The Onyx Vial (Shadows of The Nine Book 1)

by Lampley, Alexis

  Ariana’s teeth clacked against each other. She had to get his etâme out to the water, but it was hard to find her own beneath the paralyzing cold. If only she could be warmer.

  No.

  She couldn’t think warm thoughts to thaw herself or she’d block his etâme. Instead, she had to make the feeling work for her.

  It’d been a long time since she’d been truly cold or wet. But the moment she thought of that feeling, a memory snapped into place. Suddenly, the trickle of etâme flowed through her, swirling together with the Captain’s icy touch. With a heavy sigh of relief, she blinked the image away and moved the cold through her arms, imagining it jetting out of her fingertips.

  Just as the frigid extension of her fingers met the boiling water beyond the window, Killian’s hot hands found her right shoulder, conjuring thoughts of him pinning her to the floor, his hands around her neck...

  A searing heat shot through her right arm, pinched the nerves in her shoulder, and exploded like fireworks beneath her skin.

  She howled in pain and tore her body away from their hands, curling and dropping to her knees. “What’d you do that for?"

  “I didn’t do anything,” Killian said, backing away.

  “That hurt,” she said, standing only when she was certain no one was near enough to touch her.

  “Did you tense?” the Captain asked.

  “Tense?” Why did her voice sound so hysterical? “Of course I was tense. This is a lot of pressure.”

  The Captain shook his head. “No. If you tensed when Killian touched you, you closed yourself off. You would've had the same reaction to me, but you let my etâme flow right into you. Are you unwilling to work with him?”

  “Of course I’m willing to work with him. It's just..." She huffed. I have to trust him. "I've never needed anyone else to—I've never used my etâme with anyone this way." She returned to her position against the glass. "It surprised me, was all,” she added. “Let’s try this again.”

  After a moment, both the Captain and Killian’s hands found her shoulders. This time, when the cold swept through her and she pushed it out, she relaxed, and let Killian pull the heat through her like thread through a needle.

  After a few minutes—or perhaps an hour, as time was fickle—she had narrowed her focus to the water itself, letting the passing energies fuse with her own, putting her in a more comfortable mental position, where she felt like she was alone.

  The cold extensions of her fingers groped for purchase against the roiling, ever-changing current, trying to establish a path. But a path the size of her hands wasn’t wide enough. The vessel needed a tunnel.

  She pressed her hands harder against the window. The fingers reached further, then twisted, stretched, formed a net and pushed outward. She tried to imagine the bubbles darting out of the way of the vessel. Each time one would reach the extension of her hands, she would let the cold net devour it and send its heat into Killian’s hands.

  The Subble sped forward, less jittery, reaching farther under the watery realm of the Fyrennian Isle, and soon, the feeling in her extension was akin to running through a swarm of gnats with her hands over her face. Very few of the boiling bubbles hit the vessel itself.

  Though the task required all of her attention, eventually, she started to notice George and Harold’s low murmurs and felt the sweat on Killian’s palms soaking through her shirt.

  Not a good sign.

  Prolonged etâme, no matter how hard she focused, was something Ariana had never done before. She started feeling weak, as if she’d been swimming alongside the vessel from the start.

  Then the cold that flowed from Captain Leeward’s hands ceased.

  He fell to the ground beside her. And with the absence of his power, a great weight fell on her right side—to Killian. His stubby fingernails dug into her skin.

  George ran to the Captain’s aid.

  Ariana wanted to turn her head and check on the Captain. But Harold barked an order the moment she tried to look. “You two. Work together,” he said. “Don’t stop.”

  A flare of panic erupted behind her eyes and she whipped her head back toward the window. There was no begging her way out of this. She and Killian would have to do as Harold said.

  She refocused. But without the Captain, she struggled to keep the cold in the water. If she couldn’t cool it down… “We need to use the heat in our favor,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Yes,” he grunted.

  “How much do you have stored?”

