Something scuttled by her feet like a white crab. She looked down and saw a frail hand, so pale it could only belong to a corpse. Then a face emerged from the water—the face of a skeleton.
“Please,” the face said, and only then did she realize it was Barrel. There were blue circles around his eyes, and his teeth chattered in the cold. His bald head was so white it looked like an egg. He was crying. “Please,” he said again, gripping the stony edge. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.”
Emma fell to a crouch. She wasn’t afraid. She knew that if he let go, she would jump into that dead lake and grab hold of him, and let him float on the backs of her wings, even if it meant she would drown.
She stretched an arm toward him. Barrel shivered like a soaked puppy.
“Come on,” she said. “Take my hand.”
“All—all right.”
He took her hand and she pulled. He was stuck, but Emma wasn’t going to let that stop her. She had come here for one reason: to take back what shouldn’t have been sent here in the first place.
Death owed her a favor.
“Hold on.” Her voice came out a soothing whisper. Then, sensing a dark presence drifting above them like a demon, she closed her eyes and spoke in a ragged shout. “RELEASE HIM!”
Barrel slid out of the water and fell against her. She put her arms around him and flapped her wings, pulling them both up toward the light…
WATCHING that light engulf his sister’s hands, Milo felt as though a godly presence had swept into the forest.
“RELEASE HIM!” Emma shouted up at the tree boughs.
The Caemyri trees dimmed as Emma’s body began to shimmer and glow. Her wings turned a bright gold, like yellow Christmas lights behind a silky curtain.
Milo felt tears run down his face before he realized he was crying, and then he heard sniffling from the other orphans. They were all crying.
Except Emmanuel. He had taken off his glasses and was squinting at the display of light and beauty before him. One corner of his lips turned up in a satisfied smile, as if he had expected a miracle tonight.
As Emma crouched over Barrel’s body, she lifted her wings high above her shoulders, and it was as if the sun had risen inside the forest. Their golden radiance caught in her hair, making each strand seem to shimmer. She tipped her head back. Her hair swept across her shoulders, and Milo caught a glimpse of the tip of her nose, the soft swell of her cheeks, as she shouted up at the brilliant canopy of leaves.
“Baraltimus!” she said in a voice that filled the forest. “Come back to me!”
Barrel floated up into the air, his body enveloped in luminether mist. He turned like an animal roasting on a spit, and as the light around him intensified, Milo saw that his sister’s wings were growing dimmer. She was drawing energy from her own cells, and she was using it to—no, it couldn’t be…
He suddenly understood.
“A resurrection spell.”
His uncle was standing by his side. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but—but how?”
“She’s a demigoddess. All she had to do was ask.”
Milo bit back sobs. He had never seen anything so beautiful.
“You have to protect her,” Emmanuel said. “She’s a gift from the gods.”
“I will,” Milo said, feeling every ounce of blood in his body warm as he uttered the truest words he’d ever spoken. “With my life.”
Baraltimus hovered upright above the snow, his skin suffused with light. Emma stepped back. The Caemyri trees pulsed as Barrel’s cloak slipped off his body, revealing the clothes he wore underneath: a long-sleeved sweater and snow pants tucked into a pair of black rubber boots. The sweater expanded as his chest and arms began to take on mass. At first, Milo thought his friend’s body was swelling from the impact of the hammer, but then he realized that Barrel was actually putting on weight.
Color flowed into his pale skin, giving it a healthy pink sheen. Silky blond hair sprouted from his scalp and fell rustling around his ears. With his new set of eyebrows, he looked much younger, like a boy in his early teens.
He drifted down until he was standing in the snow, then inspected his hands, made them into fists, turned them this way and that. They were springy and pink, not bony and white as before. The realization left him stunned. He looked over the faces of his fellow orphans with unblinking blue eyes and a mouth that hung open in dumbfounded wonder.
“I’m here,” he said.
With pounding footsteps, Rocky came up behind Barrel, his face a mixture of glowing orange and blue stones, his heavy brow lowered over invisible eyes. “Rarrer?” he said in a deep, gravelly voice, apparently trying to pronounce the boy’s name.
