by RJ Blain
My few regrets surfaced, one by one, forcing me to face them while I waited for death to finally claim me. Did always take a long time to die? It seemed so fast in the heat of battle. But no, I had all the time in the world to think about everything I’d done.
I wished I’d had a chance to see Dipshit and Devil Spawn before I’d fallen prey to my uncles. If I could turn back time, instead of tattooing Nate—Anatoly—I should have done something better, like bite him. Why did I always want to sink my teeth into him or smack him around whenever I thought about him?
Why the hell did I enjoy it when he fought back?
Only an idiot would like violence, but with him, I never felt the keen edge of danger slicing into me. We fought, but I thought we fought to find out who was better, not to kill each other. I regretted not knowing what could have been.
I wondered what he’d been doing over the past few months.
From Anatoly, my thoughts wandered to my sword. My katana’s loss hurt more than the killing blow, and when I thought of the broken blade, I thought of the man who’d given it to me. I regretted not coming clean with Todd—and with Gentry.
Given a chance, I thought I would’ve liked having the grizzly bear for an uncle.
Maybe a lot of things would’ve been different if I’d been a little more honest with myself and with them. With a chance to keep them all together, I might’ve even caved and fought my own clan for the stubborn, egotistical tiger who enjoyed yanking my chain.
I wanted to close my eyes and just sink, but I hung frozen, my gaze locked on the Hope Diamond. The stone went dark, and the sunlight above shifted until it no longer illuminated the setting’s many small, clear gems. The necklace seemed a lot shorter than I remembered, meant to be worn snug to the throat rather than hang between the breasts like most large jewels I’d seen women wear.
There was no way someone could force it over my head. The realization made me want to laugh, but my body couldn’t. There was no air left in my lungs, and I couldn’t find the strength I needed to breathe. Then again, in the water, I couldn’t.
It really did take a long time to die, which made me grateful I preferred to kill people in their sleep whenever possible. Maybe the manner of my death mattered. The blow itself hadn’t killed me; the blood loss would—had?
Had it? I remembered falling into the pool. I thought I’d grabbed the necklace, but it must have slipped through my fingers. Somehow, I’d flipped over so I faced the sky instead of the pool’s depths. Had I lost the stone then? It made sense.
What didn’t make sense was the pleasantly numb feeling reaching from the tip of my toes all the way to the top of my head. Nothing hurt. My lungs didn’t burn, something I associated with the need for air. I’d almost drowned myself enough times to remember the sensation of suffocating. Once was enough to ensure I’d never forget. Yet somehow I rested in the water neither drowning nor breathing, free from the throbbing pain in my shoulder. If my heart beat, I couldn’t feel it, either.
I should have.
Was I dead or alive? Maybe I was like that cat trapped in a box with poison which would eventually kill the cat; to anyone outside, the cat was both alive and dead since no one could confirm without a doubt the poison had already killed the cat, or something like that. The theory was one of the reasons I decided pursuing tech or science wasn’t for me.
I found swords and horses a lot easier to wrap my head around, although I regretted not understanding the theory. Was the pool the box and I the cat?
Was I a dead cat or a live one? Did the water count as the equivalent of poison?
I decided it didn’t matter either way. Alive or dead, I didn’t hurt, which was better than I likely deserved. My eyes closed, and I drifted.
I dreamed of horses running along the sea, their hooves splashing through the surf and sand, and I ran with them. The salty wind bit my nose, filling my lungs with the scent of the churned ocean during a storm.
The waves hissed between the gale-driven gusts, sweeping away everything in their path.
But still the horses ran, undeterred by the forces of nature pounding at them, drenching their coats until they were darker than the night, the salt and sand flecking their bodies in the scattered patterns of stars gracing an indigo sky.
Day faded to night, which in turn lightened with the dawn, and one by one, the seasons rose and fell, passing with the fragility of a wave receding into the sea. Not once did the horses tire, although lather sprayed from their necks and fell away to form the foam on the swelling ocean.
