His elbow struck her across the face, but her knife slashed a shallow cut along his chest. Cyrus hopped backward, landing within a few inches of the ledge he’d just finished climbing up. He couldn’t retreat, and he couldn’t take her on. He was fucked.
“Peter!” he screamed. “It’s not too late!”
“It is too late!” shouted Peter. “And it’s your fault! Not mine!”
Both he and Tamyra moved forward. Cyrus reacted by swinging his club wildly. Tamyra was close enough to stab at his stomach, but Cyrus managed a desperate dodge to the side, catching her arm under his armpit and twisting her to the ground. He dropped his club and slammed a fist into Tamyra’s head, but she managed a textbook block that took most of the force out of the blow.
Peter was there in an instant, slamming into Cyrus with a hard push that left him rolling toward the edge. He staggered up in time to catch his friend’s fist with his face, blood exploding out of his lip as his bottom front teeth dug deep into it.
“Betrayal!” screamed Peter. “That’s all you ever did for me, Cyrus!”
He kicked Cyrus hard in the ribs. The pain of it was so intense that for a split second, he believed everything Peter was saying. There may have been an element of truth to it, in actuality. Cyrus didn’t know and didn’t care, not about what his former friend was saying and not about anything that didn’t involve saving Amy.
He caught Peter’s foot on the second kick, his arms wrapping around it in a desperate bid to reverse the situation. Peter wavered for an unsteady second, aware of how close both of them were to the ledge and a fall that would mean instant death upon landing.
He hopped back, and Cyrus pulled himself up in an instant, fueled by fear and an awareness of his impending doom. Tamyra had circled around to his other side, but her back was to the volcanic vent.
Maybe if I could push her toward it?
As though in response to his thought, heat rushed up from the volcanic vent, along with a belch of black smoke. Cyrus covered his eyes and dropped to one knee, keeping a tight grip on his club. Tamyra advanced forward, more out of fear of the volcano than tactical maneuvering. Cyrus took a swing at her, attempting to push her back and realize his plan. She did step back, but only a small one, and flashed a smile as she switched the knife around, seizing the blade in a throwing grip.
It was over. Peter had his balance back and was advancing from one side, and Tamyra was sighting up her knife throw from the other. Cyrus felt a strange sense of dark acceptance take hold of him. He lifted his club in Peter’s direction, figuring that if he had to pick one of them to die fighting against, it should be the one who he had a long history with.
From behind both Tamyra and Peter, up the more easily climbable ledge that Maggie had shown him over a week ago, two fully grown panthers stalked their way to the top of the rock mound. Cyrus blinked in disbelief as he watched them approach, both of them dipping to the side and slipping toward Tamyra, both of them completely out of anyone’s sight but his own.
He didn’t have time to say anything witty, or mock his opponents for not watching their backs. The panthers fell upon the black woman in an instant, fangs tearing into her, rending skin and flesh from bone. She only managed half of a scream, the rest of it drowned out in a wet, pathetic gargle.
Peter did not react in the way that Cyrus expected. If anything, he took advantage of the surprise in the same way Cyrus had intended to, closing on his former friend with his makeshift wooden spear while he was still gaping at the gory scene. Peter stabbed forward with the spear, catching Cyrus along his shoulder and rendering his left arm useless.
“I’ll kill you!” screamed Peter.
Cyrus hit him in the face with his club, though with only one arm left to swing with, there was only so much force he could put behind the blow. Peter reeled back slightly, tearing loose the spear and preparing it for what would be the killing stab.
The volcano picked that moment to voice its opinion on the bickering of the humans. A deep, primal growl came from its depths, followed by a burst of smoke, soot, and heat. Cyrus dropped to one knee and covered his head, seeing his chance as he noticed that Peter was still standing.
“I’m sorry!” he shouted, as he rushed Peter, shoulder first, knocking him back on a diagonal toward the volcanic vent’s center.
Peter didn’t get a chance to respond. He tripped over an uneven patch of igneous rock, fell flat on his ass, and then rolled over the edge of the vent. Cyrus saw his hands dart up in a desperate attempt to find purchase. The smoke was too thick for him to see anything else, but he heard the screaming.
The volcano wasn’t done, and as Cyrus hurried over to where Amy still lay, he could feel the heat of it threatening to make his clothes burst into flame. He threw Amy over his shoulder and hurried down the same path the panthers had climbed up. They were nowhere in sight now, and neither was Tamyra’s ravaged body.
Each step Cyrus took down the rocky trail was literally a breath of fresh air. The volcano rumbled again, and a glance over his shoulder showed him that the magma, deep within the chamber, had come out to play.
It followed after him far faster than any depiction of flowing lava Cyrus had ever seen. He was only halfway down the path, and at the rate the fiery, molten stream of death was gaining on him, he wasn’t sure he’d make it.
“…Cyrus?” Amy had finally woken up, and was barely aware of the situation.
I won’t die here, and neither will she! Not after all we’ve been through!
With the last of his strength, Cyrus hurtled down the final stretch of the black stone path and into the jungle. He didn’t stop there, knowing that if the lava continued flowing, the jungle and likely all of the island would go up in flames. He ran past the lake, down the path, all the way back to the camp.