Emma went to hug Barrel. As they embraced, he brushed his hands against her golden feathers.
“Incredible,” he said, letting his face sink into the warmth of her hair.
“You look so handsome,” Emma said.
The orphans marched forward, led by Milo and Sevarin. Many of them were still wiping away tears. Ascher stood with Coral’s help.
“Welcome back,” Sevarin said, hugging Barrel with care, though the boy was no longer as frail as before.
Milo hugged him, saying, “It’s not over yet, buddy.”
“Quite pleased to hear it,” Barrel said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
He went over to inspect Ascher. Then he turned to the group and said, “He’ll live,” causing a cheer to rise among them.
A cheer interrupted by a terrifying roar.
They all turned to find the Berserker glaring at them, teeth bared.
Coral shrieked. Milo wrapped his fists in crackling electricity. Emmanuel raised a luminether crystal and summoned a shield between the monster and the orphans.
“This isn’t over,” the Berserker growled. “My hammer will taste the blood of every single one of you rats.”
“Let’s finish him,” Sevarin said.
Milo cast a bolt of electricy at Basher, who leaped away from its path. The bolt shattered a Caemyri tree. The burst of light that ensued forced Milo’s eyes shut. He should have planned the spell better. When he looked again, the Berserker was gone, his pounding footsteps retreating into the forest.
“He’s getting away,” Sevarin said. He threw himself into a sprint.
Emmanuel leveled the crystal, this time at Sevarin. A green, neon-bright vine shot toward him and wrapped its tendrils around him. Emmanuel whipped his arm back, and the vine retracted, yanking Sevarin in the opposite direction.
“Let him go,” Emmanuel said. “It’s too late. We should have killed him when we had the chance.”
The vine evaporated in puffs of green smoke. Sevarin jumped to his feet, pounded a fist into the snow, and growled much like the Berserker had done.
“Damn it!”
“Relax,” Milo said. “We’ll get him someday.”
Sevarin sighed and wiped snow off his clothes. Then he looked at Emmanuel and scoffed.
“Not a bad spell. Where’d you learn that?”
Emmanuel watched the trees in the distance until he was sure the Berserker had disappeared. He turned his attention to Sevarin with a curt sigh.
“Theus Academy. Over a thousand years before you were born.”
Sevarin’s eyes widened. “Whoa, seriously? Who are you, again?”
“My name is Emmanuel, son of Sargos. Milo and Emma’s uncle.”
“No way! Holy crap! You’re a Champion!”
Emmanuel held out a hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Sevarin—son of Ife Bapoto and Sarah Lincoln.”
Sevarin’s face was a study in utter shock and admiration. He firmly shook the magician’s hand. “You knew my parents?”
Emmanuel winced a little at the powerful grip. “I’ll tell you about them, if you promise not to break my fingers.”
Sevarin dropped the magician’s hand. “Sorry, sir.”
“It’s okay.” Rubbing it, Emmanuel turned to address them all. “The va
ult is this way. Follow me.”
He strode past the group, headed deeper into the forest. The orphans trudged along after him, Coral herding the younger children, Andres supporting Ascher, and the rest of them—Calista, Oscar, Milo, Emma, Sevarin, Lily, Barrel, Owen, and Gunner—collecting themselves into a tight group that moved as a single unit. No one spoke a word.
CHAPTER 77
N ight fell over the city of Lethargis.
The residential sectors had turned off their electric lamps in compliance with an energy-saving mandate. The only lights visible now were torches held by those attempting to see up and down the streets as they walked, and the occasional bonfire on a street corner.
Not all of the lights were off, however.
Castle Leon glowed like a galaxy of stars. Kovax had ordered his men to set up lights all over the outer walls. They burned with blinding intensity, calling the entire city’s attention. The emperor’s banners had been unrolled against the outer stone walls, shining bright purple in the glare, making the symbol of the white tower with the flame at its peak especially visible.
