Lips tightly clenched, eyes half-closed, she stared across the chamber, alone with her thoughts. A single tear trekked down her cheek, then another. Her sobs broke the stillness. She was utterly alone and didn't know what else she could do.
The mutant shifted inside her chest, a grim reminder of its presence. She moaned softly, a hand flying to her breast. The all-consuming pain was a part of her, something she now accepted. As she pressed her hand to the wound, she felt the creature twitch again, knocking against her ribs. She grimaced ruefully. It seemed to be alive and well. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, trying to warm her body, cursing her thinness. Dissenting voices began to echo in her brain, teasing and taunting. Against her will, she had been forced to share body, breath and heartbeat with a mutant being. It was an awful defilement, a rape of the soul that nothing in life could prepare her for.
Almost forgot about that fucking thing, she thought. Wonder how long it'll be before it's spitting out my bones? At least it won't have much of a meal.
The movement abruptly stopped. Was the creature listening to her thoughts? It didn't require a live host, but she perceived it considered a living being a greater source of nourishment.
The torches around her began to falter. She knew they would soon go out, and she and the dead would be covered by another shroud of darkness.
Exhaustion scratched at her eyes, tempting her to lie down. She gave herself a hard slap, striking her face with her open palm. She needed to stay awake if she were going to get out of this death room.
The chamber was unbearably icy, and her hot breath formed misty ribbons in the air. Chilled to the bone by the frigid cold, she was close to succumbing to hypothermia; a strange numbness was settling with ease into her limbs. Her eyelids began to slip lower, lower, bringing a welcome, peaceful void.
A delicious sensation of lightheadedness swept through her; she slipped into a trance-like state. She was no longer cold, no longer concerned with the pains of her human body. Her spirit freed itself of physical bonds and drifted into the nurturing, secure womb of the third world, the astral plane. The freedom was lusciously warm, as soothing as a summer breeze
In her semi-dream state, Julienne was drawn down long tunnels and up steep staircases. She was so much a part of the scenery around her she could feel the heat of the torches propped in sconces, smell the acrid aroma of their oily smoke, trace the scrollwork on the ceilings and feel the hard chill of the floors. The sensations were frightening, wonderful and exciting; and she reveled in her spirit's release.
But she was not entirely free, for some force, something she could not understand or resist, pulled her forward against her will. As abruptly as she had entered the tunnels, her spirit passed through rock and into a lit room. Blazing torches and candles and a roaring fire in a massive hearth bombarded her acutely tuned senses. She hovered like a wraith amid many people, invisible to them.
She immediately recognized Xavier, the deliverer of her pain, a man who sparked a hatred inside her like nothing she had ever experienced. He sat in a large chair before the hearth. His face was contorted in agony as a small Chinese man worked on his wounds with the patience of a saint. Other servants fetched the implements the healer needed to complete his work.
"Finish, Duk-cho," the sorcerer growled.
"Once swelling goes down," the old man said, "you will regain sight."
"Fortunate for you," the sorcerer sneered.
Julienne's attention shifted to a woman pacing the chamber a distance from the back of Xavier's chair. She was dressed in a flowing white Grecian-style chiton, and had the kind of beauty Julienne once possessed. All platinum hair, blue eyes and flawless skin, she held her head high. An aura of assurance and power exuded from her. Her fantastic beauty seemed unreal, illusive, with something hard and vicious marring her features. Her face, though stunning, gave the impression of great inner cruelty.
Julienne gasped. Her insides tingled white-hot, as though someone had infused her veins with fire. She had never met this woman, but she recognized Morgan's twin sister, Megwyn. Though she somewhat resembled him physically, there any similarity ended. Where Morgan was not consumed by ambition, this woman was. Megwyn was hungry for control, and Julienne sensed that, for her, to obtain it and use it to enhance her own greatness was paramount.
By comparison, Xavier was hardly a menace, a tired old lion facing his own imminent burnout. Megwyn was just coming into a power she would use the sorcerer to help her acquire. Destroying her brother to further that acquisition was a large part of her plan.
