Chapter 6 A Shadow
Our faith is our shield, our obedience our sword.
Even certain it won’t burn me, the second time through isn’t any less terrifying.
It’s hard to hold back my gasping breaths of relief as I clear the waters and step out to the other side unscathed.
But before I can do anything more than breathe, I’m swallowing three sanaberries.
As I chew them, I realize some of the pain in my shoulder fades, though blood soaks steadily through my makeshift bandages.
I pluck a few more off the bush and eat them, desperate for pain relief.
The guard—Blue Eyes, I decide to call him—is still a ways ahead, back turned to me, but blocking the exit.
Without my knife, I’m not sure what I can do to defend myself against him.
He’s easily over six feet tall, broad but lithe, made of nothing but hard muscle.
Dangerous. Positioned here, I’m a sitting duck.
The acrid fall at my back, nothing but blunted stalagmites and stalactites to cower behind if Harlow reappears.
I move along the shadows of the wall, all the way up to where the cave mouth starts to dip down to that pool of standing water.
Already, the tide has risen a few inches.
This place will likely be back under water soon. The thought makes me shiver.
I’m about to step down the ledge, perhaps rush him and shove him straight into the sea before Blue Eyes can spot me, when he turns.
"Thought I heard someone moving in there." His voice is cold and exacting, enough to send a lick of fear through me as his gaze trails along the cavern.
I press back into the shadows, the damp stone biting into my shoulder blades, but there’s really no point; he knows I’m here, there’s no getting away without another fight.
A ragged breath pulls between my lips. I’m spent, exhausted.
My knees shake and I dip behind one of the blunted peaks as he starts making a slow ascent up.
“Not many places to hide,” he says coolly. The smell of the beaten sea pushes through the cave with him, bolstering him forward, tickling over my arms and face as I try to take in calm, even breaths.
Think. Just think. What could be used as a weapon?
Surely, not my injured, undernourished body alone.
I’m more likely to bleed to death before I reach him.
Healthy, I can hold my own against most—opium fiends, homeless teenagers, even a handful of Harlow’s henchmen who roam the streets at night.
But they’ve always been drunk, or inexperienced, or easy to outrun.
Blue Eyes looks to be none of those things.
If I had my blade, I might stand a chance.
Have a hope to get him close as I did the siren and stick him in something vital.
But at long range, he could simply shoot me with the rifle strapped over his shoulder and be done with it.
It might be a mercy to have a quick, clean end.
If Harlow gets back and I’m still alive, there’ll be nothing quick about it at all, and I can only imagine the mess he’d leave.
Think, Avalon. Think. His steps remind me of the tick of the grandfather clock that stood stoically in Blossom House, marking the prayers.
The silence. The seconds till our next beating or beratement.
My heart is a caged bird within me, fluttering to escape, pounding itself to death in the process.
I could try to trick him into eating a dream berry, or trip him into the fall.
Skepticism fills me before the thoughts are fully formed.
Those eyes that peered back at me through the water…
they don’t belong to a man so easily fooled.
I could plead? Bargain? The only thing of value I have on me is the crown piece and I’m not about to give it up.
But…. I think of the sharp heat it sent through me when I lifted it.
The power. Solomon’s theory that each piece offers its own unique strength to the bearer hums through my mind.
My fingers dip into my bag and close around the obsidian, bracing for the ravaging warmth of it.
Instantly, my fear is dulled, my senses sharpened.
The heat is familiar, something long and lost. Something dear to me—whispered quietly from my móeir in the night.
I can feel the ghost of her fingers directing mine as she explained the fiery power that lies dormant until we reach the age. How to wield it with intense precision.
I failed so many times to call fire, strained until my muscles quivered and twitched beneath my skin. Until they gave out and I was a shaking, sweating mess on the ground where Móeir ran her hands through my hair and cooed in my ear.
"Next time, you'll get it, Avi. Next time."
But I didn't. I failed.
So many times that the elders were certain there was something wrong with me and I should be kept away from the other children.
Her lineage plays a part in it, they’d scowled as they theorized.
Mixed breed, unnatural. Humans and Fierniads copulating—reproducing—it’s not right.