“King Corgos is dead!” Kovax shouted over the city, using a spell to amplify his voice. The people knew something was wrong when the castle lights came on. An alarm had sounded but had since quieted. “King Corgos is dead at the hands of a Feral assassin owing his allegiance to the scientist-magicians of the west. Tonight will be the darkest of nights!”
People down in the darkened streets glanced at each other, their gaunt faces twisting with anger. The word “Feral” dripped from their mouths like an uttered curse.
“These beastbloods have plagued us for long enough. I, Kovax Leonaryx, first cousin to the recently murdered king, have assumed the role of Protector of Taradyn. Under my guidance, we will rid ourselves of these vicious, mindless beasts once and for all, and unite the cities of Taradyn into the strongest nation Astros has ever seen!”
At that moment, a bolt of lightning shattered the silence and the brightest of natural lights exploded over the sky. People fell to their knees and covered their ears.
It was as if a god had spoken.
They ran into their houses and came out dragging Feral servants and slaves.
Rioting dominated the night as Feralkin were slaughtered in the streets.
A boy with a tail was cut down where he stood, and his blood pooled amid the cobblestones. He hissed and screamed and was slashed again and again until he was silent.
An old woman with orange eyes—her tail had been cut off in her youth by an overbearing father—was sent running up a dark street, screaming and clutching a small child, by two men with metal pipes. They howled at her. When they overtook her, they beat her with the pipes until she was unresponsive. They beat the child as well, just in case it, too, was a beastblood.
In a small square surrounded by trees and cobblestone streets, a group of Feralkin huddled together. They stood in the center, looking around in bewilderment. Only minutes earlier, they had been asleep in their beds. Now, men with torches and lengths of rope, wearing tattered clothes and feeling the anger that comes from eating only one meal a day (on good days) surrounded the hill, baring black, decaying teeth. The Feralkin fingered their collars, unable to phase into the animal forms that might have saved them. They cried out for mercy that never came.
They screamed as the men hung them from the trees.
CHAPTER 78
C oscoros could feel their screams, even without his wings.
He rose to stand in the castle’s white-walled hospital. The smudges of ash had been cleaned off, leaving him bare chested, his skin as pale as marble. His face was a mask of pain and hatred.
His wings, hanging in useless shreds behind his shoulders, twitched as nurses in facemasks clipped them off. They would leave the roots, in case he decided to fit himself with prosthetics. The wings would never grow back, though—the fire had seen to that.
The wooden double doors at the opposite end of the room burst open. Leticia walked in, half her face covered by a large white bandage. Her tail scraped as she dragged it across the polished floor.
“Let’s see it,” Coscoros said, narrowing his red-veined eyes.
Leticia peeled away the bandage. It lifted with a sticky sound and let off a sour smell.
“The bear?”
She nodded. “Can you heal it?”
He inspected the three slash marks running diagonally across her face and over the bridge of her nose. One of the bear’s claws had ripped out her right eye. The eyelid was swollen shut.
“I can make the scars small and clean, but there’s nothing I can do for the eye.”
Her good eye filled with tears. “My face.”
“You’re still beautiful.”
The nurses attending to Coscoros’s wings glanced up at Leticia to see if it was true. When they saw her face, they shuddered and looked away.
Coscoros reached out and touched her chin. He tipped her head back to inspect the damage. She blinked, her good eye round and orange and dangerous, framed by a set of spidery lashes. He pulled her close and embraced her.
And as Leticia lay shivering against him, he put his mouth to the wounds and kissed them. Orange light burned where his lips touched, stitching the wounds and sealing them. Finally, he kissed her lips, deeply, as if they were lovers. And yet the whole time he thought about Milo Banks, and what it would be like to drink the boy’s blood until he was no more than a floppy corpse.
The hatred Coscoros felt for the boy was a living thing inside him, with teeth like jagged sea glass and a body that shone like an organ torn from a human chest. It lay curled up and asleep, a dirty, parasitic leech that wanted to feed off all the good in the world.
As he looked at Leticia’s ruined face, that evil thing inside of him opened its eyes and took a deep breath, awake now and hungry for the blood of children.
