Chapter 41 #2
Amryn stumbled back. Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs as the man stalked after her, a bloodied knife in his fist.
“Amryn!” Ford’s bellow was nearly drowned out by the shouts and screams bathing the square. “Run!”
She ran. Her lungs were caught in a vice and sweat coated her body as she darted through the crowd, weaving between other desperate people.
Her own panic tasted sharper, her fear cutting through everything else she felt despite the bloodstone’s muting effect.
She was trying to reach the edge of the crowd, because that’s where Ivan had said would be safest. She needed to find him and Elowen.
She broke through the tidal rush of people and nearly tripped over an overturned cart.
Oranges and lemons were scattered on the ground.
Her lungs burned, adrenaline making her body shake.
But she’d made it. She was on the edge of the square.
Every door she could see was closed. People were banging on them, pleading to be let inside.
There was no sign of Ivan or Elowen.
Somewhere, a man shouted, “The city guard is here!”
Hope pinged through Amryn.
A brutal grasp on her skirt jerked her back. She cried out as she slammed into a hard chest. Her flailing kick sent an orange skittering away.
A rough arm caged her. The stench of sweat invaded her lungs.
“Got you,” the man holding her sneered, his voice slightly muffled by his mask.
She fought wildly against his hold. Bucking.
Thrashing. She didn’t care if she hurt him.
Didn’t care if she felt the pain she inflicted.
Desperation grated inside her, demanding she fight with everything she had.
Her fingernails raked his arm, and he cursed.
When his hold weakened, she finally broke free.
She lurched forward, arms swinging to keep herself from falling.
He snagged her wrist. Yanked her back.
That’s when she felt Carver. She was so attuned to him, she could feel him even now. He was close. He felt a flicker of pain, and terror clotted inside him. But his anger was stronger, and his determination was strongest of all.
Her breaths were thin and sharp. But feeling Carver’s determination only bolstered her own. As her attacker dragged her back once more, she didn’t hesitate. She whirled on him. He hadn’t expected her to face him. Surprise ghosted through him, though his grip on her wrist only clenched tighter.
She kicked him between his legs.
He staggered, doubling over before he fell to his knees.
She staggered as well, gasping at his pain. Her body shook, but he’d released her. She stumbled back. Breathless and aching, she still screamed, “Carver!”
She felt his rush of relief. The flood of frantic need as he yelled, “Amryn!”
She twisted, trying to pinpoint the direction of his call. But the pain and the swirling rush of the crowd disoriented her. She took one step before a hand grasped her ankle.
She screamed as she fell. Her already bruised knees hit hard, the scrapes on her palms deepening as she tried to catch herself against cracked cobblestones. The hand that had been trampled flashed with pain.
She threw a look over her shoulder. Her pulse thundered as she once again locked eyes with her masked attacker. This time, there was more than cold evil in his gaze. Now, there was rage.
Amryn kicked out at him, but he pinned her legs. With a powerful heave, he got her on her back. He dragged himself up her thrashing body, growling his frustration a second before his fist pounded into her stomach.
Pain exploded. She convulsed from the blow, her breath strangling in her throat.
Nausea churned, and by the time her bleary eyes cleared, he was straddling her, both of her wrists pinned above her head, clasped together so tightly in one of his hands that the bones in her wrists grated. Panic engulfed her.
He lifted his knife, the tip aimed for her throat.
It came down.
Amryn jerked her head to the side.
The blade sliced through her skin, making her sob. But the tip of the knife hit the ground beside her throat. The edge of his blade had only grazed the side of her neck. A glancing cut, though blood slicked her skin, hot and sickening.
Her attacker snarled. With the dagger in his hand, he doubled his fist and punched her cheek.
Agony flared. Her hearing hazed out as he hit her again in the same place. Amryn choked, a sob trapped in her chest.
Through the tears burning her eyes, she saw his bloody knife lift once more.
It plunged toward her heart this time.
