Gabriel stands still and silent for a long moment, a proud statue in my room, barely moving, only the faintest expansions of his chest signaling his breathing. I am not even certain that he even blinks. Finally, without moving his gaze from mine, he flips the dagger in his hand so that he holds the blade, offering the hilt to me. “Use it to cut the rope.”
Apparently, the man is not awake enough to remember that the frozen blade could very well cost me my fingers should I touch it, and I hiss, the throaty sound mimicking a cat as I take a step back, my teeth lengthening into fangs, pointed and cruel.
The muscles in Gabriel’s body coil to defend, but I make no aggressive move, only showing my teeth and backing away from the frozen knife with agitation. He seems to realize his error, for he releases a sigh and goes down to sit on the floor, one leg beneath him, the other bent at the knee in a kneel. “Sit,” he commands, but I do not move, glaring down at him for ordering me.
He looks up at me with danger in his eyes, but I stare right back, more stubborn than he. For a long moment, we glare daggers at each other before he finally growls, “Do you want the rope off or would you rather keep it until daybreak when someone manages to bring up the courage to touch you to get it off?”
I stare a moment longer, and then sigh wearily, sitting down and tucking both of my legs to the side, my skirts arranged down to my ankles. Gabriel sighs and settles into a more relaxed sitting position, grabbing my ankle and tugging it closer. His hand is not freezing, but it is a great displeasure against my skin, and I try not to squirm.
He begins cutting away at the rope, careful not to touch my skin more than necessary, and certainly not with the knife. Although I make no sound for a short while, I watch him, his tired form working over the rope. Finally, I respond in a wearied voice, “It is not courage that they lack…it is compassion. Not that I blame them.”
Gabriel glances up at me before looking back down at the rope. “Oh?”
I turn my head to look to the fire that I had set blazing when I managed to get the wood into it, in between my screaming fits at the door. “What do they have to fear from a woman half-dead and unarmed? They do not fear me, Gabriel; they hate me. Those guards would rather destroy me than protect me, and I doubt that anyone would take any offense if they did.”
He sighs and goes quiet for a time, and only after a moment do I realize that the rope fell away. Gabriel holds my ankle still, staring down at it, lost in thought. I give a small tug of my limb and say, “You may be accustomed to my heat, but I am not to your cold. Release me.” He obliges me, although if he was fully awake and sore-tempered as usual, I doubt it would have ended at that.
Gabriel looks to me. I sit casually by the hearth and the fire that I stoked while waiting for him, watching him with a serene expression. “My mother would…she is the reason you are alive…even though…it was only a few nights ago that she wept for the son you murdered. Believe me, you: whatever information I could glean from you would not be worth denying myself the pleasure of bathing in your blood.” I feel a chill go straight through me despite the fire, and I try not to let my face betray my pounding heart as those crystal eyes lock on mine. “My mother is from the Liean Era, and she has the mindset of the old code, which strictly forbids the torture or execution of a woman, even an enemy, a soldier…I believe my mother has interest in your knowledge of Inferno.” I open my mouth to speak, but he raises his hand and continues swiftly, “Not military…more likely as not—culture.”
I give him an odd look, but the prince does not seem interested in appeasing me. And so, I sigh and shift a bit more comfortably before asking, “So, when am I to see her?”
Again, he shrugs and answers, “She is busy as of late. You are no pressing matter, and so you can wait.”
With a roll of my eyes, I shake my head and lay down on the stone floor, the hearth warmed by the light of the fire. The stone is hard and firm beneath my body, and a sigh spills out from my chest when I close my eyes. “What is to become of me until then?”
I cannot see him, nor hear him, for the man barely makes a sound other than to answer, “For now, you wait. You may only leave your room when summoned, and only with an escort.” My lips slide into a coy smirk, and a scoff mars the uneasy peace between us. “What was that?” he growls.
Opening my eyes a hair, I answer, “You cannot keep me here, Gabriel. Never. When I heal, you will not be able to hold me. And if I die, no bars will ever hold me again. Your power over me is temporary at best, an accepted submission at worse. Your impression of control is a lie.”
