The Turquoise Tower (Revenant Wyrd Book 6)

by Travis Simmons

  The noise of the music filled Jovian with power, and he once more took Joya and Angelica’s hands, stepping further onto the battlefield. Around them the angels began to land, the white wings bowing while the black wings hissed at them, jeering them on, pushing them toward the tower.

  Slowly Jovian walked, not allowing the legion to bother him.

  Joya, on the other hand, lashed out with her wyrd, a pure pulse of fury slicing through the gathered white wings. The wyrd was bright, white, and apparently the purelight Russel had theorized about.

  “The power of an angel,” Joya said, looking at her offending hand. “All it took was allowing the angel side in.”

  But with her attack, the black wings took arms and converged on them. The legion was equally matched by the host, and around the four of them grew an honor guard of white wings. Pulses of radiant light accosted their vision from time to time, pushing back the black wings.

  But just as there were bursts of purelight around the group, so too were there bursts of darklight, opening gaps in their protective barrier when an angel was smote beyond the Black Gates.

  The legion tried making their way in when there was a weakness, but the heirs of Sylvie were ready, waiting with a bolt of purelight to take out the aberrant fallen angel.

  And then, finally, their honor guard opened up. Before them were the stairs of the Turquoise Tower, and the retreating form of a silver-haired woman, slipping inside the temple.

  “Porillon,” Angelica said, racing up the stairs after her. The fallen allowed Angelica to go, and Jovian followed closely on her heels.

  Joya started up after Jovian, but a figure streaked out of the sky, lifted her up, and threw her toward the other side of the field. As the doors of the tower were closing shut behind Jovian he saw the face of his cousin sneering back at him from where she rested on the top step.

  Cianna’s eyes were black with Chaos.

  Before them stood an unyielding wall, a hallway stretching out on either side, bending out of sight. To the left Jovian just saw the shifting retreat of a shadow. He tugged on Angelica’s hand, pointed, and loosened the shin-buto in its sheath.

  Blood from the rain pooled beneath their feet as they made their way down the hallway, constantly pulled on by the sight of the shadow slowly stalking away from them, as if it knew they followed and it didn’t care.

  Around and around they went, chasing after the shadow that he knew to be Porillon. He could feel it in his blood as one was only able to feel the one who had killed them. His vengeance pulled him on, fueled his feet.

  There was more to it than simply Jovian’s anger. He could feel Sylvie’s wrath building inside of him as well. This was the woman whom Sylvie had searched for and had never been able to find. This was the woman who betrayed Pharoh and Sylvie, resulting in their downfall.

  The shin-buto would bathe in her blood.

  Finally the constant spiral of the tower’s interior opened onto a central room. It was circular, with a turquoise altar sitting in the center. There were no adornments, but the room was bathed in silver light. Jovian looked up to see an opening, like two great wings, high above him, shining down a light that he knew didn’t exist outside the walls of the tower. It was as if the opening in the top of the tower showed straight into the Ever After.

  Porillon was standing in the center of the room, her hands clasped at her waist, a slight smile on her face. She looked much the same as she had before, with long silver hair cascading around her down to her ankles. The blue tattoos on her face writhed with wyrd, casting cerulean light around her shoulders and chest. She was dressed regally in flowing purple robes, her body adorned with golden jewelry.

  Jovian instantly drew his sword and neared her. She held up a finger to stall him. The scar on his face bloomed with pain, with the memory of the grigori who had marred him.

  “Good evening,” she said lightly, as if she were greeting old friends, but in spite of her friendly demeanor the movement of the blue markings on her face told them she was channeling wyrd to use against them.

  Outside the heavens boomed loudly, but the silver light issuing through the opening stayed strong.

  Jovian pointed the sword at her, and then gestured to himself with the thumb of his free hand. “You and I, we have a score to settle.”

  She quirked an eyebrow in amusement, half hiding the laugh that came to her lips. “Indeed we do.” Porillon said. She threw her arms wide, and Angelica and Jovian were tossed to either side of the room, pinned in place by twisting tangles of wyrd from her hands.

