Chapter Thirty-Five #2
She slams her dagger into a wraith’s chest before her ice blue eyes flick to mine.
“Glad to see you made it!”
Two wraiths rush her.
My hand flies and thorned vines streak through the air.
Before she can turn to defend herself, they wrap around the wraiths’ throats.
The thorns shoot through their flesh, nearly severing their heads.
Eve, lacking the same level of concern, plunges her dagger into the chests of one then the other, and they burst into hellfire.
“Now is not the time!” I shout, hoping to be heard over the cacophony.
I will not let her recklessness under the guise of bravery damn her.
The vine prison containing the Death Knight bursts into dark blue fog, and despite missing an arm, and the broadened hole in his chest, the creature takes aim.
At Ryc.
And the Death Knight’s dagger flies.
Vines erupt in the blade’s path, and they’re reduced to fog as the blade grazes them. Eve’s braids swing before there’s a flash of hellfire, white light flares, and sight-stealing pain explodes in my chest. My horrified scream deafens me as I’m thrown backward.
My head meets the edge of the altar, silencing me and near shattering my teeth.
Stars rupture in my vision.
And the screaming stops.
My lungs burn and I gasp—the warmth of the air sears through me like hellfire, turning my attempts at breathing into violent, barking coughs.
Clutching at my heaving chest, I force my eyes open, ice cracking as I move.
It falls away, chiming as it strikes the stone of the altar, and I stare at the black dotted ceiling from my back.
The living realm.
I’ve returned.
Gasping for air, I curl onto my side and groan against the grogginess. My innate, it’s still there, but it no longer feels as dark as it had in the veil. For the time being, it’s no longer desperate to consume me.
I struggle to get myself upright, trying to ignore the pain in my shoulder and skull. Ryc, Cyran, and Eve kneel upon the floor beside the altar a few feet away, their bodies encased in a thin layer of glistening ice.
Returned first.
Just as Ryc ordered.
Gods, Ryc!
I slip from the altar and instead of landing on my feet, I collapse upon the floor. Cenviri failed to warn me there would be a re-acclimation period upon our return. Staring at my boot, I will my feet to move.
After a staggering effort, my foot swivels.
Aether ripples in my chest, spreading down the length of my body, and the ice falls away, granting me full facility once again. Without waiting a second longer, I scramble to Ryc and my hands fly to his face and throat.
Coated by a thin layer of ice, he remains motionless.
But no wound.
No gash.
Worse still, no breathing.
No.
No, no, no.
My panic soars to sit among the stars and tears well in my eyes.
“You should wait for the veilfog to lift,” a feminine voice warns.
My eyes dart up as I tear at the ice over the buckles of Ryc’s breastplate, clawing at the cold with my nails.
My nails bend and break, but the cold numbs the pain.
A pair of light brown eyes beneath a crimson hood meet mine.
She stands outside of the sanctified space, beyond the line of thirteen statuesque Generals.
Peering between them, she and several others watch me warily.
I choose to ignore her, else the next words I speak will be less than kind to the House that’s hosted us in these blood-cursed lands.
The ice gives way, and in seconds I work the buckles free, swinging myself to his other side to repeat the process. Silver streams down my fingertips and, fighting against tears, I heave a shuddering breath.
His chest.
I need to see his chest.
His black leather breastplate clatters against the floor, ice falling away in a sheet only to shatter upon the floor. My fingers fly to his shirt as I straddle his lap. With a desperate yank, the center of his chest is revealed.
Nothing.
No silver, no wound.
But still no breathing.
I find the stare of the female bloodmancer. “Do something!” I scream, not caring how utterly desperate I sound. “Don’t just stand there! Where are your healers?”
She flinches, but swiftly returns her expression to neutral and says, “There’s nothing healers can do. Not until they’ve returned. Some may not.”
Before I grant Aether the chance to tear out the female’s throat for suggesting such a possibility, the sound of ice cracking fills the room and Ryc’s chest heaves.
The rush of relief is sweeter than the euphoric high of death and I collapse against him, sobbing. The feverish pitch of my panic crashes into the depths of my being from the heights of the universe, and it sends my innate into a high-strung vibration around my heart.
As Generals begin to move and cough, Ryc’s arms curl around me and he clutches me close, turning his face aside to combat for air as I had. The Generals, used to such ventures, swarm around two or three other Generals, giving orders in swift-spoken Malbolge to the crimson-robed spectators.
They didn’t make it.
What happened?
The still-frozen bodies of three Generals are hoisted and carried from the room.
Ryc draws back, capturing my face in his hands. His wide, fear-filled gold eyes search mine.
“Little love,” he whispers and there’s more than strong remorse in his tone. “I need you to trust me.”
“Of course.” My lips fly to his face, showering him with kisses. I press my brow to his. “You’re here. You live. You breathe.”
He grimaces, but nods. “I need you to trust that I will make things right.”
Cenviri sweeps past.
“How is she?” he demands.
He snaps his fingers three times and the crimson-robed onlookers rush into the space. I draw back following Cenviri’s flowing black robes, and Ryc’s arms race around my waist, locking me against him. Cenviri lowers himself beside Cyran, and my breathing stops.
His back to me, Cyran cradles Eve in his lap. Cenviri mutters something low before reaching for the buckles of her breastplate.
“Ryc… Ryc what’s happened?” My voice trembles and I try to pull away. He holds me tight. “Ryc, stop! Let me go! What are you doing?”
“I’m keeping you safe,” Ryc says, his voice low. “Let Cyran and Cenviri handle this for the moment.”
“Eve? Eve!”
Nothing.
No sarcastic quip in answer.
No movement.
“Cyran! Let me see her!”
Veilflower vines race across the floor, curling themselves around Eve’s ice-coated leg. Finally, Cyran peers over his shoulder, his silver-lined lavender eyes locking onto mine for less than a heartbeat before he turns back to Eve.
I go numb.
No.
Not her.
Not her.
Please, gods, not her.
Not like this.
“Eve!” My voice cracks.
“I need you to breathe, Ves,” Ryc says, his voice firm.
“Let me go!”
“Do not do that,” Cenviri counters, his tone sharp.
The necromancer casts Eve’s breastplate aside. As it lands at her feet, crimson splatters onto the obsidian and a bloodstone blade falls amid it. The resounding, hollow ring of the blade fills the sanctum, swiftly replaced by my scream.
My vision becomes a liquefied blur of blending colors and the ground trembles as ice lays siege to my heart.
Candles plummet and crash to the ground, their red flames extinguished.
Glass shatters and metal creaks. The loud, bone-rumbling groan of stone swallows the sounds of the world as razor sharp glass rains from above.
Vines spread across the room in a violent race, blanketing the sanctum as my scream dies. Floors grow carpeted, walls become curtained, and a choir of screams rise to replace mine.
Ryc’s chest vibrates as he shouts, but his words are lost.
As thousands of indigo blooms burst open, Cenviri’s face appears before mine. He stares at me, his mossy green eyes filled with regret.
“Forgive me, il-akiv,” he says, but like Ryc’s, his voice doesn’t reach me—it’s swallowed by the raging and uncontrollable swell of Aether within me.
He rears back and the gleaming pommel of his bloodstone dagger meets my temple.