“What’s happening?” Maggie was standing outside of the fence, her face a mask of concern.
“Get Kyoko onto the raft!” shouted Cyrus. “Hurry! There’s no time!”
They moved quickly, running down and around the corner of the beach to where Peter and Tamyra had left “Hope”. Cyrus was shocked to see that they’d taken the time to refill the water barrel and load it up with more coconuts and foraged food. He sat Amy down on one side, helped Maggie the last of the way with Kyoko, and then started pushing.
“Hurry, Cyrus!” shouted Maggie. The volcano boomed behind them, sending up an even more massive plume of smoke and making Cyrus’s eardrums ache from the noise. He got the raft into the water and kept pushing until his feet wouldn’t touch. Then, he climbed aboard and collapsed, wounded and exhausted from the most eventful hour of his life.
CHAPTER 30
Cyrus sat on the edge of the raft, looking back at the island in the distance, or at least what he could see of it. Smoke shrouded the circumference along with the nearest hundred or so feet of ocean to it, and only the orange glow of live magma spouting from the volcanic vent showed through.
Kyoko and Amy were still recovering, the two of them huddled lengthwise across the raft, side by side. Shadow lay between them, the panther having snuck aboard the raft sometime during their hasty exodus. And Maggie sat to his right, watching the same scene, her pretty face scrunched up in obvious distaste.
“The island…” she said, softly. “What do we do if this destroys it?”
Cyrus shrugged, though he already knew the answer.
“We wait.” He pointed to the smoke and fire. “This is actually good for us, I think. The world won’t ignore a volcanic eruption in the same way they’ve ignored a few castaways on a tiny desert island.”
“Are you sure?” asked Maggie.
Cyrus chuckled.
“I haven’t been sure about anything in a long time,” he said. “But I think we’ll be okay.”
Maggie turned to look at him, scanning over his expression, her own doubts worn openly on her face.
“What about you?” she asked. “What happens when we get back to civilization?”
“We
go back to our lives.”
“And what about your life? What about what Peter said, about what you said… the man in the shed?”
Cyrus took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
“I’m not going to run away, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He reached a hand out and splashed it through the water, examining the tiny ripples the fallen droplets made against the surface of the ocean.
“I haven’t always been a good person, Maggie.” He met her eye. “I’ll accept the consequences of everything I’ve done.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.
Cyrus shrugged and took a deep breath.
“It means what it means,” he said. “No more lies. Not to anyone.”
Maggie reached her hand out and gave his a squeeze.
“I think Darius would be proud of you,” she said.
“I fucking hope so,” said Cyrus. “I really do.”
She smiled at him and squeezed his hand again. Cyrus felt like he was ready to go home.
THE END
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Thanks for reading,
Anya
For other stories by the same author, check out
Winter Spire: Sorceress of Lust
Forbidden Magic: The Gift
Lost Memories
Sirens of Faldion
After the Fall: Close and Confined (Taboo Erotica)
Coming Home (Taboo Erotica)
Depths of Desire: Complete and Uncut (Taboo Erotica)
Last Man Alive: Complete and Uncut (Taboo Erotica)
Illicit Inheritance: The Complete Collection (Taboo Erotica)
Temptation Island: The Complete Collection (Taboo Erotica)
Taboo MILF Mega Collection (Taboo Erotica 13 Book Collection)
FREE EXCERPT FROM FORBIDDEN MAGIC
CHAPTER 1
The bus lurched over a large pothole as it took the last turn into the station. Victor jerked out of sleep, kicking the seat in front of him as his body snapped into wakefulness. The man sitting next to him gave him an odd look, but Victor’s eyes didn’t waver from the scene outside his window.
Undercliff City. It’s been so long, I barely even remember it.
It was a particularly dark night, with enough cloud cover to block out the nearly full moon. In downtown Undercliff, amidst the corridor of skyscrapers, bars, and clubs, the city always felt alive. The bus was dropping Victor off on the outskirts, near the eponymous cliffs, where most of the houses and buildings were either condemned or well on their way.
Victor ran a hand through his dark, curly hair as the station came into view. He was tall and lanky, to the extent that the bus’s undersized seat was a bit uncomfortable for his legs. A sharp chin and dark eyes made his features look brooding and a bit mysterious, or at least, he liked to think so.
The bus doors opened with a vacuum sealed whoosh. Victor's fellow passengers began standing up and politely queuing for their turn to get off. Most of them were shabby, people that looked like they were coming home, rather than just visiting.
Am I just visiting? I don’t have a home anymore.
He stood up when it was his turn to join the line running down the aisle and felt a hot flash hit him like a stiff slap in the face. Victor coughed into the crook of his arm and managed a few unsteady steps forward as his stomach twisted, and cold sweat pooled on his forehead.
It was why he was there, and what it all came back to. Victor was sick in a way that no doctor could help with, in a way that no nineteen-year-old should be dealing with on their own. The one person who held the clue to his treatment lived here, in Undercliff City, the diamond that never fully escaped the rough.
“You okay, kid?”