I hear a shift of sound, and I close my eyes again, confident in my safety. I open them when the light of the fire is blocked, Gabriel poised over me with cruelty in his eyes. “You are so sure of yourself, woman,” he snarls, tension etched in his every muscle. “Tell me, creature, what is to keep me from killing you or defiling you and showing you exactly how much strength I do have?” His brother might have made me flinch with that threat, for I know that he would. But Gabriel? It’s laughable. Even from what little I know of the man himself, I know well the prince in politics, and he is as devoutly loyal to his honor code as his mother is—or else he would have killed me in the wastelands.
My golden eyes mock him, and I laugh, tilting my head back a bit before grinning up at him wickedly and answering, “You think that will make you stronger?” I chuckle. “You simple man. That is not power. That is madness. That is fear. That is pride. But that is not power.”
I shift, arching my back so that my chest slides along his, my eyes never leaving his. Gabriel doesn’t move, but I hear the soft catch in his breath. A soft purr begins in my throat, rumbling down in my chest, and I shift with the slow, languid motions of a feline. “You allow me into your mind.” I release my air in a rush, the warmth of it dancing over his neck, and I see the faintest shiver steal his body for a moment. “You allow me under your skin.” I tilt up my head to graze his neck with the tip of my tongue, and I feel the heavy pulse beneath and his sudden inhale. I hear the snap of his teeth coming together, and I move my head up to whisper into his ear, “That is power.” I nip once. Twice. “And it will kill you.”
That is his only warning before the Shift comes over me, and I throw him beneath me, my body contorting with a snap of bones and ripping of muscle, fur spilling over my skin, my dress tearing and falling away; fangs explode in my mouth, the pain and rage taking over me, and although Gabriel is quickly following me into a Shift, I am faster, and my teeth sink into his shoulder.
The man roars in pain, the sound warping into a howl as his Shift finishes, and the much larger canine writhes beneath me. No longer can my weight hold him down, and he easily bites into my neck and tosses me. But I am ready, and despite the sting of the wound, I land easily on my feet, claws scraping against the stone. The door bursts open as Gabriel rolls onto his paws, sinking into a crouch.
With shouts of alarm, the guards quickly Shift as well into their forms: one of them a coyote, the other an arctic fox, both massive in size. They both come quickly to either side of Gabriel, both closing in on my tigress who has backed herself into a corner by the vanity. I crouch low and snarl, tail flicking from side to side.
One of the guards, the fox, snarls and lashes out, eager for my blood. I dodge him to the right, but the other comes upon me with cold intent, throwing his body into mine, although he does not draw blood, knocking me back. Only the fox is close to me in size; both Gabriel and Ckai’ten are significantly larger than me. Gabriel is upon me in an instant, cornering me despite my desperate feign to the left, then the right, trying to evade him. He matches the wound on his shoulder with one on my own, his teeth sink in and rip a scream from my powerful jaws while I squirm. He throws us both to the right, pinning me on my side as I writhe on the floor, his fangs only sinking deeper and deeper. The bone snaps, splintering. My breaths turn to gasps, and I am left no choice but to Shift in surrender, and the others do as well.
Both guards stand ready, swo
rds drawn. Gabriel pins my body to the ground with his own when he removes his fangs and Shifts, and I regret ever thinking him weak for not being as bulky as my brethren, for I am left with little mobility beneath him; my shoulder seeps blood, and my neck is badly scraped, my leg throbbing and pulsing with pain. Gabriel’s face is smeared with blood, and his icy eyes lock on my defiant ones.
He holds me until I am weak from the loss of blood, unable to struggle any longer. He stands, stained with blood, his face one of unforgiving menace. The guards are motionless where they stand, both watching me, ready to end me should I rise, but I do not. I struggle to breathe, occasionally coughing up small amounts of blood.
