The guard’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thanks, boss.”
Boss? At first glance, he dressed more like a clergyman or a janitor than a “boss.” As he drew near, though, she didn’t miss the confidence in his wide, relaxed shoulders. He had a high brow and wide nose. It wasn’t how he appeared, but more an instinct an animal might have that told Becca there was more to this man than he displayed.
With a wave of his hands, the door disappeared, and he ducked his head to enter her cell. She didn’t waste time with magic—she wasn’t that strong. Instead, she charged him, hoping to throw him off balance.
She made it two steps before a light flashed and something jerked her backwards, slamming her back to the wall. It was the rock, now warm in her hand. She dropped it quickly, but not before her head smacked against the wall. Ignoring her throbbing head, she scooted back and readied herself.
He lifted a hand. “I would like to speak. No weapons involved.”
Cold seeped into her bones at this man’s casual display of power. She was at his mercy. “Easy for you to say. You have more weapons in your arsenal.”
“I do. But I was more concerned with the weapon you have. Your Soultorn is stronger than you know what to do with.”
Becca flinched at the word Soultorn. “Don’t kill her. She’s my sister.”
His brows lifted. “Your sister.”
“Yes. Elizabeth. We keep her unconscious. She’s not a threat.”
He chuckled. “You are naive if you think it’s not a threat.” He spoke a command, then the wall of the cave moved.
The ground vibrated underneath her. “What are you doing?”
A lower portion of dirt protruded out of the wall, creating a bench of sorts. “Getting comfortable.”
“Who are you?” Becca tried to hide her amazement.
“I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Andre.” He took a seat on the bench, like he was visiting a friend, not a prisoner. “And you are?”
Not seeing a reason to lie at this point, she told him. “Becca. Where are my friends?”
“They’re safe. Even your sister is alive, for the moment.”
At his confirmation that Elizabeth still lived, Becca’s breath left in a rush. At least everyone was alive…for the moment. “I want to see them.”
He watched her in silence before answering. “I need to be able to trust you first.”
“Just let us leave. We have no desire to hurt you.”
He picked up a nearby rock, tossed it in the air, and caught it. He closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. “You’ve probably guessed my powers lie with the land and water. While things may look simple”—he nodded at the rock lying flat on his palm—“they are not. This is my home, filled with runaways, magicians, and Mundanes alike. The slightest pressure in the wrong spot can crumble all I’ve built.” He closed his hand and opened it. Where the rock had once been, now fine sand poured through his fingers. He blew the grains off his hand. “That is something I can’t allow.”
“We’re only trying to help my sister.” She stood, unable to sit by while he performed magic tricks.
“Hopefully in time, you can join our community or go on your way.” He rose and dusted off his pants. “But you’re not leaving with that demon. That I cannot allow. The best thing you can do for your sister is to provide the peace only death can bring.” He raised a hand, halting her objection. “I’m not saying we won’t help. In fact, here’s Jemi now.”
Becca turned to the woman entering the cell. Dressed in dark, fitted clothes with lace-up black boots, she looked like a soldier. Short-cropped hair and a lithe, muscular frame finished the look. Her face held sharp pointed features, almost pixie-like. She’d call Jemi almost beautiful if not for the disdain on her face.
“Can you restrain her?” She turned slightly to Andre.
“Restrain?” Becca tried to hide the panic in her voice.
“Becca, this is Jemi. She is gifted in reading people. With a slight touch, she can read your intentions for us. It’ll be easier if you don’t fight her.”
Becca glanced at the door. No chance of making it past combat-girl here. “What’s to say she’ll only look at my intentions? Maybe she’ll stay and play a bit.”
Jemi stepped forward, a wicked smile creeping on her lips. “Let’s do this the hard way, then.”
