Till Death And Beyond (Witch World)

by Lyn C. Johanson

Her lips curled in a smile that was still so new and strange to her, Amira had to touch it to know she was not imagining it. The happiness she felt, the lightness in her heart, however, was impossible to miss. Something inside sang. Freedom at last, her soul whispered. The only thing she lacked was a strong and protective embrace, a searing kiss, and the dark gaze she vowed she would have again.

  For just once in her life, Amira wanted to stop and dream, but as always, she had no time for it. She had to accumulate as much energy as possible. After a day and a half of riding, she was finally a few short miles from her destination, where she would need every last drop of magic. Especially since the cold stone walls of the dungeon she was heading to would offer none.

  Amira jumped down from the horse and with confidence walked to the same entrance she’d seen her family use days ago. As expected there were guards, who unsheathed their swords the moment they spotted her. Confusion etched their faces. She was probably the first one to try walk into, not out of, this prison.

  Either way, the confusion lasted a second, and was quickly replaced by gleeful smiles after their eyes did a slow walking up and down of her body. Just seeing those leering gazes made Amira feel dirty. And angry. She stretched her arm forward, her palm facing the men; and before they could utter a single word, sent them flying straight into the wall. There was a thump, a yelp, and then silence. She didn’t stop to check on them. Didn’t have time, and honestly didn’t even care.

  Amira took one last breath of fresh air, unlocked the door and stepped through. Her first thought was that the stench of blood and suffering was even stronger and more poignant than when she was spirit-walking. Her second, that she was going to level this place. And her third—she hoped someone would attack her. It was almost impossible not to desire blood when all of her senses were reeling from the magnitude of torture, pain and death this place held.

  She took a moment to silence the screams in her head of souls abandoned and trapped, and slowly descended the stairs. Careful not to make a target of herself, and ready should anyone jump with a sword from around the corner, Amira encountered only damp walls and an occasional torch.

  She felt as if she had entered a grave. Except graveyards felt more peaceful. This place had such a strong energy about it, it enveloped her with its darkness. Amira shivered. She wanted to turn and run as fast as she could. She wanted to rip her clothes from her body and burn them.

  A place where only the stench of death lived was the last place a witch like her should venture, let alone risk being locked up in. These catacombs were deceptive—hidden underground, where Amira should have been able to tap into the pulse of the earth, but the cold, dead walls were impregnated with so many putrid shadows of lingering pain, it prevented her from accessing what she needed. Not unless she took all the stifling rot inside her first.

  She would weaken if attacked. And she would be attacked. But there was no other way. Lives depended on it. Amira took a deep breath in, out, and stepped forward. Better to end this as quickly as possible.

  She retraced the same path she’d once walked in her spirit form, scanning her surroundings and looking for any sign of witches being tortured or kept prisoner. She found none. Every holding cell—or cage, as she thought more apt—was vacant. If one didn’t count the rats, blood and urine. Even the corridors were no longer illuminated. Torches were either burned out or the sconces empty. It was evident the place was not being used anymore. Still, the stench of pain followed her.

  Amira hoped she was not too late. Hoped her family had not been relocated—or worse—no longer alive. She quickened her paces, wondering where the Venlordians were. A lot of them died in the battle, true. Some were probably in Leonon right now, but there should have been more than just those two on the surface. Besides, they were guarding something, weren’t they?

  She turned another corner, finally hearing chains being rattled, words whispered, though it was hard to decipher their meaning. She lifted the hood of her cloak and lowered it around her face, hiding it from view. Being recognized was not in her plans. Amira had no desire to have to explain to her parents why she wasn’t returning home with them.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted the people she had come to get. Her father and uncle Regan were locked in a cage, while her mother and aunt Milla stood chained ten feet in front of them, but out of their reach.

  Amira saw her father pacing, her mother praying, her eyes closed. She saw Regan clenching his fists around the bars that held him prisoner, begging his wife to look at him, but Milla’s eyes kept going down to the lifeless body left to rot on the cold, damp ground.