Ckai’ten finally steps forward, although whether to end me or aid me, I am not certain. But Gabriel stops him with a look, and the guard falls back, sword drawn, eyes locked on me. “Leave her,” the prince orders. “No one is to come into this room. Not Heather, not the healers. None but I.” He glares up at both of the guards who meet his gaze steadily. “Go.” Neither hesitate, both giving bows and moving out of the room, both wise enough to give Gabriel a wide berth.
Gabriel watches me for a moment while I heat my hand red-hot until it burns a bright red-orange. Then, I press it to my shoulder, cauterizing the wound enough so that the blood stops. I grit my teeth and scream past them. The wound will heal, as will my neck, but it is painful as hell and an ugly sight to behold.
Chapter Fifteen
Gabriel
I am not sure what to think of the demon-woman before me, lying apparently helpless on the floor with blood all around her, watching me with those pain-filled eyes. But I am not so stupid. This woman is no coward, and she is not weak. Insane, maybe. A very strong maybe. I snap my teeth together and relish the blind rage I feel against her, the explosion of emotions through my body that drive away the lust.
Damn her for this! It has been so long since I have felt my body come alive and my blood run red. How can I burn for her? An Inferno whore! There is no light in her heart! No goodness! Everything she is, everything she does, is out of pure self interest and self preservation!
And yet my heart pounds with adrenaline, a rush from the fight, a rush from her touch, her tongue. Damn her! I hit the ground on my knees to the right of her, and I grab a handful of her rich, russet hair, dragging her mouth to my gasping lips. She is filled with fire, heat consuming her, and it only rages hotter with my cold touch to her. I cannot stand to hold her long and thrust her away from me, watching her weak and furious eyes pin me, the taste of blood—her blood—on my mouth.
“Get out,” she growls, her body moving as though she might try to fight once more.
I do not move, on my knees, panting before her, blood running from my shoulder as she watches me with hatred in those amber orbs.
“Your name,” I command.
She is struggling to breathe as well, eyes piercing me with darkness as she lays there, trying to get up. Finally, she drags in a breath and snarls, “I will die before I answer to my name from your lips!…to you…I am Cara.”
Cara.
A growl escapes my throat, but I force myself up, my breath stabilizing a bit while I glare down at her. “May Chelyah have pity on you, monster.” I cannot look at her any longer. Whether out of a desire to touch her or rip her to pieces, it is hard to tell, but I slam the door behind me, the guards standing firm and rigid outside of her door, prepared for anything. I mutter a string of curses and snarl, stalking off to my room, shouting for one of them to find a healer.
Chapter Sixteen
Scarlet
I barely notice the passing of time in that room. By all I can tell, it is four days since he left me here. Three nights and four days. A basin of water is left on the vanity from the night of our fight, and I use it to keep my wounds clean and occasionally quench my thirst, but it does little. I am fading fast.
I cannot remember the last time I ate, and my body is slowly dying. It is a matter of days now, if not hours, before I finally fade into darkness. I manage to drag myself onto the bed, covering myself as much as possible. Eventually, the fire goes out when the logs are all finished, and I do not have the strength to start it once more. I pull out the warmest clothes I can find, two wool underdresses and a velvet dress, and then crawl into bed and pile sheets and blankets and the coverlet onto me, trying to keep as warm as possible. The higher I keep my temperature, the more likely I am to survive. But I need food as well. The Inferno burn hot. We have fast metabolisms and must eat frequently, especially things of weight—the fat of animals, potatoes, breads. The Crystalice eat only small meals and mostly of fruits and cheeses. They need much less food. But I…I will die if I do not have proper sustenance soon.
A wager then: what will kill me faster—my wounds or starvation?
I will not reduce myself to pounding on the door and demanding to see Gabriel. I would rather die. I welcome death. There is nothing left for me. I have no home and no future except pain and torture. And yet, I cannot not bring myself to end my own life. Suicide within the Inferno is not tolerated. In the event of a self-inflicted death, the individual is stripped of all honor and title and is buried in the ground instead of burned. Even the lowest of our people are burned upon death, some on a simple, stone hearth, and the royals on great pyres that send black plumes into the air to darken the skies for days.