Julienne's awareness zoomed on the whole of the room. The Chinese man finished his work and placed his implements into a small case. He stepped aside when Megwyn positioned herself at Xavier's side.
"You are sure we are the only ones who seek the Cachaen writings?" she asked, an edge hardening her voice.
"The scrolls have been lost for eight millennia," Xavier grumbled. He gingerly touched the black stitches closing his most recent wound. "To find them will take much energy, but the Dragon will easily grant us the resources. We need fresh souls…" He chuckled, a rasping, grating sound that revealed a twisted sense of humor.
"I'll see that you have plenty to sacrifice," she promised.
Julienne recoiled, but also sharpened her hearing.
Megwyn unexpectedly whirled. Her body stiffened, as if she suspected someone of peering over her shoulder. Her piercing blue eyes scanned the room, raking every nook and cranny.
"What is wrong with you?" the sorcerer asked impatiently.
"Nothing." She turned back to Xavier. "Only that we must be very careful. I sense some within the council will oppose my move. Until I know who…"
Unexpectedly, Julienne was yanked from the chamber and whisked through a long, dark tunnel. She snapped awake in gloom, vaguely aware of the spiritual shifting that had allowed her to travel out of the chamber. Had she really seen an actual event, or was it merely the fancy of a sick, desperate mind?
A strange and welcome warmth began to envelop her, and curious, subtle and focused visions penetrated her mind, definite and meaningful. From somewhere nearby, a familiar voice whispered her name.
Julienne…
The chamber around her seemed to fade into obscurity. She summoned up the vision of an altar in a secret room, her grandmother atop it. For a moment she fancied she could actually see Anlese. The old woman's blurry image smiled upon her, her eyes gentle with love…and hope.
"Grandmother," she murmured.
Remember…No sound came from Anlese's mouth, yet Julienne heard it. Then the old woman held forth her hand. A thin white scar marred her palm.
Julienne turned up her own hand. A matching scar was incised into hers. Yes, Morgan had cut, then bound their hands together. As if disbelieving, she looked again to her grandmother.
Your bond with Morgan is a true one. You have a powerful gift inside. The old woman's image began to fade. Learn to use it...
She was again alone, still trapped in this hateful place of death.
Julienne emerged from the vision slowly, a little disoriented but completely comprehending. She sat for a moment, reverent, absorbing the memories with mixed emotions.
The strange, intoxicating trance had lasted only a few moments, but it might have been forever for all that it revealed. She shivered as she thought about the visitation, lulled by its symbolism. With deliberate effort, she recovered herself. What her grandmother had passed to her was not to be feared but embraced. Her gift would help her survive.
She thought of Morgan and her love, of how she had summoned the courage to defy him. As one new to the occult, she had not yet been initiated into its vast mysteries. She wanted to understand, yet she had hung back, frightened by what she saw in him--the battle he fought to keep sane even as his psyche was torn to shreds by a legacy he wanted to deny. Would it also attack her in such a way?
A sort of prophetic dread crept up on her. It already had.
Surrounded ag
ain by the encroaching cold, she cupped her hands together and blew into the space between her thumbs to warm her fingers. The purple tips tingled when numbness began to recede. It was a temporary relief.
"I don't want to die like this, damn it!" she spat through gritted teeth, "I can make it."
Somehow, saying the words aloud seemed to reinforce her determination. If I want to live, I have to get up, get moving. I need food, water, warmth, time to heal.
Drawing her legs up, she pushed herself onto her knees and pressed her hand to the wall for support. The effort moved the mutant against her lungs. The sharp pain it caused made her lose her breath. She shuddered, feeling the tremors resonate into the center of her being. She heaved, pressing her forehead to the wall, trying not to vomit as a new wave of nausea rolled in her gut.
Pain warned her that time was growing short. How long did she have before it emerged, fully grown? A few hours? A few days? It occurred to her she might be engaged in a futile battle. What if there was nothing to be done, despite her every effort to live?
