Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles)

by Shreffler, T. L.

  He nodded. But for a moment, she saw a hollowness inside of him that was too great to bear. She looked away, unnerved. He obviously thought the worst. Expected it.

  “And if I don't survive?” she asked quietly.

  His grip tightened on her hand. “Then I will go with you.”

  She raised her eyes to his, looking him fully in the face, shocked. “What?”

  “You won't die alone, Sora,” he said quietly.

  Her mouth went dry. She couldn't accept his words, their meaning, the heaviness that weighed between them. She had never expected this, not from a man like him, one who killed for a living, who had ended far too many lives.

  She remembered their confrontation on the streets of Delbar, in a back alley next to a crumbled statue of the Wanderer. It had been a cold night, windy and moist. He had held her then, whispering in her ear: “I came to protect you.” Protection, from a man who had once kidnapped her? Who had killed her supposed father? Who had introduced her to the world of magic and peril?

  Yet here he was, still by her side. He must have meant his words. More than you know, her inner voice murmured.

  Finally, she leaned against his shoulder, pressing into his warmth. “We'll find a way,” she repeated.

  He settled his head against hers, his jaw against her cheek, sharing the light of the fire, their fingers entwined. The night stretched on, spreading out around them in a dark blanket. They stayed like that for a long, long time.

  * * *

  Krait stood in an old cabin on the outskirts of Delbar.

  It was a small shack, once a guardhouse, now abandoned. The walls sagged inward, like the ends of melted candles. The roof was damaged by rain and wind, smothered in cobwebs. Several of the floorboards were rotted to the point of breaking, yet she rested her weight easily on top of them, sure of her feet.

  She watched out the window, staring at the waterfront, black waves lapping against the docks. People scurried by, quick to head home before the hour grew too late. This was the sunken end of town, where good folk avoided the streets at night.

  To the left of the lonely cabin resided a freight yard. It stretched along the very tail end of Delbar. Rows of giant crates lined the dock, bordered by a tall pulley system to lift them onto merchant vessels. For now, all was quiet. It was close to midnight. She watched a few of the King's soldiers wander the vacant yard, casually patrolling up and down the long lines of cargo.

  A small moth landed on the windowsill. Krait knelt slightly, looking at its tawny wings. The moth fluttered again, balancing on a shard of broken glass. It looked soft and delicate, graceful and orderly, belying the chaotic pattern of its wings. She reached out a slow finger, tempting the little bug into her hand. It waved its long antennae, exploring her fingernail, timidly brushing her skin.

  Abruptly, the moth flew away.

  “You are early,” a voice said from behind her. It was quiet, silty, like sand slipping through an hourglass.

  Krait turned, fear jarring her body. She immediately knelt on one knee, her forehead bowed, her eyes focused on the floor. The shadows of the room shifted, gently reaching and grasping one another, until they solidified into a tall figure. The man seemed to be made of darkness—like the night itself.

  “Grandmaster,” she murmured, and bowed lower.

  “I take it all did not go well.” The voice slid across her skin.

  She paused for a moment, her thoughts spinning. In the past two weeks, she had sent countless men abroad in search of the Viper. None had returned. A few had sent letters, notes by pigeon, detailing their fruitless attempts. No one knew where the assassin had gone. It was damned eerie, as though they hunted a ghost.

  Since their brief fight in the bell tower, she felt odd, out of sorts. She couldn't forget the gleam of his green eyes, cold and deadly in the darkness. His swift hands, how he wielded the dagger as an extension of his body. A worthy opponent—far worthier than she.

  “They have the Dark God's weapon, Master,” she murmured.

  “And?”

  “And...we've lost the trail. We don't know where they've gone.”

  Grandmaster Cerastes remained silent. She glanced up through her eyelashes. He stood in the middle of the room, perfectly still. He was long and rail-thin, his skin a pale, ashen color. His dark hair was perfectly straight and fell to his navel, blending with his robes. A black cloak cascaded down to his feet. He appeared to be an extension of the floorboards, a living wax figure.

