8. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Isoria
At some point, despite my fear, the exhaustion of my journey had caught up with me, and I’d dozed while waiting for a safe moment to fly away.
But a bloodcurdling shriek pierced the stillness of the night and jerked me fully awake, making gooseflesh erupt on my arms and a shudder ripple down my spine despite the balmy air.
Even worse were the sounds that followed: pained cries and thudding bodies.
And then—heavy silence, the kind that made me all too aware of the thundering of my own blood in my ears and the rhythm of my breathing.
I peered down, the full moon high enough now to bathe the graveyard in its silvery light.
Most of the yard was still, full of bodies of temple workers along with the creatures who appeared to have risen from the dead—now, I hoped, in their final rest. Every one of them had been beheaded. Was that what stopped a revenant?
Cringing away from the gruesome sight, my eyes landed on uniformed bodies, their colors signifying they were Emberglade guards. They were all dead—every last one beheaded like the others. Bile gathered in my mouth.
But there was life in another figure I made out lying on the ground, dressed in shades of green that were not part of a guard’s uniform and half-concealed by a tall gravestone.
Though everything within me shouted a warning—Leave! None of the fae of Emberglade want your help. They only want to kill you—a stronger instinct compelled me to descend, shifting back into full fae form so that my wings vanished before I touched the ground.
I swiped a shaking hand across my sweaty brow and turned away from the freedom the jungle offered. Breath caught in my throat, I crept cautiously toward where the sounds had originated.
In the moonlight, the gravestones and towering statues of gods chiseled in stone cast uncanny shadows that played tricks on the eyes.
The form groaned, a male-sounding voice.
For a moment, I hid behind the gravestone separating us, peering at the likeness of Solea perched upon its top.
The scents of blood and something even worse—like death or rot—were heavy in the air, making my stomach twist.
Another grunt pierced the quiet.
I drew a deep breath, questioning myself one final time before peering around the statue. Seeing no imminent danger, I rushed to the wounded male. Crouching in the grass, I scanned his pale, sweat-sheened face and the blood soaking through the finely made shirt beneath his half-buttoned jacket.
“Ah, the gods do have mercy after all,” the male said, flashing bright white teeth in a dimpled smile despite his obvious pain. He’d lost a lot of blood.
Grunting, he attempted to sit up further, and I scowled. “Fool,” I muttered. “You’ll bleed out and kill yourself.”
Despite my scolding, his smile only widened. “I take it you’re a healer, so I doubt you’ll let that happen.”
Gritting my teeth, I plucked the short knife from my boot that I usually used for entirely nonviolent purposes and, this time, sliced it through his shirt with more aggression than such a task required.
“Eager to undress me?”
I ignored his teasing words, the way I could feel his gaze burning into me.
There was no denying he was handsome, his short golden hair gleaming in the moonlight and his green eyes flashing with intensity.
Perhaps I should have been impressed that he could make such lighthearted remarks while practically bleeding to death, but I’d been around enough wounded to understand shock could affect some in strange ways.
Applying pressure to the ugly gashes in his abdomen with a shred of his own shirt, I steeled myself for what was to come. The male turned solemn, his complexion pale, his jaw tight with pain.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Our guards were notified of a disturbance at the temple. Just outside the barrier.” He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Are you a temple worker?”
I was surprised to hear that city guards had troubled themselves with anything outside of the barrier that kept fae from entering Rainsong unless they were permitted.
It was meant to protect them from the threat of phoenix shifters who’d escaped the city limits, but it was also a way to keep the citizens inside.
I ignored his question, hoping he wouldn’t press.
Without time to form a believable truth that still evaded a real answer, I wasn’t sure how to explain to him why I was outside the barrier.
“And you came alone?” I asked in horror, then caught myself, glancing around at the other bodies.
Of course he hadn’t. The guards who’d accompanied him were just… dead. “Is there anyone else…alive?”
Closing his eyes, he shook his head. “They were killed and…turned.” He swallowed.
“I had to…behead them all before I couldn’t stand anymore,” he breathed, but didn’t offer further information.
Thankfully, he didn’t press me for more either, perhaps too overcome with weakness from the blood loss or too upset over the other lost lives.