It was because she believed in her bonding with Morgan that she'd thrown away her mortal identity. It was a destiny she couldn't turn away from. She had to follow the path she'd set for herself, even if that path meant she would end up dead.
I won't think about what's inside me. As long as I'm breathing, there's a chance. The idea emboldened her. By God, she'd survived a trip through the hell of drug abuse and a near-fatal slashing of her face by her crazed ex-husband. This was nothing, a little inconvenience. Check that. Okay. A major inconvenience.
Staying here isn't getting me anywhere! She placed a hand to her clammy forehead, trying to will away the sensations incapacitating her. Gotta go, gotta live.
She pushed away from the wall and forced herself to stay on her feet. She was unsteady, but she was operative. She took a halting step, and then a second. Confidence grew when she found she could remain upright. She tested her responses, pacing out the length of the wall. Her body was responding, her stamina returning.
Anlese had once restored her system with Morgan's blood. It struck her that the regenerative properties of an immortal's blood mixed with the old witch's healing herbs had strengthened her depleted cocaine-wired system. They might help slow the damage caused by the sorcerer's creation. Perhaps this was the reason she was still among the breathing.
"I thought it was bullshit then," she said to her silent comrades. The fear was beaten back a bit more in her mind. Maybe she had a chance and a hope of escaping alive.
Rely on instinct, a faraway voice whispered. Her bleary gaze found the corpses who were her only companions. Bitten by the damp in the chamber, she knew the clothes she presently wore were inadequate. She made a quick decision. The dead had what she needed.
She swallowed and stepped across the bodies. She kept her mind blank, wincing when rotted flesh oozed beneath her and brittle bones snapped. Her attention settled on the freshest bodies, the first a young man lying on his back, arms and legs twisted at odd angles. He can't be more than twenty, she thought.
She clamped a hand over her nose and mouth and leaned in a little closer. Dressed in boots, trousers and a rough peasant shirt, he had a youthful face contorted in a death scream--his skull had been hacked open by the violent blow of a sharp object. His blood had still been flowing when he was placed in the chamber and had spilled on the bodies beneath him. His eyes were open, sight frozen by the Reaper's scythe.
Her movements were clumsy when she began to strip off his clothes; she concentrated to make her stiff fingers function. It was difficult to get a corpse to cooperate. Her work was slow, but her efforts yielded several pieces of usable garb.
Pleased with her harvest, she examined each cadaver with all possible haste, making a mental inventory of their possessions. Some things she could use, others were beyond salvage. Their clothes, bloodied in battle, were by no means clean, but they were better than what she wore.
"It isn't like they'll be needing them."
She felt curiously detached from her task. If she thought about it, she would crack. Therefore, it was best not to think. Breathing through her mouth helped deaden the odors. Rigor had come and gone, the limbs grown supple as rot set into the bloated bodies. Death was an ugly sight, made more horrible by the way the men had died.
Though she knew Xavier to be alive, she'd been gratified to learn he was wounded, too, his face badly mutilated. Was it Morgan who had inflicted the damage? She hoped so.
Feeling she would never be warm, even in Hell itself, she piled on several tunics over a pair of animal skin leggings. Mouse-colored and unadorned, the cloth had the consistency of burlap. The stitching, however, was fine. Care and craftsmanship had gone into their making. The style was simple, meant to serve a purpose and not fashion.
Her own boots fit well enough, and she was thankful they laced to the knee. Tying a leather pouch around her waist, she filled it with scraps of material and a few pieces of shiny rock, fool's gold and some flints. She didn't know what the stones were meant to represent, but if they were important enough for these men to have carried them, she wanted them.
One of the men had also produced a bonus, an athame and sheath strapped to his inner thigh. Missed in the search of the bodies for weapons, it was a blessing. She fastened the sheath to her leg, adjusting the dagger within easy reach.
"This is good," she grunted with a satisfied nod.
She now wore clothes fit for survival in the barren lands she'd thus far seen and had a weapon for defense. This small grace alone made her feel more secure.
"Let's get going."