  “Rise,” he hissed, and raised one long, white hand.

  She did so, looking into the face of the Grandmaster. Gaunt cheeks, a sharp chin and large, ovular, entrancing eyes, sickly green in color, a toxic hue. They were slitted like a serpent, a sign of his mastery of the dark arts. His aura filled the room around him, causing her skin to tingle, the tiny hairs on her arms to stand at attention.

  She waited for the blow to come. Braced herself for it. She had failed her duty. As a hand of the Dark God, she deserved punishment. Yearned for it.

  “Something is on your mind, child,” the Grandmaster said quietly, deceptively calm.

  “Yes,” she whispered and dropped her gaze again, avoiding his serpentine eyes. She focused on the bottom of his black robes. “The one who came to us with the weapon...he was of our kind.”

  “One of our own?” Cerastes echoed. She could hear the surprise in his voice. It startled her almost as much as his arrival had. It reminded her that he had been a man, once. More human than demon.

  “Yes,” she confirmed.

  “A savant?”

  “No...a Named assassin, Master. I saw his tattoo and the dagger he wielded.”

  “A dagger?” Cerastes hissed.

  “Yes...the Viper.”

  Her Master turned, surveying the room, his eyes focused on something far more distant. A slow, thin smile spread across his face. She had come to recognize that look—it held a memory, something she was not privy to.

  “How very interesting,” he murmured. “You're certain?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “And where has the Viper gone?”

  Here it was. The moment of truth, of confession, of eager atonement. “We lost him, Master. He killed Jackal and Widow, and then disappeared.”

  Surprisingly, Cerastes' smile stayed on his face. He looked harder into the invisible distance. “Did he, now?” he said softly. His eyes flicked down, pinning her in place. “And he did not kill you?”

  Krait flinched slightly. Cerastes' voice was tinged with disappointment, out of place, as though he hoped for her death. “I escaped in a moment of distraction, sir,” she admitted. “He recognized your Name.”

  Cerastes' silence grew dangerous. “And why,” he murmured, “would you tell him my Name?”

  “I....” Krait's voice died in her throat. Because he would have killed me. The words of a coward, of a traitor. She couldn't speak them aloud.

  But Cerastes seemed to lose interest. He moved around the room—glided, really—hovering above the floor. His robes trailed on the wooden boards, his steps silent, eerily smooth. “I have a new assignment for you,” he finally said.

  “Yes, Master.”

  “We have need of a book,” he said. “The Book of the Named. It has been missing since the War, but at last I have located it in the pirate city of Sonora. Retrieve it for me.”

  Krait dropped to one knee again, bowing her head. Cerastes watched her dispassionately. Then he turned back to the wall. “Time is of the essence,” he said. “Travel by shadow. I have opened a pathway. This corner,” he pointed with one long, thin finger, “shall take you directly to the city. Be quick about it.”

  Krait nodded. “And once I have the book, Master?”

  “Bring it to me in the City of Crowns. Contact me once you have it and I will arrange for another portal.”

  Krait bowed lower, her nose almost to the floorboards.

  Cerastes turned once more, walking toward the center of the room, then paused again. “Fi
fty lashes,” he murmured. “For saying my Name.” Then the shadows twisted off the walls, the floors, and stretched down from the ceiling. They grasped his body, seeming to pull it in all directions. He lifted slowly into the air, the darkness becoming his robes, his hair, his face. The pressure inside the cabin increased, the air turned dense, charged with magic, unbreathable.

  Krait blinked.

  He was gone.

  Still kneeling, she uncoiled the short crop from her waist. She had several different kinds attached to her belt—leather, cord, gut. She was the Krait, after all, and the whip was her namesake. Her Naming weapon was coiled in the niche of her back, pressed against her skin, a long and powerful bullwhip of over twenty feet. Its handle was made of sturdy metal, covered in dark braided leather. It pushed against her now, as though begging to be released, but the weapon was not appropriate for her own punishment. She needed something shorter. More personal. The cat would do.

