‘I believe you were waiting for me?’
The man stumbled round in stupid surprise, which did give Andrew some satisfaction. As he opened his mouth to shout, Andrew rushed him; deciding unhappily that the noise of his firearm would do more harm than good.
They smashed against the wall. His opponent was bulkier than Andrew would have preferred and it was like hitting a bull. To make things worse, the idiot had managed to clamp one meaty hand over Andrew’s face and was proceeding to slam the back of his skull against the wall.
Blinding white pain roared through his head.
He snarled and swung his knife forward, just missing the man’s gut. It did, however, make him shove Andrew away, no doubt alarmed by the sudden realisation that his opponent was armed. Rather stupid really, did he actually think that Andrew would attack defenceless? The momentum sent Andrew staggering backwards, striking against the arch.
Something rather peculiar happen with the contact: It was as if some magnetic pull had bloomed in the pit of his stomach. A constant, vibrating tug, yanking him backwards in a way much too similar to grasping, hungry hands; pinning him against the structure.
The man took a step back, gaping at Andrew in what he’d almost call fear. Alarmed, Andrew pulled away from the arch as rapidly as he could; immediately the feeling—the odd pull at his insides—slackened.
As he freed himself, the man lunged to his right, feigning pathetically, as if he’d seen it in a play and thought it might work; Andrew slammed into him hard, knocking him backwards.
In the tangle of limbs they grappled for the knife; Andrew’s wrist twisted painfully. His boots slipped against the smooth stone. This man was—irritatingly—much stronger than he.
Andrew felt his muscles start to give. He let out a tight gasp in frustration as the bull of a man began to realise he was gaining the upper hand. The blade came forward, out of his control, and snagged in Andrew’s baggy tunic. It threw the man slightly off balance and Andrew seized his chance.
As the man struggled with the snared knife Andrew clamped down over the man’s arm and twisted his grip sharply. The man staggered with a grunt of pain and his upturned hand dropped the blade to Andrew’s waiting palm.
In satisfaction he locked eyes with his opponent so the fellow understood he was going to die.
Andrew rammed his free hand forward, tightly grasping his knife. He felt the slight sickening resistance before the blade punched through fabric and flesh. Still the man clung to him, thick fingers groping at the front of Andrew’s tunic, dragging Andrew with him in his backward stumble.
Andrew’s insides tightened in alarm and he struggled to free himself as he saw where they were headed with alarming speed.
The window.
* * * * *
‘Come on, Andrew,’ Marus grumbled, kicking his boots in the dust. ‘Where are you?’
His attention was ripped as a howl of fear and anger came from above him, and Marus watched, open mouthed, as something burst through the window. It hit the stony ground with a nasty crunch and didn’t move.
Wincing, he looked up to the now shattered glass and saw a figure leaning out, very briefly, before ducking back out of sight.
It was Andrew.
The tightness in his chest relaxed slightly. So, he was still alive. That was something. But he wouldn’t have long. Someone was bound to have heard that. And judging the distance, Marus didn’t know if he’d be able to make it out in one piece.
Grumbling, Marus shed away his comfortable human cover and following a string of mental swears, he beat his wings down and left the ground. With his upward momentum he just caught the lower edge of the window in his big paws. For someone his size he struggled, claws raking into the stone. He spotted Andrew leaning over a small shape. Victoria.
If he had been human he would have had a twinge of pity but for now he felt only a detached interest and more than anything a need to get free from this place as quickly as possible before the monster woke.
For the briefest of seconds Andrew looked alarmed to see the great, black beast crawling into the room, but then his face set in almost amused understanding and he slipped his arms under Victoria, lifting her limp body.
‘We need to go. Now!’
Marus nodded emphatically. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’
Andrew seemed briefly surprised that Marus could speak but took it in stride. He was good at that, it seemed.
Marus held out his large hands and after a moment of hesitation, Andrew gingerly rested Victoria in them. She felt like a feather. Yet something warm slicked his palms. Blood.