She studied the door a few feet away. She knew it was unlocked. Why lock a door against the dead? Her movements were none too graceful, but there was purpose in her stride as she passed over the threshold.
Chapter Eight
Lynar was dead. That was why he could not return to the land of his people.
Home. Danarra. So very far away. He wanted to go back, except he could not. He'd been banished by his people for a crime his elfin kinsmen would not tolerate: thievery. To steal was forbidden, but as much as he castigated himself and begged forgiveness, stealing was a habit he simply could not control.
He felt the hot flush of shame color his cheeks. Regret poked his conscience, digging tiny, needle-like talons deep into his brain. Loneliness welled up inside him. Being forsaken by his own people hurt him worse than he'd ever imagined. The ache in his heart brought a lump to his throat.
Why did he have to steal? He cursed the compulsion that lived in him, a mischievous urchin sitting on his shoulder, whispering in his ear to wrap his fingers around items that were not his. For his sins, he'd had to pay the price--turned out of his hamlet as an undesirable and exile. He had no place to go now, except forward.
The elf swallowed, wiping away the stray tear that escaped his eye. Standing at the edge of a rocky slope overlooking the lowlands, he surveyed the unfamiliar territory stretching before him.
Under a cloud-sown sky, patches of greenery--trees and grass--struggled to grow among ruins of villages long abandoned. Shielding his eyes and peering through his fingers, he could see the river of clear, running water just ahead. The countryside bore no recent signs of cultivation and few signs of human habitation. He had already traveled a great stretch of it, walking for miles, and had not encountered a single soul.
I might as well be dead, came the discouraging thought. There isn't much here.
It was eerie to walk through the ruins of a civilization torn to shreds by a war of occult forces fueled by ambition and jealousy.
He moaned aloud in frustration as arctic spikes flicked at his raw face. His lips were chapped; his dry throat ached from breathing in cold air. The storm had blown in unexpectedly, hurling down from the Northlands, pelting the ground with tiny flecks of ice. The wind continued to howl, grating against his ears. He shivered and tugged the thin cloak around his shoulders. He turned his head away from the icy blast, cursing the co
ming winter. For a moment he thought about turning back.
Back to where, to what? the voices in his mind taunted. To nothing, came the reply.
"Just like the nothing that's here," he whispered to himself.
Lynar sighed and began to pick his way down the rocky slope. He'd already skirted the eastern end of the valley and found nothing there. His going was slow, each step considered. The jagged crevices in the stone were deep, snapping at his heels like a mouthful of gnashing teeth. One wrong step and he could twist an ankle or, even worse, break a limb. A serious tumble down the steep hillside might even kill him.
He shivered at the vision that leapt into his mind, one of himself lying at the bottom of the hillside, helpless, a target for hungry predators. His nerves screamed at him, making him wary of every strange sound.
Never having ventured toward the Northlands, he was unfamiliar with the terrain. He did know this was a dangerous place for his kind. Raiders--tribes of outcasts--had staked out these lands. For those savage people, an elf would be good sport.
Humming a Danarran tune to distract his thoughts, the elf hastened his pace until the valley became a vague memory. Step after step, uncounted, interminable, his walk progressed. His breathing sounded with an abrasive sibilance, seeming to creep after him, hounding his heels.
He advanced onto the steppes of a rockier land, toward the shelter of a low mountain range that served as a barrier against the harsh, almost glacial winds. He paused to catch his breath, panting heavily through his open mouth. Icy currents of air tugged at his hair and clothes, reminding him he would soon need to find shelter. He was not in a good area. If there was famine in the valleys, there was nothing at the end of civilization. The infertile plateaus grew little more than rock.
Near the mountains, the air was thin, hard to breathe. Despite the creeping shadows of dusk, he forced himself to go on, not daring to stop and rest. His feet were sore from his endless walk, blistered in his moccasins. His eyes were heavy with weariness, numb from the cold, stung red from blinking against the flurries of sleet. His steps began to drag with exhaustion. He was sure strength would soon desert him. He forced himself to ignore the rumbling of his stomach.
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