  Her heart pounded as she undid her black shirt, pulling it up from her belt and over her head. The cold air tickled her, drawing goosebumps to the surface. She shivered in anticipation, her senses heightened. Her eyes and ears became keen and clear. She turned her face away from the moonlight, deeper into the room, toward the shadowy, rotted wood.

  She licked her lips. She yearned for the fire, for the sharp crack of the whip. It taught her obedience. Discipline.

  Some might see the ritual as barbaric, gruesome, needlessly cruel. But they didn't understand. From suffering arose truth. It was the only way to know oneself, stripped down to the raw bone, naked and alone, in a place where mind met body. The hands and feet of the Dark God were bound together by suffering, the shared burden of punishment and intrinsic pleasure.

  When Cerastes first found her, she had been a shell of a woman, a ghost of her former self. Only sixteen, practically a child, washed up from the ocean and left for dead.

  She had belonged to a Hive once, long ago, before the Harpies had taken her. Before the years of burning Light, which still seared her memory, creeping through dreams, awakening her in a cold sweat. The Harpies had used her as a slave, blinding her with sunstones, controlling her on a leash. They had burned her eyes out. She had been sightless for those years, practiced upon by young Harpy warriors, knowing nothing but pain and horror.

  Then somehow, she escaped. Despite her attempts, she couldn't remember how—it had been blocked from her memory, forgotten in a haze of anguish and desperation. She had awakened on the beach, alone, somewhere far out in the countryside. She had crawled away, slithering through sand and wet grass, keeping her head low, her blind face pressed to the earth. She had eaten bugs and leaves to survive, taking shelter beneath low blackberry bushes, wrapping her legs to her chest every night, eager to die. She had waited for some sign from the North Wind, the herald of the Goddess, to escort her into the beyond.

  Then Cerastes found her. In his dark and majestic power, he had healed her eyes—and given her new life. A new world. A Name.

  Kneeling on the floor, she bent her head to the ground again. Master, I am indebted to you. With a strong flick of her wrist, she brought the crop down on her back. She grimaced, grunting in pain. One.

  She struck again. Blood flicked into the air, spattering the window behind her. Two.

  By the tenth strike, her body was singing, her skin tight with a mixture of fire and pleasure. She grew lightheaded, adrenaline pounding through her system, stealing her breath. She felt alive. Truly alive. Elated.

  And deep in her belly, something stretched and unfurled, rippling with strength, turning its head toward her with eager attention. She felt its eyes upon her, red and burning in her stomach. She had never met her demon. Had never summoned it from beneath her skin. Cerastes had told her that she was damaged, that it would be impossible for her to summon her darker self. The Harpies had broken it out of her, stealing it with her sight, leaving her a useless shell.

  But in these moments she felt it. Some shard of darkness, of unimaginable strength. A body more powerful than her own, an aura greater than her shadow, begging for release. Yes. Yes. Yes.

  She cried out, overwhelmed by sensation. Her voice carried through the night, across the shipping yard and over the ocean waves. She lost herself to the sound, to the crack of the whip, to the stinging blood that trailed down her back.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SORA BLINKED, FOGGY from sleep. Her left side was warm and she had a vague memory of curling up next to a body—someone strong and familiar. She looked up blearily, confused for a moment, wondering if she was still caught in a dream. Her eyes landed on Crash's back.

  By the North Wind....

  She sat up, startled, then winced at the pain from her arm. Her shoulder ached dully, throbbing in its socket. She was relieved that it was strapped to her chest. The extra support made the pain bearable.

  The sight of Crash, however, took much longer to adjust to. She stared at his naked, muscular back, the tanned skin flecked with scars. We slept next to each other. It wasn't the first time, and yet she felt different now, too close, somehow exposed.

  The assassin stirred next to her. He sat up and turned toward her, pausing when he met her eyes.

  “How is your arm?” he asked. Practical, as always.

  Sora shifted her bandaged limb and winced. “I'll be fine,” she mumbled, though at that moment, she wished she had some of her mother's valerian root extract—an excellent salve for pain.