Becca struck out at her, but a debilitating pain in her temple brought her to her knees. She heard Andre’s deep voice from somewhere, but it was distant. Cold hands forced themselves against her mind. She remembered her defenses and built wall after wall to keep these people out. But their power pressed down on her, wiping out any protective spell she could remember. Soon, the past few months flew in front of her eyes. Glimpses of her sister, Darion, and Caleb scattered across her mind.
Then her uncle appeared, the one devil she’d killed months ago and never wanted to see again. He had stolen Becca’s innocence as a teenager, and returned to their family to kill her parents and take Elizabeth for his Soultorn. His haughty laugh told Becca that despite his death, she didn’t have her sister back and never would. A scream ripped out of her throat, and she slumped to the ground. The cold ground seeped into her body as echoes of the past reverberated in her mind.
Andre spoke, but Becca was beyond listening. They finally left, leaving her to her own demons.
Chapter Forty-Three
Peter’s steps were slow and measured as he moved up the marble staircase, sharp needles of pain shooting up his legs with each step. The guards on either side of the door quickly averted their eyes. Too quick. Disgust stabbed him. He couldn’t blame others for turning their heads. The first time he looked in a mirror after the fire, he’s thrown up.
The guard kept his gaze lowered as he opened the door for Peter.
“Mr. Weston.” The elderly servant greeted Peter without any hesitation or reaction. “May I take your jacket?”
Peter shrugged out of it, pain running across his shoulder as the scarred skin pinched.
“I will let my lord know you are here.” With a nod, the servant left with Peter’s jacket folded over one arm.
Peter turned, searching Ryma’s opulent estate for any evidence of the attack. The hall held the elegance and beauty of the past with the promise of tomorrow. Large paintings covered tall walls, and a luxurious chandelier glittered above him. All evidence of the fight was wiped clean. Ryma, the coven leader and high priest, had quickly repaired the damage and downplayed the situation. If only Peter’s wounds were so easily healed.
Peter had missed the fight here since he was almost killed days before, burned beyond recognition by a pyromancer. Despite magic and medications, months later his wounds remained puckered, red, and inflamed, making him some freak monster. Magical wounds were harder to heal. People said he was lucky to be alive. It didn’t feel like luck.
The attendant returned. “Ryma is ready for you.”
Peter followed him down the hall. The servant opened the door, and Peter strode in, his head high. Ryma had taught him at a young age to be proud and confident. He was a magician, and part of one of the greatest covens in the world. Peter had buried his past long ago and embraced the coven when Ryma discovered him at ten years old and had been bound to him since.
Ryma stood to greet him, his magic permeating the room. He wasn’t a tall man, and he didn’t need to be. He had an exotic Middle Eastern look about him with extremely short hair. Ryma kept it short on purpose, displaying the gaping scar across his scalp as a badge of honor. It gave Peter hope that he could someday wear his scars in much the same way.
Faced with Peter’s grotesque scars, Ryma didn’t flinch. It showed what kind of man he was.
“Peter, my dear boy. It’s so great to see you up. How are you feeling?” Ryma shook his hand gently.
Peter paused to consider the dreaded question. What was he supposed to say? He felt like a demon with a tongue of thorns had dragged it across his whole body. Instead, he answered, “It is bearab
le, my lord.”
“Good to hear. Please sit. We have much to discuss. What do you want to drink?” Ryma headed over to the liquor cabinet. He always loved his drinks. Some used to say he would poison whomever he disliked, but to refuse a drink would mean certain death as well.
Peter never cared to turn him down. “I’ll take the strongest stuff you have.”
Ryma chuckled. “Of course. Are you still in pain? The doctors said you were improving.”
It was Peter’s turn to laugh, but his sounded bitter and sharp. Improving? Perhaps, but he was barely better than the mass of bloody burns when he’d first arrived at the healing center. He was nowhere near completely healed though.
At the perplexed look on Ryma’s face, Peter restrained himself. He already looked crazy. He didn’t need to act the part. “The doctors are competent, but there is much for them to learn in healing.”