  His hand slid across her back so each one was on a shoulder. “Enough,” he said. “What do you have in mind?” His words strained. This was taxing him as much as her.

  What did she have in mind? Make a hot spot, concentrating all the heat in one direction. No... there was too much. They’d been at it for a while already, and they were down to two.

  Her mind wandered to the crew. Why weren’t they called to help? Were they all really too busy to help avoid their own demise? The only thing as important as what she and Killian were attempting was fueling the vessel. But did it take all of them to keep the Subble moving?

  She inhaled sharply. That was it.

  “Something you want to share?” Killian asked.

  "The boiling water. It's causing chaos," she said, struggling to hold the cold net in place.

  The Subble tremored and whined.

  “I’ve noticed,” Killian muttered.

  "Boiling water is pushy." Her net was disintegrating. “We need to channel it. Get it to push in one direction only.”

  For a moment, Harold’s face and torso were reflected in the window. He was braced low, gripping the wheel securely to keep them on course. But he nodded ever so slightly, as though he understood what she was planning.

  “I’ll direct it. You push the heat through when I say,” she instructed, resituating her hands and setting her feet wider to hold steady, bracing for the inevitable onslaught of boiling bubbles.

  She took Killian’s silence as agreement. Then she refocused and strengthened the net again, pulling it closer to avoid wasting precious energy. Carefully, she released one finger—one strand of etâme—searching for the current. She caught it, and eased the rest of the strands over, forcing the ribbons of heat that roiled in the water to follow the shape of the craft and turn in upon themselves at the back. She didn’t need to be near it. She just knew if she got it back there, the boiling water would do its job.

  The craft jolted forward.

  Ariana’s hand, slick with sweat where the heat was pulled through, slipped from its position. The bubbles rushed into the window, jerking the craft backward.

  “That was it,” Harold said over the rattling of the room.

  Ariana shook the jolt off and refocused, moving the tendrils back into the current and this time, as they worked around to the back, she grunted, “Now.”

  Killian let out a roar of exertion.

  Her back was on fire. It sliced into her skin and ate away at her chest, clawing toward her fingers. Her heart bounded off her ribcage. She bit down hard to avoid screaming. The tears that escaped her eyes felt as though they, too, boiled.

  It was too much.

  By the time the heat escaped her fingers and traveled down the waning tendrils, her eyes burned and her legs threatened not to hold her.

  “Come on,” Killian breathed in her ear. “Drive it out of you.”

  She blinked, fighting the heavy droop of her eyelids, and reached out farther into the water. The roiling was as strong as ever, but the temperature began to drop.

  Her arms felt as though weights hung from them. She wanted to lie down, to drop her hands and let her muscles rest. She tried to resist, but there was no more controlling it.

  She’d reached her limit.

  “Not much farther. Don’t give up,” came Harold’s voice.

  Harold.

  He was cheering her on…

  But she was lost in the haze of weakness. She had run until her legs gave out
and now he wanted her to climb a flight of stairs. If he’d asked her to stand, she barely had the strength. She closed her eyes. Her hands slipped.

  “Almost there,” Killian encouraged.

  Killian now, too? They had to be close.

  With a shaky inhalation and a jerk of her head, she forced her eyes open and squeezed out the last of her energy, pushing the heat as hard as she could in the right direction.

  The vessel rocketed forward.

  Killian’s hands slipped off her back, followed by a heavy thud.

  Killian had succumbed to the fight? If he went down, what did that mean for her? Foreboding rode in like a storm cloud.

  “That can’t be good,” she uttered, as strength left her completely, and she crumpled to the floor.

  Chapter 28

  Hunter shivered as the bitter wind snuck through the gaps in the barrier of giant stones around him. The trailing particles of ice and snow were like claws reaching for what little warmth his tiny fire could muster. He scooted on his rock perch and nestled closer to the Mustang’s middle. Drawing on her body heat, he wished for more than the few feet of cover the overhanging boulder afforded them.