Afraid I was losing him, I dug for the well of energy within me, concentrating my emotions into the effort of healing him. “What’s your name?” It was an inane question, a way to distract him as I steeled myself for what was to come.
He offered me a languid glance, the threads of moonlight shifting in his hair turning it to liquid gold. “You first.”
“Isoria Gildmere,” I offered cautiously, praying he’d never heard anything about my family.
If he wondered about my reservation, I distracted him by placing my hands on his wounds and letting my magic flood his body.
I’d have to be careful, because although it wasn’t unusual for other fae to have healing powers, phoenix shifter magic was the strongest. If I healed him too quickly, too easily, or delved beyond healing just the physical, I could arouse suspicion.
As it always did, my power hurled me into my patient’s consciousness, sensing the causes of his injuries, sharing in the agony he felt. I sent my energy into him, concentrating all my emotions and intentions into stopping the flow of blood and knitting his torn flesh back together.
I’d expected the pain, the cost of healing another, as the sensation of a blade slicing through my flesh assaulted me.
There would be no visible wound, but I would suffer and weaken as if there were.
No blood would spill, and I wouldn’t die.
After a few hours, typically, the sensation would ease and I’d feel like myself again.
But this time was different, for it wasn’t only physical pain I felt.
Despair settled over me like a weight, sinking into my bones and pressing heaviness into my lungs.
Like crashing into ice-cold water, the sensation stole both my warmth and my breath.
I was aching; I was furious; I was weak; I was numb; I was lost. Somehow it felt like my heart had cracked in two and yet, at the same time, like I had no heart at all.
There was nothing but darkness and sinking, all-consuming, utter emptiness.
My magic poured into those emotions, wrapping them in light and hope and comfort. Mending what was broken, filling what was empty, and strengthening what was weak. It rushed out in a wave that I couldn’t stop, even though…
I must stop.
Awareness slammed into me and I reeled back, choking on a gasp. If he’d felt my healing influence in his emotions and thoughts, clearing away that endless night, I was doomed. He’d recognize what I was.
But it was too late.
Whole again, the male stood at the same time that I did, seizing me by the hair as I turned.
He tugged on the strands until he’d forced me to my knees and turned my face upward.
My gaze met his, those green eyes now alight with wicked mirth.
“Isoria, did you really think you could run away before I had the chance to properly thank you?”
Fear chilled me to the core, but the emotion was swallowed in burning fury in an instant. This was the gratitude I received for saving his life?
I stared at his face defiantly, refusing to let him see my fear. Piercing green eyes. Full lips. Straight nose. Faint stubble along his sharp jawline. And golden hair cut short and brushed back, with only a few wayward strands framing his brow.
I’d never known I could hate anyone until this moment.
Even thoughts of King Wystan, his son I was supposedly fated enemies with, and all of their phoenix hunters had only been a distant threat, never present enough that I’d felt compelled to act on Maris’ prophecy for me.
But this? Being trapped and helpless by this gloating, arrogant male so that I could not rescue my people or return home?
This was all-encompassing. Maybe the feeling would consume me from the inside out, scorching me with flames hotter than any my phoenix could ever breathe.
“You’re unusually talented for a healer.
” His voice was low and smooth and falsely pleasant.
He leaned closer. In this position, his breath caressed my forehead, unnerving me with our proximity.
“As your crown prince, I find it intriguing that you, fire demon, are illegally parading around Emberglade so brazenly. No wonder you were lurking beyond the barrier. Did you raise these dead back to life, use them as your puppets to harm my people?”
Crown prince. This was Archer, the one I was supposed to either ruin and stop from killing the phoenixes, or the one who would destroy us all.
Maybe even the reason that phoenixes like Mama, Aunt Aurora, and Zinnia were losing their magic and suffering.
Light-headed, I swallowed back the terror that somehow he knew who I was.
And yet, did it matter? Either way, he hunted phoenixes. Whether he knew I was his prophesied enemy or not mattered little. He would kill me just the same.
And then his other questions tore through my mind. “You think I’m a necromancer?” I demanded, aghast. “I’m a healer.”