  Angelica reached for her blade, but Porillon began to laugh, and the hilt grew hot, burning Angelica’s flesh. Angelica cried out in pain.

  “I’ve told you before, no weapon will kill me!” Porillon said in a singsong voice. “Even more now that my master has bestowed upon me a gift!” She tossed her head to the side and Jovian could see the bruises of twin puncture wounds in her throat.

  “The rephaim?” Jovian asked, his thoughts consumed with Maeven.

  “That’s right. It appears there’s more than one way to make a half-angel,” Porillon said. “I bet you didn’t know that when your little friend was bitten?”

  “Where are your wings?” Angelica asked.

  Porillon just looked at her.

  “Oh, I get it, just a half-breed,” Jovian said. “You are tainted, impure. Still not worthy of your master.”

  Porillon growled, and with the force of her mind another tendril of wyrd snaked out and tightened around Jovian’s throat. “I will have your life for that!”

  But Angelica lashed out at her with a bolt of purelight, taking the sorceress in the chest and flipping her end over end over the top of the altar, where she fell unceremoniously in a tangled heap of purple velvet and silver hair.

  Jovian fell to the ground coughing, but wasted no time rounding the altar on Porillon. Angelica drew her sword and rounded the other side. Porillon stood, but before she could dust herself off, Jovian and Angelica were swinging their swords at her.

  The sorceress held up her arms and the shin-buto blades clanged against her flesh as if they had met armor. With a burst of wyrd she pushed them aside, fire issuing from her hands to follow them. Jovian ducked out of the reach of the fire and spun around at Porillon, diving for her feet and taking her down to the ground once more.

  Angelica lashed out at her with another bolt of purelight, feeling the thrum of the shin-buto through her body, pumping its power into her wyrd. The purelight slammed into Porillon, dashing her against the wall of the tower.

  Angelica didn’t let up. She held the sorceress in place, pumping more and more of her wyrd into her, crushing Porillon into the stone wall.

  The sorceress grunted, the only noise that told them she was actually feeling the burden of their attacks. And then a sneer formed on her lips, and she lashed out with a bolt of darklight, aimed right at Angelica.

  Jovian leapt to his feet, diving between the bolt and his sister. He brought up his blade, warding off the bolt. But still the darklight came for him, consumed the blade, ran down the length and into his body.

  “This looks familiar!” Porillon trumpeted. “Do you die this time, angel?”

  Jovian staggered with the force of the darklight. His blood burned where the fire of Chaos coursed through his body. Still she poured her fury into the attack. But Jovian could see that she was weakening from the purelight pinning her to the wall. Already the tattoos on her face were beginning to bleed out, losing their luster.

  But still the darklight came, and he fell to his knees. No longer was the chaotic beam aimed at Angelica. Instead it was focused on him, driving him down to the ground, waging war in his soul.

  A force of white light slipped over Jovian’s mind then, and he felt the presence of the purelight in his body. A calm infused his bones, and he felt the darklight redirected down his other arm. With one hand he held the shin-buto firm, and with the other he let loose his fury.

  Darklight wreathed his
fingers, his hand glowing black in the silvery light of the inner sanctum.

  “I’ve already died,” Jovian said. “I am the one who courts the Pale Horse, and he’s come for your flesh this day.”

  And the force of the darklight raged out of his body. He aimed it at Porillon, and it struck her in the chest, where the purelight held her in place. There was a blinding flash, the sound of silence, and then a great torrent of air pulling them toward the point where Porillon rested in the midst of a maelstrom of holy energy and chaotic wyrd.

  Around her swirled an orb of lightning, black and white light tracing itself over the surface, tearing at her flesh, breaking her apart. The orb swirled with the power of death, drawing them close, calling them to the embrace of the Otherworld.

  And then it was gone, folding in on itself and taking with it the sorceress known as Porillon.

  Joya landed hard in the muddy earth, her wings new and awkward on her back. She barely had the chance to right herself before Cianna was bearing down on her, driving her to the earth with a mighty blow of her fist.

