FightFlight
Chapter Thirteen
The Chosen
The Horseman believes I am here against my will.
That may be true in part, but I will make the most of it. Little does he know that I’ve been searching for exactly this—an opportunity to get close to him and breach the inner walls of his home.
A slow smile curves across my lips.
He’s good with knots. I’ll give him that.
I work quickly to untie myself before his return.
I’ve had enough of this. I’ve seen a great deal—not only the inside of the Sovereign Tuath Hall, but his private rooms as well.
This information, if studied, could lend me a greater advantage.
I’ve taken mental pictures of every area he’s led me through to map out my next plan of attack.
“For all damnation,” I mutter under my breath as I dig my nails under the last knot and pull.
I yank. It gives, finally, and I’m free.
The rope falls away, and I roll my shoulders once, flexing my hands to restore circulation.
After leaving the bathroom, I stride into his bedroom.
I head straight for the mantel and wrap my hand around the sword handle.
The sword he left oh so graciously out in the open—proudly displayed over the fireplace as if it were nothing more than decoration.
Now, who’s the stupid one?
I keep the thought carefully contained. I’ve learned some of my sharper musings echo louder than intended, and I don’t want him catching on to what I intend to do.
If he was furious about his horse, what would he do when he discovered his sword missing? The idea sends a gleeful spark through me.
The great blade is heavier than I expected when I lift it free. Solid but balanced. I draw it from its scabbard and study it, turning the steel this way and that so light glances off its surface.
The crossguard is etched with scenes of a hunt—animals mid-stride, forever frozen in pursuit—and one lone hunter with a bow drawn taut.
The pommel appears to be howlite or white quartz, threaded with silver veins and Celtic knots carved into the stone—intricate and deliberate, as if each line had been crafted with fine care and done by a steady hand.
In truth, it’s a beautiful, unearthly weapon.
I let the scabbard fall carelessly to the center of the floor, where he can’t miss it.
The windows are barred, but the balcony is easily accessible. Being seen is a risk, but not one that concerns me much. With the right route through the city—and a little chaos—I can avoid capture again.
This time, I will not be taken so easily.
Once both doors to the outside world are thrown wide, I step out onto the landing. There’s still the faint hint of death and the mild scent of burned meat from the market nearby, but anything is preferable to the dungeon’s mildew and rot, which clings stubbornly to my damp clothes and skin.
Behind me, murmurs drift down the corridor. Heavy boots press into the carpet. His voice—low, controlled—and another’s. One of his council members, no doubt.
They’re close and growing closer, if I’m not mistaken.
I scan my surroundings, weighing my options.
I can climb down the balconies. Slip through another room and vanish into the interior. Or scale upward and take the roofline where guards are fewer, and sightlines are longer.
I turn slightly, gauging the Horseman’s distance by the cadence of his voice.
Or…
There is one other option.
I could go through him to gain my freedom. Show him that all he’s learned of my skills so far isn’t all there is to what I’m capable of.
It’s probably not the smartest action, but if it’s a testing game he enjoys, this back and forth between us, then what better way to say my goodbyes?
I double back and quickly pick up the scabbard.
Pollock
Manacles in hand, I make my way back toward my rooms. Tennison intercepts me in the corridor, falling into step at my side to update me on the new arrivals and where he’s temporarily housed them. He speaks quickly—efficiently—but I listen with only half my attention.
The other half is already upstairs.
Impatience rides me hard enough that Tennison must sense it. His report grows more concise, his words clipped as he adjusts to my shortened stride and notices the flexing as I grind my molars.
When I can no longer tolerate the delay, I stop him mid-sentence.
“I trust your judgment. Handle it.”
He nods once, relieved or perhaps wary, and peels away.
As soon as I reenter my rooms, I’m aware that something’s amiss. Instead of finding my little White Witch exactly where I left her, I find only discarded ropes on the tile floor of the bathroom.
I immediately turn and cautiously exit the bathroom. She’s still here or close by. I can feel her—courage humming like a live wire. Anticipation. That wild, reckless thrill she carries before she strikes. But where?
My gaze snaps to the balcony curtains, billowing inward through the open doors.
I approach carefully and lean out over the railing, scanning the ground below, the adjacent buildings, the narrow alleys between them. Then I turn and tilt my head back to check if she’s scaled to the roof.
