by Nyna Queen
Without another glance at the dead man, Darken rushed over to Alex, who was stretched out on the ground between some trees like a sacrificial animal for the slaughter.
He took one look at her and something inside him turned to ice. Her body was a mess of cuts and bruises, barely recognizable underneath all the blood that was on and around her. One leg stood out at an awkward angle that sent a shiver down his spine, splintered bone sticking out through blood-slicked skin. But worse was the sight of the knife protruding from her stomach. He didn’t need to be a healer to know it was a lethal wound. He recognized Death when she was staring him in the face.
She will bleed. So much blood.
Now he knew. So soon. Too soon.
In the darkness of his mind, he felt her soul, that once bright, glorious soul flicker. Ready to cross over into his domain.
The hot, malevolent rage inside him pushed at his seams. The ground withered beneath him while his magic poured out of him, sucking the life from the land around him as he fought the instinctual urge to reap the soul that so willingly offered itself to him. The grass beneath him crumbled and turned ashen.
So much blood. Fly Raven. Run. Ruuuuun!
He had run. Yet he hadn’t run fast enough. And Alex …
No! His head snapped up, eyes two glowing pools of red. Burning fury distorted his features. She wouldn’t die. Not now. He wouldn’t allow it, and if he had to preen her lifeless body out of Death’s stiff cold fingers.
She had saved Max and Josy, and last night … he didn’t know what had happened last night—or the morning after—but he’d be doomed if he let her die before he had any chance to find out.
The rage throbbed inside him, burning under his skin, channeling his energy into a spear point. Magic snapped from him in a furious whip, ripping the bonds holding her apart.
He bent down and scooped her up into his arms, cradling her limp body to his chest and ran. She moaned softly, her heart weakly fluttering like a dying butterfly helplessly flapping its broken wings.
Hold on, he prayed silently, as he flew through the undergrowth, a shadowy blur between the trees. He ran as if the ground was on fire, with Death literally on his heels, each step leaving behind a patch of burned earth.
DESPITE his order Max and Josy came running down the hill as soon as they saw him emerge from the wood, slithering to a shocked halt at the sight of the bloody bundle in his arms.
“Oh, merciful Mother,” Josy moaned and pressed a hand to her mouth.
Max just stared at Alex with huge, terrified eyes, apparently unable to understand what he was seeing.
As gently as he could, Darken put Alex’s lifeless body down at their feet, careful with the knife still exuding from her belly. Then he surged up and whipped around to his niece, grabbing her by the arms. “You have to help her. Quick!”
Josy took another look at Alex’s mangled body and all the color drained from her face, leaving the whiff of freckles standing out.
Her voice shook. “Uncle Darken, I—”
“You’re a healer,” he snapped. “Do something!”
She flinched.
Darken took a deep breath and raked a hand through his hair, struggling to soften his tone while putting all the desperation he felt into his worlds. “Darling. Please.”
Giving him a sharp glance, Josy stiffly knelt beside Alex and reached out, fingers shaking visibly. The soft, gentle currents of healing magic filled the air, calm, soothing, balmy—all that his magic was not—as her eyes turned luminescent. When she touched Alex’s cheek, she shuddered.
He knew it, even before she looked up and shook her head.
“I-I’m sorry,” she whispered, and tears filled her eyes. “T-there is n-nothing I can do for her. She is far beyond my healing abilities.”
NO! “Then we have to get her to another healer, someone—”
“Uncle Darken.” Her hand touched his arm, her voice painfully gentle, as she said the words he didn’t want to hear. “It’s just … too much damage.” She bit her lip. “Nobody can heal that much destruction.”
No. No, no, no.
The world lurched in a sickening spin. His vision swam, and he doubled over, a wrenching feeling expanding in his stomach. Breathing turned hard, almost impossible.
There had to be something. They had to—
Alex moaned. Without hesitation, Darken bolted back to her side and knelt above her, carefully pulling her head into his lap.
“I’m here, love,” he whispered, stroking her matted, pale blond hair, not caring that his bloody fingers were turning them a dirty copper. “I have you.”
Her lids fluttered. Slowly, so painfully slowly, her veiled gaze focused on him, eyes deepened by pain into two bottomless blue lakes in her snow-pale face. Her lips moved, muttering something inaudible.
Darken bent forward, bringing his ears close to her lips—and her spider teeth, if she was too far gone to recognize friend from enemy.
“I’m here,” he told her, not caring, “Talk to me, love. Talk to me.”
“H—” A rattling breath shook her chest. “H-have t … m … lt …”
“What’s that? Talk to me. Please!” His hands tightened on her body.
The wet sound of blood clogged in her throat as she tried to swallow. “Have t-to m-m-molt.”
Her lids fluttered again, and her eyes rolled back into her head. Her body went limp in his arms.
For a second, a long, precious second, Darken just stared at her, not able to make sense of her words. Then it dawned on him and a hot arrow of hope pierced his chest.
She was a shaper. Skin beneath skin, as they said. Could it be—?
He lightly touched his lips to her bloody forehead and set her down, gently squeezing her ice-cold hand. “Hold on, love.”