A body slammed into him, knocking him off her and sending both men rolling. A flash of familiar dark hair registered a second before Amryn felt the raging storm of his fury and fear. Carver.
The two men rolled until they hit the toppled cart.
Carver wrestled furiously with the man until he managed to get on top.
Amryn was too stunned to do more than curl onto her side, one hand cradling her abused face.
Pain riddled her and shivers wracked her body.
She watched through tear-filled eyes as Carver buried his knife in the masked man’s heart.
She jerked as she felt his death.
Carver shoved away from the body. His chest rose and fell heavily as he twisted toward her, his blue eyes blazing. He froze when he saw the blood smeared across her neck. His face went horribly pale. Agony lanced through his chest, so sharp it stole her breath.
“No,” he gasped, his voice strangled.
Amryn tried to speak, to reassure him, but she couldn’t. The pain was too much. And if she opened her mouth, she was going to vomit.
Carver staggered over to her, crashing to his knees. They were away from the press of the crowd, but pandemonium was all around them.
Her sole focus was Carver. There was blood in his hair, coming from a wound at his temple. One of his eyes already showed evidence of swelling.
He didn’t seem aware of his own injuries as he leaned over her.
“No, no, no, no.” His voice cracked and his hands trembled as he checked the bloody slice on her neck.
Relief slammed into him the moment he realized it wasn’t a mortal wound.
“Bleeding Saints,” he cursed. And yet, in that guttural, raw tone, it almost sounded like a prayer.
Still on his knees, Carver gathered her into his arms, one palm braced behind her head so he could cradle her close. She buried her face in his shoulder, mindful of her throbbing cheek. She felt his mouth against the curve of her neck.
“You’re all right,” he rasped, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. “Saints, I thought . . .” He shuddered, his hold on her tightening.
She clung to him so fiercely she could barely breathe. Holding each other, everything else ceased to exist for one eternal moment.
Then over Carver’s shoulder, Amryn caught movement. Another masked attacker coming for them. She tensed.
It was all the warning Carver needed. Or perhaps his battle instincts were just that heightened. He surged to his feet, twisting to face the oncoming danger.
Too late. He was too late, because the knife was already angling for his body.
Amryn didn’t even have time to gasp before the blade slammed into Carver’s gut, all the way to the hilt. His entire body jerked from the force of the blow.
For all the agony Amryn had felt today, nothing compared to this.
She screamed, grief and pain tearing through her as she felt that blade lodge deep inside Carver.
He wavered on his feet, then grunted as the knife was yanked out. He managed to catch the attacker’s wrist before the blade could rise to strike him again. In a move almost too fast to track, the knife was buried in the attacker’s gut.
She felt that blow, too.
Carver kicked the man away, and the attacker fell to his knees on the ground.
Amryn scrambled to her feet, every part of her aching. “Carver!”
He twisted to face her, his eyes wide. When he stumbled, Amryn grasped his arm.
He latched onto her, his fingers digging into her shoulders—to hold her or to steady himself, she wasn’t sure.
His usually bronzed skin was pale. His gaze became dangerously unfocused as he peered at her.
Sweat streaked his brow, making strands of his dark hair stick to his forehead and mix with the blood at his temple.
The chaos of the square continued around them, but Amryn heard nothing beyond a horrible ringing in her ears as she and Carver both looked down at the wound in his stomach. Blood bloomed through his shirt, already drenching his abdomen.
He sagged, and Amryn struggled to hold him upright. They staggered back, past the overturned fruit cart. Her spine hit the rough stone of a building behind her. Carver released her with one hand so he could brace a forearm against the wall beside her head.
He blinked down at her. “It’s all right,” he rasped. “It’s—”
His body slammed against hers as a blade was shoved into his back.
His pained gasp was the loudest sound in the world.
Her eyes slashed to the man standing over Carver’s shoulder. She tried to push out of her husband’s grasp, sobs wracking her when he kept her pinned against the wall. Protecting her, even now. Shielding her with his body.