‘She’s been beaten,’ Andrew explained tightly.
Marus held her close and nodded. ‘Come on, then.’
Again, Andrew didn’t think twice. He swung up and settled on Marus’s back.
Marus released his grip on the window and dropped downwards, beating his wings just in time to keep from smashing into the ground. And then he was moving upwards, out of the pit of bones and into the night sky.
He could have sworn he heard Andrew let out a laugh of wonderment.
‘First time flying?’ Marus called over his shoulder.
Andrew didn’t answer, perhaps he didn’t hear.
Flying was the only time he liked being a dragon. Marus swept low over the sandy hills, making their journey to the Bone Vault seem like an obscene waste of time. With the sun long set, he felt nothing more than a shadow, invisible across the sky as he swept towards the city. He was not the thundering freight train that Noel was, announcing his presence long before he neared. No, Marus was sleek and fast and silent.
It was exhilarating.
How many humans would kill for that chance, honestly? He supposed he still had enough human thoughts in his brain to actually appreciate it. He had stayed human too long; but he didn’t care.
He banked to the right, coming in to circle the palace, and felt Andrew shift on his back, clamp his knees a little tighter. Marus grinned; not to mention: having an attractive passenger made it all the better.
He landed just outside the palace and Andrew was off his back before he touched down. Marus very gently rested Victoria’s limp form on the ground to morph to his human self. He then bent down again and lifted her small frame back into his arms.
Andrew was watching him sharply. Marus could almost see all of the questions running through his mind. It made him grin despite himself. Showing off was always fun, and showing off in front of Andrew—well, it was rather fantastic.
He was to be disappointed, however. Andrew simply nodded and set off towards the wall of the castle.
Marus was admittedly impressed as Andrew went straight for the hidden door. Andrew had been blindfolded at the time, after all.
Marus kept Victoria close to his chest as he followed Andrew up the dark stairwell and into the heart of the castle. It felt strangely dead and Marus’s nerves prickled.
At last, Andrew stopped at his room, and after a quick look round inside, motioned Marus to follow. He directed Marus and his burden to the bed with a bark. ‘Put her there—gently!’
Marus laid Victoria’s limp body on her belly. Already blood had soaked through the torn layers of her clothing and coated his front.
Andrew’s pale eyes darted over the wounds, calculating. ‘I will need some warm water—make sure it’s actually clean—and I’ll need herbs; I’ll make a list.’
Marus shifted uncomfortably. ‘Are you sure you should be handling this?’
Andrew fixed Marus with a stare. ‘Can’t trust any of these frauds here to do anything without making a mess of it. That’s exactly why I’m handling it.’
He muttered unhappily, shuffling to the door.
‘Stand aside, I’m here!’ A sharp voice said outside the hall.
Marus obediently did as he was told, relieved as Arkron swept into the room.
Andrew bristled. ‘I don’t need you.’
Arkron completely ignored him. ‘Oh, I think you do. Now move.’<
br />
Much to Marus’s surprise, Andrew actually complied. She called for supplies and, Marus, realising no-one else was moving, did it himself.
As Arkron worked, Andrew surprised Marus by taking him aside. ‘We are going to pay for this.’
Marus frowned in confusion. ‘For stealing Victoria back?’
Andrew nodded grimly. ‘This night is just beginning.’
Marus closed his eyes and groaned. He didn’t like the sound of that.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Tollin, almost in a panic, climbed up to the cable bridge of his island and, after catching his balance, went hurrying across it. Even after all these years he still had to tell himself to not look down. There was something off about that yawning pit beneath him, that dying sun…It still made his insides tighten in fear.
His heart pounded faster in excitement. He’d counted right. He knew he had. Seventy years. He’d made it! He’d actually bloody made it! It could be a day, it could be the next second, it could be a year from now, but he’d made it. And he hadn’t had to fight Craven.
He dropped down to the solid ground of the main island and did a quick sweep with his eyes. No sign of Craven, but what did that mean, really?