Hold on.
When he rose, it was nothing but a brittle thread of hope that kept him upright, but hope was strong, and it spurred him on now.
He turned to Josy and forced himself to calm his voice, forced himself to ignore that the clock was ticking and that every grain was a precious drop of life trickling out of Alex’s tormented body.
“If someone possessed the skill to heal her, would you be able to guide her through the healing process?”
Josy blinked big, miserable eyes at him. “I already told you—”
“Could you?”
“I-I suppose so,” she stammered. “But Uncle Darken, there is no—”
“There is,” he objected softly. Please let me be right.
He grabbed his niece’s small hands between his and glanced at Alex’s body, curving around the blade, looking painfully small and vulnerable.
“She’s a shaper. She can molt.”
Josy followed his gaze, uncertain.
“I think she possesses the knowledge to heal herself,” Darken said, “but she’s too weak to do it on her own.” Please, great Mother, let me be right.
His niece took a shaky breath and nodded. “I-I will try.” Her fingers knotted together in front of her chest. “But this isn’t a tiny scratch. I’ll need my healing supplies to anchor her to the flesh long enough to initiate the healing process. If I don’t slow down her bodily processes, in this state, she will die before I can give her the energy she needs.”
A sinking feeling claimed him, but he forced it down. Forced himself to breathe. To think.
“Do you have some at Helton Manor?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “How much time does she have left?”
Josy’s luminescent eyes focused on Alex and she bit her lip again. “Not much.”
Darken raked a hand through his hair, smearing it with more blood. The family’s country mansion wasn’t far from here—another three miles perhaps. Half an hour, at a dead run. One look at Alex told him she didn’t have half an hour, even if Josy and Max were able to keep up with him, which he doubted. Oh, if only they could—
He went rigid, straining a muscle in his neck with the movement.
Wait! But they could!
“Maxwell!”
His nephew was still staring at Alex, whimpering like a frightened puppy with a broken paw.
Darken grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him softly. “Maxwell. Max!”
Honey-colored eyes tore away from Alex’s mangled body and found his. They were full of fear. But not of him, Darken thought with relief. For her. For Alex.
“Max!” He increased the pressure of his fingers, not actually hurting, but demanding attention. “Listen kiddo. Alex is hurt very badly. She is dying. Josy can help her, but first, we must get her to Helton Manor, quickly. Can you do that? Can you teleport us there?”
Horrified, Max shook his head and took a step back, trying to pull away from him. Darken didn’t let him go.
“Listen, buddy. Buddy? She’ll die if we don’t get her there now. Do you understand?”
Darken’s intensity brought his nephew’s weak flight attempts to a stop. He slumped.
“You have to try, Max,” Darken implored him. “For Alex. You’re her only chance.”
He knew he was asking a lot, maybe too much, and pressure wasn’t always the best motivation, but the kiddo adored her and if anything, he would try. It had worked once before. It was a risk—a huge risk, to be honest—but one they had to take if Alex should have any hope of surviving.
Sucking in a shaky breath, Max bobbed his brown cap of hair. “O-okay.”
Ripping off his coat, Darken carefully wrapped Alex into it and pulled her almost lifeless body close to his chest. So light. As if she was already gone.
No, he wouldn’t even allow himself to think like this. Death would just have to do without her.
When he turned around, Max was already holding Josepha’s hand with his left. His niece was clutching Alex’s shabby backpack to her in a tight grip. His nephew looked panicky but determined. He held out his right hand. Darken reached for it.
Skin touched skin.
It felt like being whipped into a rollercoaster ride. Instead of the single-step-in-and-out-of-the-darkness that was his experience with teleportation, they plunged into the darkness with lightning speed that sent them head over heels, an uncontrolled train racing through the night, crashing through everything in its way.
CHAPTER THIRTY
WHERE were they?
The informant restlessly paced the length of the musty log cabin. Checked his horanium iactari.
They should have been here by now. Should have been here more than an hour ago. Just what was taking them so long?
After he’d intercepted the call between Stephane his-high-and-mightiness Dubois-Léclaire and Darken last night, he’d known that this would be his last chance to fix things.
Darken! Anger flared inside him, almost overshadowing the relief he felt at the children being alive and well.
Leave it to Darken to thwart all his careful plans. Darken, who always had to stick his nose into everything that wasn’t his business.
His fingers caught in the folds of his tunic jacket, crumpling the rich marine fabric. Why couldn't he be at the Order playing “good boy” like it befitted one of his kind?
Well, at least now the babbled gibberish of that halfborn PO fledgling made a lot more sense. That was exactly the effect Darken Forfeit had on people. No wonder either, that he hadn’t heard back from the men he’d sent to Gomorrha. He shuddered just at the thought of their fate and rubbed his hands at the jacket.
And yet, something about the whole story didn't make sense. Why this whole hide-and-seek-game? Why going to Gomorrha of all places? And apparently with that shaper in tow?
Well, now wasn’t the time to figure out Darken’s twisted ways of mind. There would be time for that later. Now was time to act.