  Joya’s head swam with pain and confusion. Cianna was relentless, blow after blow raining down on Joya, pummeling her into the earth. With a mighty kick, Cianna launched Joya through the air again. She was broken and losing strength fast.

  This time she didn’t have the chance to land; she was still in midair when Cianna took her once more. Joya was held in place, arms and legs splayed open, a gray tendril rooted in her chest, stretching out to the hand of her cousin. Through the tendril Joya could feel her essence being drained. She was losing herself: she was being milked of her soul, of her angelic power.

  She felt her skin begin to crack, to dry out as each ounce of her was bled through the wyrded root and into Cianna’s palm.

  Cianna seemed to glow, even as Joya wilted. She knew what was coming for her. Joya knew that she was about to burst into ash and settle onto the bloodied ground.

  She tried to conjure her wyrd, tried to lash out at Cianna, but she couldn’t, she didn’t have the power left.

  And then there was a loud crack of Caldamron’s gun, and the cat man came dashing out of the melee, a gun in each hand. The first bullet had sunk deep into Cianna’s shoulder; the next one took her in the head. It wasn’t enough to kill her, but it was enough to distract her. The tendril released Joya, and she fell to the ground, feathers sloughing from her wings with the crash.

  Joya looked up, feeling the strength blooming back in the core of her being, the strength of her angel power returning. Caldamron had dropped his guns and was now facing off against Cianna with his blade. But he was no match for her might. Cianna was fast, and she was a tried and true warrior. She used everything she had to her advantage, pummeling the cat man with wings and with weapons.

  Caldamron was tiring, and with one powerful wing-stroke Cianna pushed him back. It was enough for her to get her crossbow in her hand and to release a bolt through Caldamron’s eye. Blood and a thick white jelly burst from his eye, soaking into the black fur of his face. He screamed out in pain. He stumbled back, but not far enough. Cianna leapt on top of him, driving her rapier through his heart and pinning him to the ground.

  “NO!” Joya cried out, and purelight burst from her skin, firing across the ground, but Cianna was too far away. She pushed Caldamron off the tip of her blade and turned to face the approaching dark-elf.

  Shelara stumbled out of the melee of angels, already wounded and bleeding from several spots. Joya wasn’t sure what they were thinking, trying to take on angels, but from the blood on Shelara’s rapier, she had been successful.

  She wouldn’t be against Cianna.

  Joya took to the air in several strong pumps of her wings. Before Cianna could dispatch the ooslebed, Joya dropped out of the heavens before them. She felt the bite of Cianna’s rapier dig deep into her stomach as Joya used her own body as a shield for the dark elf.

  Joya cried out with the pain, but her eyes locked on the medallion working its way free from Cianna’s shirt.

  A howl tore through the screams of dying men, and a white, ghostly shape darted from the left of the battlefield, slamming into Cianna. Cianna stumbled back away from Joya, confusion transforming her face even as the blackness of her eyes seemed to wane a bit, become less dark.

  Joya tore the rapier from her stomach, and lunged at Cianna while the ghost wolf had her confused. She grabbed the medallion and let loose a burst of purelight, hoping it would work.

  The part of Cianna that was still good was aware of what she was doing. She knew that she was driving the blade deep into the heart of one of her trusted friends, and even as that good part of her mourned, the bad part took glee from it, feeding off Caldamron’s death like it was the finest wine.

  And when Shelara came out of the crowd, wounded and near death, nearly begging for Cianna’s blade to end her suffering, she was filled with the same war of emotions. She begged the chaotic part to stop, she railed against it, beating against the bonds that kept her hidden deep down inside of her mind.

  And then Joya came. With such relief she watched her cousin fall out of the sky, taking the brunt of the stab.

  But then something happened she hadn’t expected. A familiar force took over her, coursed through the channels of her necromancy, granting power to the part of Cianna that was still rooted in the physical world, the power of her good half: necromancy.

  Every nerve in her body tingled with the coming of Altavius, her ghost wolf. He coursed through her, awakening memories in her polluted mind, reminding her of who she truly was.