Sometime after the chilled wind of winter had frozen everything in its wake and ice had crackled on the shore’s waving grasses, true darkness fell, leaving me alone in the silence.
I preferred the incessant flow of the seasons and the thunder of horses free to run. With them, I didn’t have to remember anything at all.
Death really needed to get its act together and either let me go or finish what it had started, because I was getting a little fed up with the delays. Dead people didn’t dream. They were dead. No one really knew what happened after death, but dreaming wasn’t it.
Thanks to riding as a courier and owning two of the worst yet best horses on Earth, I dreamed of horses often. Who wouldn’t? A horse beneath me, chasing after an elusive wind, was the closest thing to freedom I knew, second only to watching wild herds run across the wilderness.
It didn’t take long for boredom to set in. If death was nothing more than floating in the darkness, no wonder people feared losing their lives. I had no idea how long I waited for something—anything—but I needed to do something.
I needed to be, to exist, to have hands or feet—or paws—and taste the sea air on my tongue. I would’ve taken pain and been happy with it, as long as I could feel something.
A cool, soothing pressure against my throat tipped the scales in favor of life and survival, although I couldn’t imagine how I could be alive. I remembered Abraham’s sword biting into my shoulder and driving deep. Had the pool staunched the bleeding enough to buy me time?
Even if it did, even if I somehow managed to force myself into motion, how far could I go with a sick horse too stubborn to die and a maimed shoulder?
The thought of my abused, bare-skinned horse spurred me into clinging to the only evidence of life I had, the chill pressure around my neck. If I could regain some control over my own body, I’d have a fighting chance. If wound fever took hold, I’d have to rely on my horse to get us somewhere. In reality, once that happened, neither one of us would make it far, but if she could soldier on for a while longer, I could, too.
Maybe I’d end up dying anyway, especially when my body figured out it couldn’t breathe underwater, but if death was going to continue ignoring me, I needed to concentrate on living.
Pain could work as a focal point, if I could convince my body wounds from a blade really did hurt like hell. Over the years I’d been stabbed many times, although never in my shoulder. My ribs and arms received the brunt of my injuries, and in all honesty, it amazed me I could still fight as well as I did.
Scars interfered with movement, and I carried more than my fair share of them, although mystics could—and did—mitigate the damage they caused. My failing health, brought on by inadequate exercise, water, and food, wouldn’t help me recover, but if I could open my eyes, maybe I’d survive long enough to find someone who could help me and my horse.
I concentrated on my shoulder, where I should have felt my heartbeat in the wound as a demanding, horrible throb permitting no other thought. The chill around my throat gradually warmed, and as it did, the first twinge of pain hit.
I braced for the agonies of hell and drew in a ragged breath. I felt cold air bite my sore throat and lungs. Tightness in my chest and a deep-seated itch warned me of the need to cough. I fought the urge, clearing my throat several times.
The sound emerged as a pained rasp. For one blissful moment, I thought my ploy would work, but then my lungs decided to defy me, and a chest-
rattling cough burst out of me.
My shoulder chose that moment to strike, and heat spread from the wound and engulfed me, so painful I screamed—or I tried to. My lungs and throat denied me, and I shuddered as I struggled to draw another breath.
The agony in my shoulder went beyond anything I’d endured before, including the gash from hip to knee or the time I’d almost died training with the Blade Clan.
In that moment, I understood why people screamed after a battle. I considered my breathlessness a stroke of luck; screaming would make things even worse.
First, I needed to control my breathing and regroup. I could scream all I wanted after I ensured my survival. I’d scream my throat bloody. I’d scream so loud they’d be able to hear me in Charlotte. I’d settle for Miami, the closest inhabited to Fort Lauderdale, as an alternative.