So, last night, he’d been busy calling in some old favors and working his connections. This time there could be no mistakes. This was the Pacified Zone, not some stinky no-name bar in the halfborn nether, and he’d heard too many stories not to take all the rumors seriously.
He’d figured luring Darken away from the children would pose the most difficult challenge. Fortunately, however, as one of his operators had informed him earlier, Darken had spared them the necessity of setting this particular part of his intricate scheme in motion, by gracefully liberating himself from the scene on his own accord. How forthcoming of him.
One of his own men was shadowing him right now, to keep an eye on him and—if necessary—delay his return.
With Darken out of the way, getting access to the children shouldn’t pose too big a problem. But it still had to be done properly. Which was why he had taken pains with the details—the suit, the sigil, even a sample of Darken’s handwriting. They might be tiny details, but it was the details that rounded out the picture. And this time he would make no mistakes, no matter how small. Too much hinged on this plan.
He’d also made sure to put enough of a command into the wording of the letter. Not even the children would dare to disobey a direct order from their forfeit uncle, he was sure of that.
He wasn’t too much concerned about the shaper, either. When Darken had mentioned the beast during the call, his voice had sounded odd.
Well, Darken surely wouldn’t have any mercy on the creature who had “abducted” his niece and nephew, now would he? Beast was probably locked up safely, like the animal it was. If it was still breathing at all. Knowing Darken they would likely have to piece it back together for any interrogation purposes. Not that he would mind if that mongrel creature rotted in hell. It had caused him enough worry these past few days.
He smoothed his jacket and tried to breathe evenly.
No, the shaper wasn’t one of his bigger concerns. But that augmenti bastard …
The informant grimaced. Blayde-spade and his augmented bunch of stone mutts, or whatever he called his little army of abominations. They could cause serious trouble. That black bruiser saw himself as a savior, a protector of the lost sheep, when he was really nothing but another criminal, hiding behind a front of love-and-peace-fuss. And the Council was too squeamish to bring him to his proper justice.
He could ruin everything. That’s why he’d briefed his “courier” personally and hammered it into his brain: don’t lie. Don’t even think about it. Whatever you do, whatever happens, while you are inside the Pacified Zone, there can be no lies. Those augmenti freaks had a damned way of picking up on these things and who tried to lie his way into the Pacified Zone … well, there was nothing against a kill as long as they performed it.
But there were always ways to get around such things and a delicately phrased truth could be a very useful substitute for a devastating lie. Since the courier wouldn’t be among the men taking the children—wouldn’t even lay so much as a finger on them—it technically wouldn’t be a lie if he said—and thought—that he meant the children no harm. There was no harm in accompanying them a little way, right?
And as long as he focused on the pretty truth dangled in front of their noses, why would they suspect the ugly reality behind? That rightful facade should hold, as long as they had no reason to take a closer look at him.
Let’s see if you suspect this one, Lord Forfeit!
The rest should be a breeze: get the children out of the hotel as quickly as possible and avoid any closer scrutiny. Once inside the prearranged coach, the courier would be understanding and sympathetic for all the torment they had to go through and once they reached the border they would only be too willing to follow him over the hill and right into his pretty trap. To sweeten the bait, he’d even arranged the appearance of the country mansion’s Stewart Captain with the family coaches. Acquiring them hadn't been easy, but nothing could be left to chance. As soon as they saw the familiar faces, there would be no reservations left about leaving the safety of the ward border that was the only thing that stood between them and his success.
Everything had been thought of. He’d even positioned a couple of his men at the old pavilion ruin close to the meeting place, as back
up, just in case something went sour along the line. At worst they would be fodder for Darken’s rage, but the most important thing was that the children had been taken away by then.
And if all had gone according to plan, they should have been here a long time ago, carefully sedated, and he would be calling the master to tell him it was done and reap his rewards. Perhaps there even was an apology in order.
So, why weren’t they here?
Biting his thumbnail, the informant threw another glance at his horanium and suppressed a curse. More than one and a half hours overdue.
Something must have gone wrong. Had to.
But if it had, why had none of his men contacted him? Why this disturbing … silence?
A cold feeling of foreboding tingled the back of his neck. Losing his patience, he left the cabin and retrieved his magic hover cycle which he’d hidden in the shack beside the cabin where the hunters stored their equipment.
Using magic, he fueled the cycle and mounted it, taking off along the dirt road for the meeting place. It was risky, showing up at the exchange point in person, but he needed to see for himself what was causing this delay.
It was only a short ride of about twelve minutes. Which was why he’d chosen the stinky cabin—a shelter for the huntsmen in bad weather—as hand over point. It was close enough to be reached quickly but remote enough from inhabited lands not to have a fool by chance come by and see something he would regret seeing. And he’d wanted the children in his care with as little delay as possible.
He stopped at the edge of the dirt road and left his cycle in the cover of some prickly shrubs and trees and started hiking the rest of the way through the hills. The sun was preparing to set in the west, sprinkling the hilltops with rose-gold and casting soft blue shadows into the valleys that quickly turned the sweat pooling on his brow clammy on his flushed skin. In front of him the wooden beams of the pavilion, where he’d positioned his backup, protruded over the hill. His legs sped up by themselves.