  Not only a slave to her father, Arael, but also part Pharoh.

  Cianna hadn’t felt Joya dive onto her, but she did feel the power of the white light blooming stronger in her chest, swarming around the darkness that held her prisoner and chasing it away.

  Suddenly, Cianna was no longer on the field of battle.

  She rested beside a lapping river, her toes nestled in the sand at the bank, taking in the feel of the sun on her face. She squinted up at the light of the sun and felt the radiance it beheld, felt the power of the sun to chase away all shadows.

  Cianna reached to her left, her questing fingers finding the soft white pelt of Altavius. She smiled at the familiar feel of him. How long had it been since she had actually petted him?

  “More than twenty years,” a voice said to her right. When she heard the voice of her mother, something inside of her shivered. A force was expelled from her — she barely felt its leaving, but somehow Cianna felt stronger because of it. She felt more alive and awake.

  Her mother moved around behind her, wrapping her arms around Cianna’s chest.

  “We never got a chance to meet,” Pharoh whispered in her ear. “But that doesn’t mean I haven’t always been here with you.” Pharoh’s hand found the space above Cianna’s heart, and there she relinquished her power, flooding the last recesses of darkness out of Cianna’s being. “I love you, daughter.”

  Cianna came back to herself in a rush of pain. Her back felt alive with fire, and her nose was filled with the metallic smell of blood pouring down around her, soaking into the pants at her knees and flooding the ground in a scarlet rush.

  She retched through the pain, every nerve along her back singing with agony as the blackness of her wings faded, transmuted, changing from black to gray and finally to white.

  With tears in her eyes Cianna turned to look up at Joya, standing powerfully over her, her slight fingers still gripping the medallion. Cianna could no longer feel her mother in the medallion. The power of the medallion was gone.

  “Are we all better?” Joya asked with a sad smile.

  Cianna nodded, reaching up for Joya’s hand. Joya helped her to stand.

  “Now, let’s fight a holy war,” Shelara said, turning her back to the two angels and facing the melee once more.

  Angelica looked at the space where Porillon had just been. For a moment she cast around, looking for where she had gone, expecting the sorceress to mat
erialize out of the air before them. When she didn’t, Angelica let out a sigh of relief.

  “Where’s Amber?” Angelica wondered.

  “She’s not dead, you know,” she heard a woman say to her left.

  “Amber?” Jovian said.

  Angelica turned to see a very healthy-looking Amber coming out from the other side of the tower. She had never before looked so lovely; her skin glowed as if there was a little light beneath it, and her hair was like fresh honey shining thick and creamy over her shoulders.

  “She cannot die. She is bound to another person, and at the moment that person cannot be killed.” Amber rested her hands on the other side of the altar. She leaned closer to them over it. “Porillon’s life is bound to another immortal life. That life must be killed for her to die.”

  “But she’s gone somewhere, that’s all that matters. We defeated her. Amber, come, we must leave here, the Mask is dead, you can come home with us.” Jovian held out his hand to her, the other holding the shin-buto loosely. He pleaded with her to move, but in the pit of his stomach he felt that something was very wrong.

  Amber started to laugh, a high-pitched wicked laugh that sounded much like a hyena. “The Mask?” She cawed with laughter, bending closer to the altar. Abruptly she halted her laughter, and stared at them with deadly golden eyes, her lips in a snarl. “I’m the Mask, silly.”

  Angelica gasped.

  “But Porillon killed all those people.”

  “You didn’t expect Arael, the Grigorian King, to do his own dirty work, did you?” she asked, standing straighter. “My time can only be wasted on special causes.”

  “And we are a special cause?” Angelica asked.

  “Eh, you will do.” Amber gave a half shrug as if it didn’t matter. Only then, in that movement, did Angelica notice the black wings folded neatly behind her back. There was a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis. She listed to the side slightly as the words sank in. Amber had equated herself to Arael. “It’s the medallion I’m after. Once you’re dead it will be mine.”