  Amira swallowed the bile rising in her throat as she realized the bastards had left Sofie’s body in the middle on purpose. Forcing them to witness their brutally-slain daughter and niece decomposing in front of them. Forcing them to smell the stench of her remains.

  Amira knew the picture she witnessed would be etched in her mind for years to come. Milla’s sorrow, Regan’s rage so live and sharp—she could practically touch it. Amira didn’t stop to pray; she approached Sofie, making a vow to avenge her death, and maybe…

  Dazlog! she yelled, kneeling near her dead cousin, drawing all the gazes onto herself.

  “Who are you?”

  “Let us out of here!”

  “Please, please help us!”

  She heard demands and desperate pleas—for the moment she ignored everything.

  “It’s getting tiresome,” Dazlog appeared on the other side of the body, irritated as hell. His eyes flashed green fire, the flames promising doom. His fierce gaze fell on her, and Amira heard someone gasp—the demon could appear menacing when he chose to.

  “Bring her back,” Amira whispered, afraid she would be recognized.

  Everyone stilled. It seemed time itself ceased to exist as they waited for the answer.

  “Sorry, no can do,” he simply said, wrapping his arms in front of his broad chest.

  “Can’t do, or won’t do?” Amira had to tighten the reins on her emotions. She tried to breathe in and out. Slowly, very slowly. She could not lose control. “What is your price?”

  “There’s nothing you could offer to interest me. Besides, it is kind of a once in lifetime—or lifetimes in your case—deal. My answer is no.” Dazlog leaned against the wall as if scenes like this were common to him. And they probably were, considering where he lived. “Now can I go?” he asked sarcastically, lifting his brows.

  Amira wanted to tell him no, but before she even got the chance to open her mouth, Milla sobbed, “My life! I’ll give my life for my daughter’s!”

  Amira’s head whipped round towards her aunt. She released her from the chains, released everyone, but the moment Milla could move, she ran straight to Dazlog and fell at his feet, begging.

  “Milla!” Regan breathed, trying in vain to gather his wife in his arms, just as Deron did with Eliana. Milla struggled against his attempts, wrapping even tighter around Dazlog’s legs.

  Amira was afraid Dazlog would shove her unceremoniously away, make her pay for the outburst, or take her up on the offer. She didn’t know which of the outcomes she feared the most. The demon’s response, when it came, left her bewildered.

  “Your life is not mine to take, Milla. Don’t ever offer it.” Dazlog lifted her aunt up, handling her strangely more gently than Amira would have expected. He even wiped her tears, which perplexed her completely. “But know that she is in Azariel,” he brushed his hand through the air, conjuring up the image of a beautiful girl with brown curls—Sofie—sitting on the swings and laughing. “She is happy.”

  Amira could hear the intakes of breath and watched as Milla carefully, as if unsure, lifted her right hand and tried to touch the image of her daughter. Of course, her fingers went straight through it, and a second later it disintegrated. Milla retracted her hand, took a few seconds to look at her fingers, and succumbed to another wave of sobs, this time letting Regan embrace her.

  “Thank you,” she f
inally whispered, and judging from the look on Dazlog’s face, Amira could swear he only now registered what he’d done. He was obviously uncomfortable with the gratitude. Who would have thought?

  “Finally some flavor.” He winked at her and turned his head to the entrance. As if conjured up, the distant sound of footsteps reached them, and Dazlog smiled.

  “Are you going to help?” she inquired.

  “Why would I want to end everything before it’s even started?”

  Amira didn’t have time for conversations anymore. The first pair of Venlordians entered—she sent them flying across the hall. They didn’t lose consciousness by her hand, but Regan and Deron made sure they wouldn’t stand up again, and borrowed their swords.

  “Do I know you?” someone had asked her, but Amira ignored the question again. She had other worries to think about. Enemies to face. In the end, there were eight warriors, eight of the bastards they dealt with. Except for the last one—the one who had killed Sofie.

