the satchel into her pocket, Avigail headed for the door. Before she opened it, she paused. A slow craning of her neck returned her gaze to Nicholai, sleeping in the little space across the room. Despite Umbriel’s gentle but firm chastising, she couldn’t deny her feelings for the man. Lust, love, or otherwise, the teenaged heart did not dissect and analyze. It only felt. And she felt she couldn’t leave him without a note to apologize for her thievery, and a vow to pay him back.
Taking a cue from the Earth Mother, Avigail scrawled a quick message on a piece of paper littering Nicholai’s desk. She entered his room with caution, swallowing, fearful that she might wake him. Shaking hands set the note on his bedside table.
She took one final glimpse of him. Attractive, even in his state of deterioration. She would have liked to have been his.
For a moment, she almost lost her nerve to go ... but Avigail’s heart had called out for Revi Houton for ten long years. It only belonged to Nicholai for a few short weeks. She mouthed the word ‘goodbye’ and slipped out the door.
A tinge of guilt crept into her veins when Avigail recalled her promise to Umbriel. But it was fine. Nicholai would be okay, she thought, as she exited the Addihein homestead and headed for the nearest steam train. Umbriel stated she’d send Malcolm right over.
She would not let her father run swiftly into death’s open arms. Not without ... closure? An apology? Forgiveness? Avigail didn’t know what she wanted from Revi Houton. But she knew it wasn’t supposed to end like this.
She remembered her father saying he’d accompany Kazuaki to Vadim Canmore’s home town. Striburn. She didn’t know where that was, but she’d find out along the way. A man as well-known as the Northwestern Time Father couldn’t hide his location from everyone.
Vacant eyes spied Avigail as she left the Time Father’s home. The lifeless orbs followed her form until it disappeared. The body they belonged to licked at his lips as he edged himself out of a small alley facing Nicholai’s house. Confident feet strode toward the door.
The man loomed outside the Addihein household, glancing to his left. To his right. When he saw little to no witnesses, bony fingers reached for the knob and turned it. With ease, it followed his commands. Rushed teenagers rarely had the foresight to lock doors behind them.
The door squealed as it opened, unoiled for far too long. A boot heel hit the ground first, followed by the tip. One foot entered, then another. A second protest from the door echoed as the man slowly shut the entrance.
Click. The throw latch fell into the strike box, indicating it closed behind him, though he did not turn to verify this. His focus was too consumed with the other door. The one across from him. The one containing the slumbering body of Nicholai Addihein, Southeastern’s Time Father and primary target of his mission.
His strides were unhurried but purposeful. The quickest route to any objective was a straight line. A large hand pushed the second door open further. He stared down at the man on the bed. Disheveled, still donned in his traditional garb, vest and all. It almost looked as if he’d simply passed out.
The man’s head tilted as he watched Nicholai’s closed eyelids flicker. A dream, he supposed. By the look on the Time Father’s face, it did not appear to be a pleasant one. The stranger’s hands lowered into his pockets. He removed the syringe that hid inside, lifting it closer to his face. His thumb gave the plunger a little push. Just enough to see if the liquid contained inside, was indeed ready to spill out the tip. It was.
Without speaking, the man lowered the syringe, wondering where the best place was to facilitate injection. Did it need to hit a vein? He wasn’t sure. He should have asked Ameyar to be more specific. But it was a calculated risk, angering the God of the Underworld.
With little more than an uneducated guess to guide him, the man decided on the arm. Perhaps luck would befall him, and he’d hit whatever he needed to fulfill his objective. As the tip hovered an inch from its target, the front door behind him opened.
A pumping shotgun was a very identifiable sound. The man spun around, as Malcolm pointed the weapon at his face. If the old man was surprised to see the intruder, it was dominated by protective indignation. “Back the feck away from my son-in-law,” he growled, a precise aim on his mark.
The stranger stared at the barrel. He blinked decisively, and absent of fear, turned around, back to Nicholai’s arm.
Malcolm Finn grew up in a loving home. He was surrounded by the warmth of family and friends daily. He had lived in a supreme state of affection for his entire existence. Blessed with adoration from his wife, and his daughter, Lilac, Malcolm Finn had no history of violence. He barely raised his voice. No temper to speak of. And though he was certain Lilac’s spirit would have delighted in Nicholai’s company, he did not hesitate to shift his aim and pulled the trigger, sparing the life of the man who loved his only daughter.
Shot pellets shredded the assailant’s leg. He would have crum
bled under his weight, had the sound not jolted Nicholai from his unsettled rest.
The Time Father’s metal hand clawed into the throat of his aggressor as he pulled the body down.
His lips peeled back like an animal.
He positioned his own body over the stranger.
Heated thoughts flew to the forefront of his newly wakened mind.
The stranger had no time to throw his arms up in defense. Before the Time Father quelled his dark thoughts and replaced them with his true self. Tranquilizers emerged from his mechanical forearm. They rammed into the soft underjaw of his foe without mercy.
Saliva spewed from the stranger’s mouth as he released a sound of agony. Malevolent eyes locked onto Nicholai’s, who only now started to showcase alarm when he realized what he’d done.
For a moment, he thought it was only a nightmare. One of the many he endured since Darjal’s death, where he found himself staring down at the lifeless body he destroyed. But the body beneath his was tangible. He jerked his arm back, stepping off and away from his victim. “I—what—” Nicholai panted heavily, his heart pounding as panicked eyes darted from the poisoned man over to Malcolm.
“Ameyar ... save me,” the man gasped through a clenched jaw, as the liquid spread through his limbs. His eyes started to roll into the back of his skull as he slipped in and out of consciousness. He tried to lift a hand, but only his fingers twitched as he succumbed to the sedative, and his tensed muscles relaxed him to oblivion.
Nicholai’s chest expanded and collapsed as he ran flustered fingers through his hair.
Upon seeing the threat eliminated, Malcolm set the shotgun down, leaning it against a wall as he strode over to Nicholai and grasped his shoulders. His brows creased over his concerned eyes as he tried to command the confused Time Father’s attention. “Nicholai—are you all right, son?”
Emerging from a powerful state of sleep clouded his mind; his brain struggled to piece the events into some semblance of order. When he could concentrate on the objects laid out before him, when the haze dissipated, Nicholai met Malcolm’s gaze. “I ... believe so,” he uttered, running his hands over his torso as if to reassure himself he hadn’t suffered any irreparable damage. “What ... did I do?” he asked as he glanced at the fallen man on his mattress.
The Panagea Tales Box Set Page 69