After a moment Tollin crossed the worn courtyard. He had the path well worn by now. He’d been travelling it for years, after all.
Ducking beneath a crystal he trotted down the steep flight of stairs that descended down into the very heart of the floating island; the rocks illuminating his way with soulless light.
As he went, the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise. He could never shake the feeling he was being followed. And the aggravating bit was he wasn’t so certain Craven was responsible.
His nerves had long since been stretched to their breaking point.
He whistled to keep his nerves from snapping.
After the twelve exhausting flights of stairs Tollin arrived at the great, rotating crystal.
The work he’d started had become an obsession: all the hours of sweat and ingenuity he had put into channelling the power up and out to his island. It was the only thing he’d found to keep him from sleeping. Yet there was something else. Some sense. Something ancient and powerful that drew him obediently in. The ancient writing on the walls connected to him in a way he did not understand.
Tollin pressed his lips into a hard line and turned away from the marred walls. The palace was a potential archaeological goldmine, but most of it was so destroyed and wind-worn that Tollin found it impossible to make any progress.
Anyway, that wasn’t why he was here today.
The circular room was, unfortunately, much too deep and much too far from his island to stretch any cables between. He had improvised by turning to the crystals. They went spiking up the walls—as well as everywhere else—and after a bit of experimenting, he’d realised by chipping here or there, the power could jump from one to another. And, well, he had plenty of time. Carving them had turned into a welcome challenge and gradually he had worked his way up.
It had started out of boredom and desperation to stave off sleep, carving bits of crystal: tiny animals, a chess set—which he couldn’t convince Craven to play with—and then people. Familiar faces.
Perhaps he’d gotten a little carried away, but it did direct the flow of electricity with a cleverly chipped shard. And there was something rather beautiful about a sun flare bouncing between and reflecting his art.
It had taken Tollin some time to decide exactly whom he wanted here with him. It had to be people he wanted to honour, people he wanted to see again. People he never wanted to forget.
Arkron had been his first choice. She had, after all, been the first person he’d ever set eyes on, the first person who had shown him any kindness. She was, in a way, a mother to him. The only one he’d ever known, anyhow.
The other faces had been a bit of a challenge. After some debate Tollin had decided on his late brother, Marus. After that had come those others who, throughout his thousand years of life, had had meaning to him.
It took a long time to carve each crystal till he was satisfied and till it was channelling energy with a promising hum. And since starting ten years ago, he was now at the top of the precarious shaft, where the final crystal would shine down to his little island like some beautiful lighthouse.
Now this crystal was the most important. Standing at the top of the tower she had a most glorious view. She deserved it.
He climbed to his narrow workstation and turned his attention to the glowing crystal before him, twirling his handmade tools. It was easy to lose himself in his work, just as it was easy to lose any sense of time in this place.
He tentatively tapped away at the rock, attempting to calculate just how each small modification would alter the power. He would be going home soon.
‘Wanton destruction!’ The voice nearly made him jump from his skin and Tollin looked down, wide-eyed, to see Craven scuttling up the passage like a spider, glowering in rage.
Tollin stiffened. ‘It’s not destruction! It’s art, see? And this place could do with a bit of it, all things considered. It’s going to help, I promise. I’m redirecting the power on this island. We’ll be able to make things—’
Craven wasn’t listening; he crawled round on spindly limbs to face him. ‘You have been here many years, boy, but you do not age.’
Tollin swallowed. ‘I age…grey hair here, see?’ He tilted his head.
Craven growled. ‘What is your lifespan?’
‘Well…that’s always the question, isn’t it?’ He cleared his throat. ‘Never know when you’re going to go, aye?’ He spread his arms wide in a peaceful shrug.
‘No. That is not sufficient!’ Craven swung forward on his delicate arms and legs like a stick man to tower over him in the tight space there was no way for Tollin to react. In a quick swipe, Craven brought down his fist—tightly clenching a shard of rock—directly into Tollin’s open palm.