At least I wasn’t drowning. I’d figure out how I had avoided a watery death later. Blood loss and pain sometimes caused hallucinations, so in all likelihood, I’d never fallen into the pool in the first place. I concentrated on slowing my breaths. When the agony in my shoulder ebbed to a level easier to manage, I opened my eyes.
Broken stone walls rose around me, and water dripped from above. A faint blue radiance illuminated the cracks in the rock. Through the glow, I could make out the moon in the night sky. The light dimmed as though aware I wanted to watch the sky.
Curtaining bands of green, yellow, and blue encroached on my narrow view of the stars. My eyes widened, and I forgot to breathe. Thanks to Starfall, auroras could show up anywhere on Earth, ribboning their way across the planet, often triggered by magic or a burst. They remained rare in the south. They didn’t appear often in Cheyenne, either.
I’d heard rumors of them being a daily occurrence in the northern reaches of Canada, where only the brave, the foolish, or the desperate went in search of the Starfall stone responsible for changing the Earth. I’d wondered, too, what the original Starfall stone looked like, but I had never wanted to chase after it myself. I had enough problems without courting new ones.
That had been part of the reason I hadn’t touched the Hope Diamond when the chance presented itself. I had walked away, content with not knowing. Careful to avoid using my injured shoulder, I lifted my hand and reached for the warmth around my throat. My arm moved well enough, and my fingertips brushed against metal and polished stones.
I poked my way around the setting, which fit snug against my throat, until I found the dark blue diamond. It was nestled in the hollow of my throat and radiated warmth to the rest of my body. I sprawled on sand-strewn stone, one leg twisted beneath me, the angle of my knee promising a limp at best and a break at worst. Bracing for pain, I slid my hand over my shirt to where Abraham’s sword had cut deep.
My heartbeat throbbed through the wound, and I only needed one touch to confirm a deep grove cutting my shoulder through my collarbone and into my shoulder blade. I grimaced and eased my hand away, lifting it enough to get a look at my fingers.
Even with the light of the aurora burning across the night sky, I couldn’t tell if blood stained my skin or not.
“Well, shit,” I rasped. Clearing my throat to prevent coughing, I prepared to inflict misery on myself. First, I needed to get my leg to a better position to find out if I’d broken it. My feet obeyed readily enough, although moving my left foot hurt my knee enough I gasped. The sooner I moved it, the better off I would be.
By some miracle, my leg obeyed and relief came moments later. My knee was likely twisted and bruised but wasn’t broken. I could work with twisted and bruised. I wouldn’t like it, but I’d be able to walk. If my mare still lived, I’d even be able to make it onto her back with the help of a rock or fallen tree.
I had options.
Losing the use of my dominant hand would cost me, but I’d make my left arm work somehow. Getting out of the pool would be a problem; the top was about fifteen feet above me. At least I had handholds to work with. A closer look revealed patterns decorating the so-called temple and the pillars rising from the ground to frame the artwork carved into the stone. It would hurt, but I could use the carvings and cracks in the stone to climb out.
I braced myself for the pain, I got my left arm under me, and lurched upright. The movement triggered cascading waves of pain and nausea. By some miracle, I kept my stomach under control. Vomiting bile appealed to me even less than hauling my mangled self up and out.
The Hope Diamond weighed a lot; careful to keep my right arm at my side to avoid jarring my shoulder, I used my left hand to hunt for the clasp so I could take the damned thing off. I patted the back of my neck, fingering the diamond-encrusted metal.
I couldn’t find a gap in the metal or any way to remove the necklace.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” I grabbed the large diamond, secured my hold on it, and gave a tug. The thick band dug into my neck but refused to break. Wearing a priceless treasure was fairly low on my general list of things to worry about although I wanted the damned thing off my neck. Later, when I headed for civilization, I’d figure out how to get the damned thing off—and pray it didn’t decide to burst while I was wearing it.
I was grateful to be alive. I could handle overcoming a few problems in exchange for living.