  He tried not to think of how unfair his situation had become. But he couldn’t help it. He was alone—for the first time since he’d escaped into the book—and ill prepared. He had no idea where he was, regardless of the map in his pocket, because the Mustang had not been helpful enough to follow the route the map had indicated when she began running for her life with him on her back. Finn was either safe in Treddian, or a captive of the Huntsmen, and if he was captive, it was all Hunter's fault. But there was no way to find out, because his postal quill had broken in the chaos. He had to hope one of the others would write to him. If they had gotten to safety. But he didn't know that, either. Now he was three days behind schedule, winter had clearly decided to rear its frigid head, and he had no clue how or where to go to reach his next checkpoint. He could hardly breathe for thinking of it.

  He would have to risk entering a town to orient himself. The Huntsmen would no doubt be combing the outlying areas in search of him. But he had no other choice. He’d just have to remain unmemorable. Of course, riding into town on a Mustang wouldn’t help in the slightest.

  “I’m doomed,” he groaned. Then he shook his head. No. It could be worse.

  A few things were still in his favor. The Mustang had eventually tired and let him down. And he’d had the extra clothes from his bag, which he’d layered, as much as possible, over the clothes he had on. So he was warmer than he might've been.

  And the moonlight was bright enough to see by—until the clouds moved in—so he’d been able to find his way to this field of stones breaking through the winter-wheat and straw-grass covered earth. The boulders weren’t a real shelter, but they blocked some of the wind. And with the grasses snow-dampened, when he’d eventually managed to start a fire, they took to a slow burn, ensuring him heat that would last the night. All was not yet lost.

  He watched the fire’s pale gold light flicker against the Mustang’s inky black hair. Part of him wanted to test his ability on her. He’d only read Masters of the Unusual once, but he figured whatever power he uncovered could help him to survive in some way. Then again, the part of him aware of how cold his hands were kept him from taking off his gloves.

  The Mustang shifted her weight. He pulled away to avoid losing balance on the rock, and instantly regretted it. Her warmth evaporated from him.

  The sudden chill served as a mocking reminder of how alone he was truly was. He thought of Ariana and silently thanked her. Had he not met her, all those nights he’d snuggled under the covers in a comfy bed could've easily been spent like this. Running from Huntsmen. Alone. Except for the wild horse standing beside him.

  He let his eyes trail across the Mustang’s side, examining the faint lines of ashen grey that swept over her shoulder and neck and tangled in her mane. He hadn’t noticed them before—not that he’d had much opportunity to look. Perhaps they were a trick of the dim light.

  He lifted his hand, throwing shadows on her dark hair. But the streaks were there. And something else.

  He kept his arm raised, peering at the spot where the shadow landed. It sat like an echo over a grey, hand-shaped splotch on the Mustang’s side.

  He tore his glove off and set his palm against the splotch. A shiver trilled up his spine. It was a perfect fit.

  The Mustang turned her head, her full-moon eyes trained on him with obvious interest.

  “I’ve got to try this now, don’t I?”

  He took off his other glove and rubbed his hands together to warm them. Then he replaced his hand on the splotch and grasped for the feeling he’d had in his lessons—that vine-like tingle in his veins.

  But there was nothing at all.

  He fought the worry that scrambled into his mind, clinging to anything that felt like reason. Perhaps the etâme reacted to his body temperature, and flowed through him now like half-frozen tree sap.

  The Mustang shivered, the muscles in her back rippling. And suddenly, the vine-tingle whirled beneath his skin. His heart leapt.

  Sliding his hand off the grey splotch, he sucked in a breath. The silhouette of the hand was now a much lighter grey. It was easily visible, even in the oppressive dark. And his fingers tingled.

  “Whoa,” he whispered, his body flooding with energy and warmth.

  The Mustang let out a soft whinny, as if to say, “continue”. So he pressed his hand to an area full of black and swirled it around. This time, the tingle on his skin was more pronounced.

  Ghost-trails of light seemed to drift along beneath his fingertips. There was weight to them—hardly more than a thread of a spider’s web, but a weight nonetheless.