Carver groaned as the blade in his back was dragged out, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t move away from her. She felt how weak his legs were. Knew that if he moved, he’d fall.
He knew it, too. And he refused to fall. Refused to leave her vulnerable.
She grasped his shoulders and tried to push him aside, the pain in her hands barely registering as she screamed at him to move before—
The attacker raised his blade again. Amryn screamed.
Then Ford was there, tackling the man.
Amryn was hardly aware as the two men fought. Her attention was on Carver. His breathing was strained, and his entire body trembled. He met her gaze, his eyes cloudy. “Amryn . . .” He crumpled.
She fell with him, still caged between his body and the wall.
He couldn’t die. She wouldn’t let him. It didn’t matter that they were in the heart of the empire. It didn’t matter that they were in a crowded square. Amryn ignored every risk, every person who would condemn or kill her for this.
Carver was all that mattered.
She grasped his face in both hands, the stubble on his jaw scraping her palms. His eyes blinked slowly.
Sluggishly. “You’re going to be all right,” she whispered.
“I promise.” She set her forehead against his, and then she forced herself into his pain.
Felt every part of it. Her body shook at the overwhelming agony.
Tears tracked down her cheeks—hers or his, she wasn’t sure.
She isolated the most grievous injury, the one that would kill him first, and then she pulled it into herself. Pain blinded her. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t stop. The damage would kill him, but she could survive the pain of it. That was the price of healing him.
She would have done far more to save him.
Fire burned inside her, a scorching inferno that caused so much pain she wasn’t sure how she wasn’t screaming. She didn’t know how he wasn’t screaming. But she ignored the anguish. She ignored everything except Carver. Saving his life was all that mattered.
Internal damage knit inside him, the healing happening at a blinding speed. By the time she’d healed his first wound, dizziness assaulted her and her breathing was heavy.
Carver’s forehead was still pressed against hers. Both of them were shaking. “Stop,” he croaked. “Rhone . . . is here.”
Alarm roared through her, but she ignored it. She couldn’t stop. Not now. It didn’t matter if Rhone was standing right behind her. She would heal Carver in full view of the knight if she had to.
She had to save him.
She took every bit of his injury, including the scar it would have left behind. He had too many scars already. She didn’t want him bearing any for her.
The bloodstone around her neck hummed. She didn’t hesitate to reach for it. Her fingers curled around the amulet as she drew it from beneath her dress, the tarnished edges biting into her skin. Heat flared against her palm. Yes, a voice crooned in her mind. More.
It was a pale echo of the bloodstone’s voice that had filled her mind at Esperance. It chilled her now as it had then. But she wasn’t about to stop. Ysabel’s warnings, Amryn’s own misgivings . . . they didn’t matter right now.
Help me, she begged.
The bloodstone flared in silent answer. She took everything it offered, reinforcing her own strength with its power as she healed all of Carver’s injuries—the stabbings, and the other blows he’d taken.
Using the bloodstone felt different this time.
She’d gone with her instincts when she’d used it in Esperance, but now she knew what the amulet was capable of.
She demanded, and the bloodstone responded, giving her a burst of power that left her breathless.
The more strength she pulled from the bloodstone, the less urgency she felt.
There was no need to fear. No need to panic.
With the amulet, she had all the power she could ever need.
A voice murmured soothingly in her head, though she barely heard the actual words. The tone was coaxing. Urging her to continue. To do more. To heal every person in the square. She could do it.
With the bloodstone, she could do anything. Harnessing such vast power was exhilarating. Freeing. Intoxicating.
Carver’s fingers clenched around her hand.
Her eyes flew open. Saints, when had she closed them?
She was still clutching the bloodstone, her grip claw-like. Carver was strangling her hand. His face was free of pain, but still pale and streaked with blood. Distantly, she realized what he felt as he stared at her.
Fear.
He was afraid.
Of her.