Night is beginning to fall again, my room going dark—silent—except for my faint, stuttering breaths. I stopped bleeding days ago, but my body is still fading from malnourishment. My once strong and trained form is thin and fragile, my skin ashen and my eyes pale. I shiver with cold, trying to keep my eyes open. Tonight—tonight will be the last night. Infection is eating at my thigh, and the pain is driving me to madness. I long to close my eyes, but I know that if I do, that they will never open again.
But it does not matter. Even with my eyes open, the room is slowly going dark, darker than the night. I begin to feel light, and a chilled peace settles over me while I tremble with cold and pain. There is a soft sound, but my mind is too muddled to discern what it is. It does not matter—it will all be over soon.
But there is more noise, and pain pierces my head when I try to focus on it. A faint sound, as though I am under water. I try to awaken a bit more, to hear what it is saying.
“Damnit!…healer!…Heather!…Go!” the covers are abruptly wrenched from my body, and I am encased in cold, first from the air, and then from a solid form against mine. The agony of it jolts me back into reality, and I gasp, my eyes fluttering open when I had not even realized that they had been closed. Everything is spinning, and my head feels like it’s being stabbed again and again. An image whirls before me.
White hair pooled over a dark green shirt. Eyes…blue eyes…so pale…they are beautiful…who are you?
“Cara! Cara!” the man cries, shouting into my face, giving my body a light shake.
Gabriel…
Chapter Seventeen
Gabriel
For days that woman plagues me. Nothing and no one can drive her from my mind. I train. I battle. I work my body until I can barely move. When that does not work, I pour myself into legislators and reports and military strategy. And when even that fails to drive her from my mind, I consume myself with my family, devoting all of my attention to my son, visiting with my mother, and occasionally debating with my father.
On the morrow, I decide, on the fourth night of her imprisonment. In the morn, I will go to her and release her from her confinement.
I am tired and eager for slumber as I walk down the hall. Having retired from a game of tablets with Dena, I cannot help but sigh with frustration when I near her door.
Cara.
My lovely demoness. My enchanting siren.
She will be the death of me.
I try not to look on the door when I come upon it, but what does catch my notice is one of the guards falling out of formation. I turn my head to him. Ckai’ten. He seems so rarely to leave his post. The other guard is b
arely more than a youth.
“Sire,” Ckai’ten greets severely, bowing formally until given a tired signal to rise. He does so, meeting my gaze with his own, and continues almost urgently, “Milord—the woman—I believe she may be…” At first, I expect some report of Cara attempting escape or aggravating her guards, but the man’s face is so grave that fear steals my breath, and I charge pass him, throwing the door open.
There is no heat. No faint impression of any living thing, much less the hot-tempered Inferno. For a moment, I think she must have escaped, every piece of the room left almost exactly as it had been since I left that night. But then I see her. With only her nose and eyes visible from the mound of blankets, Cara stares blankly at the wall ahead of her, seeing nothing, before her eyes drift closed.
Without thinking, I cry out, “Damnit! Ckai’ten, get the healer! Get Heather! Now! Go!” The man behind me immediately takes off, and I close the distance between myself and the woman. I thrust the covers from her body and feel my heart leap when she sucks in a breath as I gather her into my arms. She’s dressed in thick layers of clothes, her hair a dirty mess which she seems to have miserably failed to braid and plait. Her skin is translucent, gray, and when her eyes snap open with a mix of pain and alarm, I can see only a faint memory of the vibrant gold they once were.
I shake her when her eyes start to drift closed again. “Cara!” I cry out, “Cara!” She makes a soft sound in the back of her throat, a painful, pathetic sound that sends my heart sinking right back into my stomach.
Moments later, the royal healer bursts into the room, followed by Heather and three guards, including Ckai’ten and Claque. The healer gives startled sounds of alarm and worry as she comes to the bed, taking Cara from me and measuring her wounds. Heather knows of the wound on Cara’s leg and immediately throws up her skirt, revealing Cara’s raw, infected wound; her shoulder isn’t healing properly either. I watch in sickening torment as they pull away her dress to reveal the horrible gashes.
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