  Crash stood and gathered his weapons, scattering the fire, throwing dirt on the remaining embers. She studied him, lost in thought. He was smooth and graceful, powerful, his actions precise and controlled. His black hair swept down around his ears, longer than she had last seen it, obscuring his eyes. His jaw was sharp and clean, his nose straight, his eyes the color of moss, deep-set beneath two elegant black brows. Handsome, she thought now, though she had forced herself to ignore it before. He always reminded her of a wolf, a cunning beast of the wilderness, sleek and dangerous.

  When she had first met him, she had feared him more than anything else. He had killed Lord Fallcrest at her own Blooming, her coming-of-age ceremony. He had stolen her away into the night. Threatened her life, held a dagger to her throat. She had hated him.

  Yet somehow, over so much time, things had changed. They had grown close. Become...friends? Could one be a friend to an assassin? They relied on each other. He had saved her life on countless occasions and she had returned the favor. After his actions of last night, she could only assume that he was fond of her. That he cared. Perhaps more than just cared. But she couldn't guess his thoughts....

  He caught her eye. The hint of a smile touched his lips, secretive. She blinked, then looked away quickly, embarrassed. Her gaze traveled to the sky, a pale blue, quickly brightening in the east. It could be no more than an hour past dawn.

  “Are we going to the Dracians' camp?” she asked, her voice husky and dry. She licked her lips, suddenly desperate for water.

  “No,” Crash said briefly. He straightened and pointed to the northwest, opposite the dawn. “They found a town out that way. Abandoned. We're meeting them there.”

  Sora nodded. She was relieved that he wasn't looking at her—his presence still made her nervous, like a child. She focused on his words instead. Soon, she would see her friends—Burn, Laina, everyone....They're alive. It was enough to make her forget her thirst, her hunger, even the ache of her arm. She couldn't wait.

  They packed up camp quickly. There was little to take with them, only Crash's weapons. Then they started down a deer path in the opposite direction of Witherman's remains. She tried not to think of the dead men that lay in the forest, rotting under the sun, perhaps charred by flames. Witherman had been stranded here for seven years and no one had come. This island was far away from the mainland, completely isolated. She tried not to worry about that, too. With her friends by her side, they would find a way forward. Their quest would continue. It had to.

  Crash and Sora walked all morning
through the thick forest, following the natural deer paths that led through the woods. It was a hot day, the air dense and muggy under the trees, thick with pollen, laden with a vaguely citrus scent. The shade protected them from the intense sun, but still, Sora's shirt was soaked with sweat after an hour. She swatted at gnats and mosquitoes with her good hand, gritting her teeth in annoyance. The bugs seemed endless, clouding the air, following in their wake.

  At times, they had to cut their way through the brush, hacking back thick vines and wide, waxy leaves. Snakes were common in this part of the jungle and she saw several different species of vibrant colors: green, yellow, black and red. Crash held up a hand when they crossed paths with a snake, remaining motionless until the beast slithered away; or he would pick up a stick and guide the reptile off the path. They forded several streams of clear, sweet water. He stopped at one stream and took a long drink, splashing his face, wetting his hair so it stuck to his forehead. Sora did the same and tried to wipe off some of the grime. She winced, avoiding her reflection. What I don't know can't hurt me.

  Crash filled his water flask and they continued after a short break. The assassin was unusually conscientious: stopping to help her up a steep ledge of rocks, waiting patiently as she pushed her way through the thick brush. She was surprised by this—usually he was the one to push them forward, intolerant of any complaints. Her injured arm slowed her pace, and she was weary, her feet sore after only a few hours. They stopped to bind her feet with cloth, but it hardly seemed to help. Perhaps the past two days had affected her more than she thought. She didn't feel like her usual energetic self.

  “What's that tattoo on your wrist?” Sora asked after a long span of grueling silence. She didn't have much breath left to talk with, but she tried anyway. Crash wasn't the type to begin a conversation.

  He glanced down at his wrist as though annoyed with it. “My namesake,” he said, then looked back to the path ahead.

  “Namesake?” Sora echoed, curious. Usually Crash avoided answering any sort of personal question.