“True. It was an art without much practice, but your doctors are the best.” Ryma handed him his drink and sat down. His pristine suit and crystal glasses spoke of a wealth that Peter envied. Ryma paid him, but it was crumbs compared to this.
“Yes. Thank you for the care.” Peter drank down half the glass in one gulp. Then he carefully lowered himself into the chair, his skin aching in protest.
“Of course. I’ve put a great deal into your well-being. I couldn’t stop now. We have much to accomplish.”
“Accomplish?”
Ryma led one of the governing thirteen covens in Northern America. What more was he aiming for?
“Yes. We need to purify our ranks. These wayward brothers of ours need to be taken care of.”
“You mean Darion.”
Ryma tightened his jaw, and with a twist of his wrist, stirred the ice in his drink. “Yes, Darion.”
“He needs to pay for his crimes with a slow, painful death.”
“I agree he needs to pay. I wouldn’t be sad to string up his dead body in the middle of the market, but I’d rather use his power.”
“He would make a powerful addition,” Peter said. “Though I’d rather the birds pick the flesh off his skin.” Darion had given him this hell he was forced to live with. Peter couldn’t look at Darion’s face again without wanting to rip it apart.
“I knew you’d be motivated to help.”
“Motivated, yes. Whether I can is another question.” This trip alone had drained Peter more than he cared to admit. He finished off his drink, relishing the warm liquor down his throat. “I am far from inconspicuous.”
“I understand.” Ryma took another sip. “I’ve been thinking on that. I’ve recently corralled a wayward illusionist back into our flock who should be able to help you. You may know him. A talented boy, Nevada.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Darion walked down the narrow corridor lit with witch lights, the end of a rifle pointed at his back. They called the man behind him Leon, the same one that Darion couldn’t touch with magic during the fight at the cave. Beneath all those muscles, Leon must have some type of defense or immunity to magic, something Darion had never encountered before.
Walking next to him was the mind reader, Jemi. She had a brisk manner about her, but was talented enough. When she pried into his mind, she focused on his intentions, motivations, and strong feelings. The sensation unsettled his defenses, but it wasn’t the first time someone had scanned his mind. He knew he was overmatched, and playing nice for a few minutes might give him the upper hand later on. Darion would do what he had to do to get to Becca.
“Do you ever get tired of fighting magicians? Not being able to wield any true power?” Darion turned slightly back to Leon, trying to find out more about this anomaly.
Leon motioned with his gun. “Keep facing forward. Jemi may trust you, but I’m still waiting for an opinion that counts.”
Darion warmed Leon’s gun slightly. He didn’t want to startle him, but was testing how far this man’s immunity covered.
Leon jabbed the gun into his neck. “Cut it out if you ever want to see your friends again.”
“Okay.” Darion raised his hands in innocence.
At the thought of Becca, Darion’s chest tightened. She was smart. Smart enough to not cause too much trouble. Maybe he was being too hopeful, since she seemed to fall into trouble on a regular basis. But it was his kind of trouble.
Darion tracked the turns and twists as they continued down the tunneled hall, trying to determine where they were at. “So where’re we going? To your leader, the oversized gopher?”
“You’re a riot,” Leon said with no humor. “Shut up. We’re almost there.”
They stopped in front of a heavy door, dark, made out of a similar material as the cave walls, but smoother. Leon put his hand on the door, and with a click, it opened.
“Come in,” a deep voice said from inside.
A brush of power wafted over Darion as he entered the large room, similar almost to a den with several bookshelves and a couple of desks and chairs. In the center of the room sat an older magician behind a large desk. Darion didn’t read magicians well—he never took to it in school—but he didn’t need to. This man radiated power.
“Have a seat. I hope my brother wasn’t too unwelcoming.”
Brothers? At second glance, he could see the similarities past the tall frames and dark skin. Andre must’ve been older, his hair, closely shaved and speckled with gray, while Leon had the strength and power of someone younger, still in his thirties.