CHAPTER 79
Basher ran through the forest, cursing his luck and all these stupid, glowing trees.
They reminded him of the way the girl’s golden wings had shone, so innocent, so pretty, so unlike him. Even before the Dark Ritual, when Basher had been a common Sargonaut named Hedding Rol, expert burglar and son of the convicted murderer, Jaken, he had never seen such a thing; an Acolyte with wings that could glow like a new dawn.
Finally. He had found a worthy enemy.
Basher’s rage turned to amusement, and he found himself laughing as he pulled his hammer back and smashed the nearest Caemyri tree into a shower of glowing splinters.
Someday he would do the same to those wings. Only he wouldn’t smash them; he would tear them off, pluck them from the girl’s back while she lived, and he would pin them to a wooden board and hang them above the fireplace of a house he would someday build in the ruins of whatever city he found her and her friends in.
War was coming, and Basher aimed to get there first.
CHAPTER 80
I olus held the glowing rose up to his nose and inhaled. Yes, it even smelled like Zandra, that pure mountain scent he had never been able to forget; the smell of the only woman who had ever been able to capture him. He felt dizzy and let his head fall back with delight. The rose was bigger than any he’d ever seen.
His laughter made a sharp pain shoot up from his belly. The Acolyte doctors had healed his wound. He would live, but just living wasn’t good enough anymore.
He stood in the castle’s courtyard, where the glow from the overhanging spotlamps flooded every corner. Kovax’s Tower of Light, version 3, loomed over him, empty and silent, hinting at its potential for incredible power. And it wasn’t even the biggest one. Version 6, the latest unfinished one, was taller than a Theusian skyscraper.
He looked up at its darkened peak and grinned.
Kovax would want the rose, but Iolus deserved to have it. After all, he had killed the woman, not Kovax. All he had to do now was figure out how to use this tower.
Cold wind rustled his dirty, tangled hair. He still hadn’t wiped the blood and
dirt off. A gust of foul-smelling air hit his face when he opened the door to the tower’s belly. It was pitch black inside. The smell of death made him think of a prison cell in the castle’s dungeons.
He tossed the rose inside and watched it land on a pile of human bones, its red-and-green glow washing the walls with color. A ribcage and the bulbous tip of a thigh bone made eerie shadows. He saw the skull of a small boy and knew at once what Kovax had done to his own son. He respected that about the low mage. It was the sign of a man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.
Iolus shut the door and took the winding stairs two at a time until he reached the top of the tower. He planted his feet firmly in place and concentrated all of his mental powers on drawing blood ether from the rose, hoping the mechanism inside the tower would catch once the energy passed through it. That was how these towers worked, wasn’t it? The machines had to be triggered. He was no magician, but surely a sorcerer as powerful as he could…
Five minutes went by.
Maybe if he just pulled…
Twenty minutes went by.
“Curse the gods!” he screamed up at the sky, stomping his feet and punching the empty air in front of him. He clenched his teeth together so hard he thought they might shatter.
The wind had died down. He could hear rioting in the city streets and the cries of Feral men, women, and children being hunted down. Normally the sound gave him pleasure, but not tonight. He had to jumpstart this tower somehow.
He levitated Aikon until the sword hung horizontally in front of him. Pain was what he needed; raw physical pain, and open wounds to draw in the current. A handy trick for every sorcerer to master.
And yes, he would be drawing blood ether; a vile energy so powerful it could destroy him. But to hell with that! He hadn’t become the legendary Iolus Magnus by being careful.
He sawed around his own body with Aikon. The blade cut into his arms and legs, flashing around him so fast he could barely see it.
Blood dripped, soaking his clothes. He screamed and laughed as the pain filled him. As he had hoped, the lenses of his mind clicked together, and he could see clearly what needed to be done. He drew and drew, and felt the energy from the rose filter through the metal grate in the stone platform. Soon, Alexandra’s soul would be his, and oh the things he would do with it.
Savant & Feral (Digital Boxed Set): Books 1 and 2 of the Epic Luminether Fantasy Series Page 43