  He stayed safe through the entire skirmish as if an invisible hand had been protecting him. And it didn’t take her long to realize whose hand it was. “What are you still doing here?” she yelled at Dazlog, who had kept his composure throughout the whole thing.

  “Trying to enjoy the show,” he told her with a sigh, “but you sure know how to kill the fun.” He glanced at the bodies lying around and lifted his eyes to her again. “Did you really have to interfere?”

  “Yes,” Amira almost groaned. “I believe you wanted to leave,” she said.

  “Now I want to do this.” Dazlog pushed himself off the wall, took Milla’s hand, and led her to the last surviving Venlordian. Milla followed without a word, against all her husband’s protests. She took a dagger from the demon’s hands and without a moment’s hesitation, plunged it deep into the cold heart of the killer.

  The bastard didn’t even flinch. Probably couldn’t. Until his body slumped to the ground. Lifeless.

  “Again, I thank you.” Milla turned to Dazlog and presented him the dagger so regally, one could have thought she was holding a court.

  “An eye for an eye,” the demon bowed his head slightly. “My work here is complete.” He vanished.

  “Out. Now.” Amira had no time to waste.

  “I am not going to leave my son,” Regan said, making no attempt to obey her.

  “I’ll take care of it,” she assured him, and without giving them the opportunity to argue, disappeared around the corner. She didn’t have to look far. Pharell was being held in the hall at the end of the corridor, his arms shackled to the ceiling—his body suspended a few feet above the ground.

  He kept his head down, and for a second Amira thought he was unconscious. He was so still, she couldn’t even see his bruised chest moving. She stepped forward and he lifted his head, eyes full of hatred. His face was beaten and swollen, his nose—broken. Amira could barely recognize him.

  Pharell’s gaze locked on her, and his blue eyes gentled. He knew she was a woman, Amira realized, and immediately witnessed a shadow cross his face. Fear in his eyes. For her.

  “W-what—” he breathed, his voice hoarse and abrasive like sandpaper. “Run!” he managed, “Save yourself.”

  Amira didn’t respond. She approached and placed her hands on him, ignoring his attempts to shove her away. Her fingers slowly moved around his chest, gently examining the damage done while trying not to hurt him further. He hissed as she touched his side. She let go.

  His ribs were broken, his abdomen strangely swollen as if he had internal bleeding. He was hurting, but she had to touch him, to support his weight, for once she unlocked his chains, Amira was afraid he would fall, causing even more damage to himself.

  If only she could heal him, but she dared not. Not in this place, not while there was still a chance of being attacked. Amira’s powers were waning as it was; healing would weaken her immensely.

  “Hold on,” she told him, as she embraced his masculine body and released the cuffs from his wrists. Pharell went down groaning with pain, but with Amira’s help managed to stay upright. Still, it was a struggle. His weight a whole ton on her shoulders, pressing her to the ground. They had to reach the surface, and soon. Otherwise, she was not sure how long Pharell would be alive.

  “You’ll have to—”

  “Mira?” he uttered, “what are you doing here?”

  Amira should have been shocked he recognized her; then again, Pharell and Sofie always had more perception of her than her own parents.

  “No questions, please,” she asked, brushing his sweaty hair from his eyes. His hip-length black tresses were plastered to his skin. Matted and dirty. “I’ll explain, but not now.”

  “Just promise to run if we come across those bastards. I can’t lose you too.” His haunted look told her that something else, something awful had happened to him down here. Though strangely, Amira could not read him at all. He was wrapped into himself so tightly, it reminded her of how Raven was when they’d first met.

  “Try not to talk,” she said instead of promising anything. Amira was worried they would not make it. No matter how hard Pharell pushed himself. He was severely wounded and she didn’t have the strength needed to carry him by herself.

  Deron and Regan took over just as she thought they would collapse. For once in her life she was glad her father and uncle hadn’t listened to her. It took little effort for the men to steady Pharell and help him reach the surface, taking along their wives and Sofie’s body.

  Don’t tell the others, Amira asked Pharell. His eyes widened, but he nodded ever so slightly, taking it all in his stride.