You’ve tainted her magic with her mortal father’s blood, Cyra.
You’ve made her less than. She’s not welcome to train with us anymore. Keep her far from here.
Móeir hadn’t cowered or broke beneath their judgment, their razor edged words. She’d simply tightened her jaw and led me away to our hut.
Less than, she’d hissed under her breath. If only they knew. Just wait, wait and they’ll see.
What if they’re right, Màma? I’d whispered.
She’d knelt then and taken my face between her soft, warm hands, meeting my eyes with the blazing sun-fire of her own. You are an ocean of power, Avalon, Never forget. Never forget that you are more. More than them. More than me. More than any of us.
I jerk away from the memory with a low hiss, realizing that the heat I thought was the memory of her touch is the power of the crown surging through my arm, climbing the fibers and joints, burning and burrowing into the bone and blood to spread through my body until I’m not sure I can contain it. Until I think I may burst.
A heavy gasp wrenches out of me at the sensation, and I stand to step out from my hiding place.
Blue Eyes waits with a masked expression.
His rifle still hangs off his shoulder, and his hand rests at his waist, not on but near the black hilt of a dagger.
He appraises me and I’m suddenly acutely aware of how fragile I must look—flat cap gone, knot loosened so that my unnaturally pale hair cascades down my back in a tangled mess.
I’m soaked to the bone in muck water and dripping blood from a poorly fastened bandage.
My fingers close around the crown piece, moving it slightly behind my waist so he can’t see it.
The power it’s giving off is overwhelming, and it almost brings me to my already shaking knees as I level him with a look I hope is at least vaguely intimidating.
A humorless smirk claims his mouth. “Well, that accounts for the smell.” Those churning eyes rake over my body, lingering at my shoulder where blood flows so steadily it’s seeped through the cloth and drips down my arm, pooling off my wrist and finger tips.
The heat of the obsidian rushes to my cheeks and I stiffen, all too aware of the stench of rotting flesh coming off me, coupled with the coppery tang of blood.
I clear my throat, voice weaker than I want it to be. “I seem to have had an unfortunate misstep in direction.” I move as though I’m going to pass around him, and he takes an almost imperceptible step to the side, enough to effectively block the way.
“And which direction was the original intent?” The midnight blue of his eyes goes hard, their cloudy churning stopping for a heartbeat. A shiver slips through me at the sight, but the heat of the crown piece bolsters me, makes me brave. It might be the only thing keeping me on my feet.
I scramble to catalog my thoughts, wracking them for anything that might sound believable.
“A-are we not at South Point? My uncle and cousin are meant to meet me here. They’re oyster divers.
My màma sent me out to help; we usually only shuck and sell.
My brother dives but he was injured—today’s meant to be my first day.
” Too much. You’re saying too much. My teeth clamp around my tongue, loose from blood loss that’s making my head light and woozy.
Over explain and I’ll look guilty. Under explain and it won’t be believable.
I grapple for that fine line in between but know deep down I’m falling short of it.
The cavern is beginning to feel far away. Things blur in and out of focus.
His arched brow rises and his fingers move away from the dagger hilt to brush over the shadow of dark stubble lining his angular jaw which he clenches, ever so slightly, in a way that has the muscle below his high cheekbones fluttering.
My stomach knots when he steps closer, scanning me, drinking me in with a cool calculation that’s beyond anything anyone has ever regarded me with, save Harlow on the day he captured me.
But that was different—an insanity. A brutal hunger.
A look that made me certain I’d be better off dying trying to drive my móeir’s blade through his skull than let him take her and I.
“And that?” He signals briefly to the wound soaking through my shirt and shredded strips of cloth. It’s an injury too severe to try to underplay.
“I-I’m rather clumsy. I slipped and fell getting out here; the stones are sharp.”
“Yet you didn’t call for help when Lord Solomon entered the cave? You were content to hide here and bleed to death?” Beneath the caustic tone of sarcasm, his voice vibrates with disbelief.
If there was enough blood left in me, I’d flush at the idiocy. At how parchment thin my story is proving to be. My fingers tighten around the crown piece so hard that it bites into my palm, carving away at the thick top layer.