  Her soul.

  “I’m drawing it,” he uttered in wonder.

  Overcome with wonder, he put both hands on the Mustang and slid them across her side. It was like finger-painting, making swirls and waves and stripes, watching in wonder as her hair changed from the black of night to a chalky white.

  He didn’t know how much time passed as he stood and circled her, both palms gliding across her body as if washing a car, but he didn’t care. Energy charged through him.

  In a moment of curiosity, he twisted her mane and pulled his hands down it as if wringing water out of a towel. Where his hands touched, the black hairs turned a stormy, shimmering grey—like pencil lead mixed with charcoal.

  Hunter's entire being buzzed beneath his own skin. Soon, his vision bubbled like an Apple Fizzle. And then the current of etâme that flowed through him suddenly attached to another, more concentrated current. The Mustang’s etâme. It flowed like a circuit between them, giving him a hyper-awareness of how near he was to completing her transformation.

  He worked feverishly, making sure his hands drew her soul from every single spot of black on her body. When he was certain he hadn’t missed anything, he twisted her tail as he’d done her mane, and slid his grip down.

  A burst of wind blew through him.

  He gasped and staggered backward into the rocks. He didn’t need to consult Masters of the Unusual to know what had happened.

  The Mustang was fully drawn. Her power was the wind.

  She reared and neighed—a wild, fearless cry of triumph that was reflected in Hunter's very core.

  “We’re connected now, aren’t we?”

  Her hooves hit the earth and she turned her head, training her silver-grey eyes on him.

  The wind swirled in his chest and pulled tight. Yes, the ethereal tendrils seemed to say.

  Tears stung the corners of his eyes and he whooped wildly in triumph.

  To his surprise, a word floated to the surface of his mind, hovering over every other thought.

  “Switch,” he said proudly. “Your name is Switch.”

  He heaved a sigh, the etâme inside him replaced by the lightness of relief.

  This didn’t change much. He was still lost in the middle of
nowhere without food or a clue. But now he wasn’t alone. He had Switch.

  He’d be alright. Somehow, he’d be alright.

  His stomach gurgled unhappily. Especially if he could find something to eat.

  He turned to check the fire, wishing something cooked over it, only to find it had nearly gone out.

  He snatched some grasses from the pile he’d set out to dry, and added them. After some finessing, the flames finally shot upward. He followed their movement with delight, and two bubbles appeared at their peak.

  Confusion tickled at the back of his mind. Then he laughed at himself and coaxed the bubbles away from the fire. Not real bubbles, Hunter. He poked them both. The glassy surfaces shattered into nothingness.

  Several thick folded pages and an elephant ear leaf dropped into his hands. His heart stumbled.

  The leaf was from Treddian.

  He flattened it on the rock where he’d been sitting and peered at the scrawling script that protruded from the surface like the veins of the leaf. He might've marveled at the beauty of it if his worry for his friends’ well-being hadn’t raced to the forefront of his mind.

  Hunter,

  Where are you? Why haven’t you written? Are you alright? Perry and Dilyn are safe in the city with me. But the Huntsmen took Finn. They headed toward Lockden.

  “No,” he whispered. Switch whickered.

  The Sentrees went after them. We don’t know if they reached them in time. And there’s nothing we can do for him now but wait.

  This was all Hunter’s fault. If he hadn’t gone to help Switch—or if he’d been able to fight for himself—Finn wouldn’t have gotten involved. But Hunter hadn’t the heart to stand by and do nothing.

  And neither, it seemed, did Finn.

  He grimaced. Finn was young enough. He would be taken to Lockden. And thanks to his grandpa's first-hand accounts, Hunter knew much more about Lockden than his friends. Of course, it was only after he'd known Ionia actually existed that he realized the accounts weren't just scary stories.

  He looked at Switch, newly white and grey, drawn into her powers and connected inexorably to him. Finn had basically given his life so that Hunter could give her that power. He shouldn’t have had to do that.