My beautiful little bare-skinned horse had carried me all the way from Charlotte to Fort Lauderdale. I could stand up and climb fifteen feet to freedom no matter how much it hurt. If a horse could endure suffering through her illness and pain to stay with me, I could handle a climb without whining about it.
With the help of a pillar, I rose to my feet and went to work.
Chapter Fifty-Four
I fell my first ten attempts to climb the wall to freedom and knocked myself out eight of them, which caused me to lose an unknown therefore scary amount of time. Before I had reached the top but after I had decided I would escape no matter what, a storm swept in from the sea and slammed the coast, sending surges over the knoll and refilling the pool one wave at a time.
In a way, the water helped. When I did fall, instead of smacking on hard stone, I splashed, which hurt far less and wasn’t guaranteed to knock me out. The rain and saltwater helped numb my shoulder, although my skin felt clammy and I began shivering. I understood I either needed to get warm or keep moving, but all I wanted was to find somewhere to curl up and sleep.
The storm should have hid the aurora, but the bands of color stained the clouds so the sky burned while its fury flooded what remained of the land. By the time I escaped the pool, swells were crashing through the ruins of the town, tearing through the few remaining structures and reducing them to rubble, leaving the mound as the highest ground.
I saw no sign of my mare, and I stared at the white-capped waves, wondering if the sea had claimed her or if she had been wise enough to run for the relative safety of the inland channels and islets.
At least I didn’t have to worry about keeping company with corpses. I had no idea what had happened to Abraham and Edmund Fitzgerald, but I couldn’t find either man. The proof of their presence remained in my injured shoulder, and I located the hilt of my broken blade sticking out of the sand and grasses. Hunting down the sheared-off half took time, but I found it near where the surf pounded the shore.
I didn’t know a lot about fixing swords, but I knew enough to recognize my katana’s days were finished. Not only had Abraham’s blow cleaved it in half, cracks marred both halves of the blade. I sat with my back pressed to the pool’s ledge, my skirt tangled around my legs, while I traced my fingers over the worn steel.
Whether the beautiful blade had hid flawed steel or luck had turned its back on me, I’d have to find another weapon. The stiletto, which I had spotted beside the pool, would be returned to the Cheyenne tribe so I wouldn’t have to look at it and remember.
When I did find my way there, I would have to confess my sins and admit the truth. To the tribe, blood meant everything, and I’d ended the lives of two of my kin, one bound to me through my mother and
the other through marriage. To the Cheyenne tribe, it amounted to the same thing.
They wouldn’t understand. I would face my punishment with pride and remove the beads and feathers from my hair so I could return them along with the right to hide behind a gifted name. Everything would come full circle, and my life would begin again, although I had no idea who I’d become or where I’d go.
Would I return to my dual life as the Water Viper and Jesse Alexander? I could. I could do a lot, even become plain and simple Jesse. Jesse, who didn’t know how to read or write, who could work with her hands or ride horses while taking each day as it came. If I could find my little mare and nurse her back to health, I could stake a claim on a plot of land somewhere in the plains and breed horses.
I could have a future, and I could decide for myself what to do. The chains binding me wouldn’t hold me, not for long. Assuming I survived, I could clear my slate and disappear again—or not.
I could stay. I could crawl back to Charlotte and find out what sort of life waited for me there. I could do anything.
What did I want?
Overhead, lightning arced across the sky, and thunder boomed, shaking the ground. The winds gusted and flung stinging sand and water in my face. Inside the pool, I’d had some protection from the storm. I twisted around to peek down the shaft, wincing at the pain in my shoulder.
It had filled halfway, deep enough to drown me.
All things considered, it was a miracle I had lived. I blamed the Hope Diamond since I couldn’t come up with any other explanation for my survival.
When dawn finally came, it revealed Hope Diamond had burst, and I feared killing Abraham and Edmund Fitzgerald meant nothing. The rising sun should have caught on red crystal and made the sky burn in the reflections of its light. Fort Lauderdale should have chimed in the wind.