For a stunned moment Tollin gazed down at his slit hand in indignation, as blood seeped up.
‘What was that for?’ he snapped.
Craven peered down at the metallic, coppery blood welling. ‘You are not human scum,’ he said in a hollow voice, ‘and yet, you are not dragon…’ He raised his unnerving eyes. ‘What are you? Not vampire or mechanical or one of the species of air or star or shell…’
Craven’s big, rough hands caught Tollin by the wrist and pulled his bleeding palm up under his nose to examine.
Tollin bristled. A cold, murderous anger was beginning to fill him. ‘Unhand me.’
‘To live for so long without showing signs of aging…’ Craven’s fist tightened till his claws pierced his wrist. ‘I should have known. Should not have slept for so long.’
Tollin yanked in Craven’s grip but the creature had a surprisingly strong grasp. He thought fast. He didn’t want to resort to violence. Bringing his hammer up and bashing it down on Craven’s head was not the most desirable action to escape this situation. Yet, if Craven would not let go…Tollin wasn’t sure if he’d be left with much of a choice.
Craven seemed to read his mind. Roughly he pulled Tollin’s hand closer and, much to Tollin’s revulsion, licked his sliced palm. Only then did his grip slacken and Tollin yanked his hand away, staring at the wound in horror. His immune system was strong, but it was impossible to know what pathogens might be swimming about in Craven.
‘What the hell was that for?’ he cried again in a strained voice.
Craven’s eyes narrowed with some ancient understanding. Some hatred.
Tollin took a breath and dropped the alarming fall to the bottom of the shaft; pain shot up his legs as he landed. His muscles tightened beneath his skin. He didn’t like the odds of what was inevitable now. Craven was alarmingly strong.
Craven’s flat lips pulled up, baring sharp teeth. ‘You stinking, foul mutation!’ He crawled down after him, limbs so long they took up the whole shaft.
Tollin glowered. That wasn’t very nic
e.
‘You’re a disgusting half-breed!’ Craven roared.
Tollin mentally cringed at the word. It was the one slight he’d never been able to come to terms with, no matter how true it was.
Perhaps nothing more than an illusion, but Craven’s anger was having a disturbing effect on him. Tollin wasn’t so sure he trusted his eyes yet Craven almost appeared to be expanding; insides no longer content in his odd, bony frame. And circular room was rapidly growing too small; too dark. Craven scurried down the shaft and landed across from him, bristling and hunched.
‘Who’s spawn are you?’
Tollin took another step back, knowing he was growing dangerously close to the yawning pit over the sun. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. ‘My mother was a huma—’
Craven spat at Tollin’s feet. ‘I don’t care about the filth your father bred with! I wish to know what dragon you come from!’ He wove back and forth like some bony cobra.
Tollin felt his throat tightening. His spine straightened at the question. ‘He was called Xixan.’
Craven’s face went slack. ‘One of the originals…’
Tollin scowled in confusion. Originals? He’d have to wrack his brain for that later, try and find it in the immense amount of data that he had stored up there.
Craven was now giving Tollin a look of pure disgust. ‘How dare you?’ He arched his back, spine popping. ‘How dare you breathe the air I breathe? You do not deserve it!’
Tollin held up his hands. ‘Just calm down, mate.’
Craven’s body was shifting still, taking on a monstrous, broken appearance. It turned Tollin’s stomach.
‘All of your kind should have been exterminated long ago! You taint the species!’
Tollin gripped his hammer tighter, beginning to lose the feeling in his fingers. Oh, how many times had he been in this situation? Defending himself simply because he existed? It was hardly fair.
The confusion came. ‘Wait a moment, why do you care? You’re not a dragon! What reason have you to hate me for what I am?’
Craven moved forward on his knobby joints, crawling down from his elevated position with liquid ease. ‘You simple minded pathetic waste of skin! You do not deserve the knowledge! You deserve nothing but a miserable end!
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