“If you call having a gun pressed into your neck welcoming, then he was perfect.” Darion helped himself to the nearest chair.
“You need me anymore?” Leon asked. “I’m due back to scare some new recruits.”
A flash of exasperation crossed Andre’s face. “That will be all, thank you.” Once Leon left, he turned his attention to Darion. “Welcome. I’m Andre and this is my home.”
“Nice, if you don’t like the sun.”
Andre smiled. “We do have sunrooms and many amenities that would surprise you.”
“Resort-style living for a coven. What will we think up next?” Darion lifted his feet up on the desk and relaxed back in his chair. If this man wanted him dead, he would be. It made him feel bold.
“We’re not a coven. I don’t call for blood oaths.” Andre brushed his hand across his desk as if dusting off lint, but instead, a strong wave forced Darion’s feet off the table.
Darion caught himself before he fell out of his chair.
“But I do demand respect, and usually get it.”
Jemi chuckled lightly as she took a seat across from Darion.
“I see.” Darion coughed slightly, covering his embarrassment. “What coven raised you?”
“My parents raised me. How about you?”
No obligations? No blood oath?
“Then you’re the rogue I heard about.” Darion never imagined the rogue would be this powerful. He imagined a rugged man with a dark cloak and a mangy beard down to his chest, nothing this organized or powerful.
“I’m no rogue. I run this community for humans with or without magical powers, as a safe haven of sorts.”
“A safe haven?” He swallowed his surprise. One of the most powerful magicians Darion had ever met, and he ran an orphanage. “Why hide? With your power, you don’t have to hide.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” Andre leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the tables. He pressed his fingertips together. “Jemi said you were not bound to a coven. What coven raised you? Or should I ask Jemi?”
Darion nodded, trying to focus on the question instead of this rarity in front of him. “My parents were blood bound to Ryma. They died when I turned eighteen. Before he could tie me into servitude, I disappeared.”
“And you’ve managed to stay hidden?”
“No. He’s wanted me for years but was a busy man, and I wasn’t worth his time. He has upped his search recently.” Darion didn’t think it smart to mention the price Ryma had on his head at the moment. “But I don’t plan
to be bound to anyone either.” He stressed his point. Giving a blood oath to a high priest was signing a contract that couldn’t be broken, tying two magicians together in more ways than one.
“I don’t ask for blood bonds. My people take oaths sometimes, but they are not magically bound. We do have a very talented group of individuals. And while I don’t force obedience, I have my ways of ensuring our safety.” He leaned back in his chair.
“A mind reader is helpful.” Darion glanced at Jemi.
“But you are bound in some way,” Andre said.
Puzzled, Darion waited for him to continue.
“To Becca, who happens to be connected to the Soultorn.”
“My connection to Becca is…” How could he explain something he wasn’t sure of himself? They’d joined powers when they escaped Ryma’s estate, but their bond continued. It wasn’t forced through blood, but tied through something else.
“It is something unique, from what Jemi tells me and what I sense. But I’m more concerned about her bond with the Soultorn.”
“It’s not a Soultorn to Becca. It’s her sister. We’ve been trying to save her.”
Andre cocked his head. “How do you think that’s possible?”
“Ryma’s been working on moving demons from one host to another. What is so different about shoving one out of someone who didn’t ask for it?”
“That perhaps you want this host to stay alive when you’ve done so.”
Darion let out a frustrated breath. “Yeah, if at all possible.”
“Maybe.” Andre pushed back from the desk and stood up. “Let’s go see this demon for ourselves, and her witch.”
Becca kept time by the meals sent through her door, always the same thing: some type of fishy soup and a roll. It was fresh, though, so she couldn’t complain.
Sometime after lunch, the camo-wearing nightmare, Jemi, appeared to escort her out. In a fight, Becca may have taken her. But this witch now carried a gun. Guess even magicians liked back-up.
Dark Rising Trilogy Page 29