The bus stop was a small roundabout with a single building in the center and a large parking lot next to it. Victor was leaning up against the rectangular sign that detailed all of the connecting routes. A man smoking a cigarette stood next to him.
“…Fine,” he murmured. “Never been better.”
The man laughed. Victor’s skin felt hot, as though all of the tiny hairs had burned to the root.
Do I look as bad as I feel?
The man standing next to him pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offered one. Victor accepted it, puffing it to life on the man’s lighter. He hated the taste of nicotine and smoking in general, but his nerves were desperate for a distraction. After a few long drags, he felt himself relax a little.
“You’re not from around town, are you?” asked the man.
Victor shook his head.
“So why’d you come here?” The man coughed and tapped his cigarette, knocking a bit of ash from the tip. “Undercliff City sucks.”
“Bird watching,” said Victor. “Figure I’d see if I could spot myself a blue tailed bobby.”
The man broke out into raspy chuckles. Victor thanked him for the cigarette and watched as he wandered off into the dark, dreary parking lot.
Why did I come here?
He reached down to his tan messenger bag, the only physical baggage he’d brought with him. Technically, it was his father’s, though the distinction didn’t matter much to him anymore.
He unzipped the front pocket and fumbled through it with one hand until his fingers closed on paper. It was a picture, a picture of a woman. And she was the real reason why he’d come to Undercliff City.
Lucy Wilson. Dad’s old assistant.
The picture was old, from the early days of digital cameras, and printed on plain white paper. The woman in it was young, maybe four or five years older than Victor was now. She was also strikingly attractive, with dark blonde hair, crystaline blue eyes, and a body that looked like it belonged on a pinup model.
Towering over her at the side was Victor’s father, John. He had one arm around the petite woman’s shoulders and was almost smiling. Victor had rarely seen his father smile in all the time that he’d known him, and it seemed fitting.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Tendrils of fog swept through the bus station from the southern cliffs, and rain began to fall in slowly accelerating droplets. Victor scowled and leaned over to put the photo away.
A few raindrops managed to beat him to the punch, scoring wet strikes on the picture that marred the low-quality ink. Victor gritted his teeth together and slid it into his pocket. The effect of the nicotine was wearing off, and he could feel another heat flash coming on, brewing in the tips of his fingers and toes.
He started walking. The last time he’d been in Undercliff City, he’d been nine years old. None of it looked familiar, and even if it had, he had no idea where to start looking.
Victor shifted his bag on his shoulder and turned so that he was heading toward the skyscrapers in the distance, into the heart of the city. A homeless woman sat half on the sidewalk and half in an alleyway and jingled a cup as he walked by.
“Please,” she said in a wispy voice. “I’m sleeping out here.”
Victor stopped, pulled a few quarters that he hadn’t ended up needing for bus fare out of his pocket, and dropped them into her cup. He turned to continue and heard the woman speak again, louder this time.
“It’s red. Burning red.”
A flash of red flickered across Victor’s vision, accompanied by a sharp stab of searing pain in his temples. He looked back at the woman.
“What did you say?”
“You haven’t realized yet, have you?” The woman broke out into cackles as the rain intensified, splashing water into her change cup. “You’ll have to choose, you know. You could be a hero, or you could be a villain. But you must hurry. It will kill you if you don’t.”
There was something about her words that made a shiver run down Victor’s spine. She sounded coherently
crazy, the type of madness that was unsettling to parse out as a bystander.
I’m just paranoid. Mentally ill homeless women are a dime a dozen.
Victor took a step back from her and started making his way back toward the city center. Another burst of fire shot through his stomach, and he almost doubled over in shock.
“Hurry! Please hurry!” The woman’s shouts were lost to the rain as Victor forced himself forward. There was no turning back.
CHAPTER 2
The rain didn’t let up, and neither did Victor’s pain. Every step forward was a struggle against his sensitive nerves. He felt his body more intimately than he ever had before, and every ounce of that awareness screamed with the gentle caress of fire pokers and cattle prods.
This is too much.
Victor remembered an article he’d read about people with chronic pain and the struggle that it turned every day into for them. It made him feel anxiety on top of the fire, to the point of rattling each of the already aching breaths he took.
He slowed to a stop as he neared the edge of the city’s center. There was a tavern on the corner of the block with a sign out front that read “Sammy’s Place.” Victor stumbled as much as walked down the stairs and inside, his legs carrying him with wobbly steps as though he’d already had too much to drink.
Victor was tall, and looked a good bit older than most men his age. A few dim lights lit the tavern, and it was still early enough in the night that there weren’t too many patrons milling about. A pool table took up space in the back, and a single flat screen hung from the wall behind the bar.
He collapsed down into one of the stools. The bartender was a stoic looking woman with short cut dark brown hair and a bored expression on her face. She lifted her head slightly in acknowledgment of him but said nothing.
“I’ll have a beer,” Victor muttered. The bartender moved to grab it for him without asking for ID, thankfully. Victor busied himself by pulling out the photo and taking another look at it. Long lines of smudging from the rain ran vertically across the woman’s face, making it nearly impossible to make out her features.
Survival Island: Last Man Standing Page 18