  She emerged from the dark and briefly closed her eyes against the setting sun. The warm sunrays played on her skin, and Amira could finally take a breath in. She felt restored in nature’s embrace. Alive.

  She instructed them to lay Pharell down, but the moment he was free, he crawled near to his sister and took her hand in his. His body was so still, he could have been carved from stone. For a fleeting moment, Amira saw deeper. She heard his scream of pain, and she sensed his sadness and rage at the loss. She placed her hands on his shoulders and healed him. At least the wounds in his body. The ones in his soul she did not know how to approach. Once again realizing how useless she was in the face of heartache. Always had been.

  There was one last thing she could do—she dug her fingers deep in the soil, letting the magic flow through her, and the earth trembled under their feet. The damned place was no more.

  “Who are you?” they asked her one more time.

  Amira was tempted to lower her hood and witness their reaction. She wanted to be around for the burying of Sofie’s body. She even wanted to make sure they reached home safely. But revealing herself would only complicate things. Her path curved in a different direction right now. So without another word, she mounted her horse and rode off.

  Chapter 28

  Raven left Leonon behind, pushing Lightning to fly the last few miles. He kept his eyes forward, refusing to think about the insanity he’d witnessed. There was no purpose for it. At least none he could see. It was one thing to hunt down witches for sacred, misguided, noble, vengeful—whatever the cause, but this—this defied all rational explanation. It served no purpose.

  He didn’t even want to think about the damned scavenger hunt Nially had sent him on. If not for Dazlog, Raven would probably still be looking for a person who simply didn’t exist. At least the demon had come through—crafty little bugger that he was. Not that Raven could attest to his height, or size. He had kept himself cloaked throughout the whole ordeal.

  Dazlog had also told Raven to prevent Amira from heeding the call.

  He would be lying if he said he knew what it meant. But forewarned was forearmed. With that in mind, Raven rode through the main gates of his properties, thinking that fate had a nasty sense of humor. He detested the place. The cold walls in front of him had always been a cruel reminder of pain he carried inside. He’d always thought he would never plac
e a foot in it, if it weren’t for his brother. His brother didn’t need him anymore, and yet, he was still crossing the yard.

  Raven rode on. He led Lightning into the stables, unsaddled the horse, and leaned his forehead into the creature’s. It was a thank you to a friend for giving his all.

  As he stood there in utter silence, a familiar honeyed aroma rolled inside, enveloping him in its warm embrace. He sensed her approach, and everything inside him reeled into infinity.

  “You left me,” she whispered, stopping by the entrance to the horse’s paddock.

  “Guilty.” Raven turned, desperate to know how mad she was.

  “Don’t you know that denial is the key to weaseling out of accusations? That, and groveling. Or was it flattery?” Her gaze bored into him. Deep, clear and ethereal, her eyes were a whirlpool of emotions swirling, pulling him in. He was a drowned man, but when she looked at him he felt alive.

  How did she manage to chase away the bloody scenes from his mind with just a few choice words?

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Raven promised, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her into him. His clothes were dusty from the road, covered in soot, but she didn’t seem to mind as her hands moved around his neck.

  “Is that all you are going to say to me?”

  “I need to wash off?”

  “Now you are just asking for it!” She thumped on his chest with an open palm, but her lips curled into a wicked smile. It was like watching the sun come out from under the clouds. The day brightened. And Raven couldn’t resist—he kissed her.

  “Aren’t you assuming too much?” she murmured against his mouth.

  “Stop me any time you want.” But she didn’t. Amira responded with a moan he caught between his lips. She tilted her head to allow—no, demand—a deeper contact, her fingers clutching at his shoulders.

  “Interesting.” A single, silently-uttered word flooded over Raven like a bucket of ice-cold water. He lifted his eyes and met the mocking gaze of his brother’s.

  Dacian’s hair was down, covering the scar on his cheek. His shirt was buttoned up all the way to his neck. He was standing in the doorway—one shoulder leaning against the door-frame, hands wrapped over his chest.