That’s when she appears.
With my back already braced against the railing and my gaze tipped upward, she swings down from the recesses of the overhang above. Her booted feet slam into my chest with brutal precision.
Air explodes from my lungs.
The impact sends me hurtling backward. Instinct takes over. I reach out, snatching her ankle, fingers locking tight to stop my fall.
Steel flashes.
My own cursed blade arcs down and severs my hand cleanly at the wrist—the one clutching her leg. Pain detonates, sharp and white-hot, and another boot connects with my face.
The world tips.
And I fall.
Gravity claims me. Wind tears around my body in a suffocating rush as I pinwheel through open air, my clothing snapping violently against my limbs.
I catch only a brief glimpse of her, but it will forever be burned into memory.
She’s crouched on the railing, balanced as if she were completely at home there.
Her lips curve into the first genuine smile she’s given me—bright, victorious, and somewhat feral.
When our eyes meet, she lifts my sword to her brow in a mock salute as if to say, “Who has the upper hand now, Horseman?”
Devious little wench. I swear to God above… when I catch you—and I will—I’m going to paddle your ass for this.
You can try, she muses, not an ounce of worry in her tone.
Another thought slams into me mid-descent. If she steals my bloody horse again, there won’t be a single corner of this world she can hide in where she’ll be safe from me.
Don’t you dare—
Her voice cuts cleanly over my warning.
Happy hunting, you silver-tongued snake. Hope you enjoy what Karma has in store for you.
A beat.
If you live through this.
Dead. That’s it. She’s dead. I don’t send the thought to her, but it settles deep all the same as I await my fate.
The ground rises fast.
Blinding light.
Impact.
Immeasurable pain.
Not the kind a mortal would feel, but visceral all the same. Bones break. My spine snaps. My skull cracks as it becomes one with the pavement.
An injury I can heal from, but hell’s flaming gates…this will cost me time. Time I can’t afford to waste.
I’ve wasted too much of it already.
To be consumed with thoughts of this woman—distracted by her presence, chasing her through city streets and forest, fighting her, and recovering from lethal falls—vexes me more than anything else.
One small witch shouldn’t have this kind of power over me. She is meddling with forces far beyond what her mind can comprehend.
My twin and I are still human in some ways.
In others, not at all. We were chosen for this task, reborn for this purpose, not long after the Second War in Heaven.
It was years after our deaths—after the bargain was struck between God and Lucifer.
Though we were given no choice, we welcomed the opportunity to serve our maker in this capacity with open arms.
Intense training followed, then endless days of waiting for this day to dawn.
So no, this is not a duty I take lightly.
My calling—my orders—should be at the forefront of my mind.
Not this bloody female.
The world goes black with these thoughts plaguing me.
When awareness settles back into my body, I find myself surrounded.
A crowd has gathered. Dozens of faces stare down at me, wide-eyed and pale. Their thoughts were loud—too loud—racing with fear and awe as they pieced together what they witnessed.
Some saw my fall.
Some saw my body break and mend itself. My hand heals.
Their belief fractures in real time.
Using more force than necessary, I push into their minds and correct the narrative. Fear of this magnitude is harder to temper. Strong convictions are stubborn things. I press harder, smoothing the sharp edges of their panic, reshaping memory into something smaller. Manageable.
I rise slowly to my feet, brushing debris from my clothes, while at the same time camouflaging the image they see as bones knit back together, and wounds seal closed.
“I’m all right,” I say evenly. “Please disperse and return to your duties. I’m fine.”
“But, sir—”
The protest comes from a man near the front, his face still stricken with disbelief. He’s new. His mind is not yet conditioned.
“There is nothing to worry about,” I tell him, meeting his gaze. “It was a small fall. That’s all. As you can see, I am unharmed. Go about your business.”
I wield more power until the worry drains from his features, replaced by compliance. Around him, others blink as if waking from a dream. They turn away one by one, the crowd dissolving into murmurs.
I do not linger. I move swiftly toward the stables. The commotion there, guards scrambling, raised voices, tells me everything I need to know.
A guard approaches, face pinched with dread.
I lift my hand before he can speak. “Don’t even say it.”
“A woman.”
“I said. Don’t.” The words aren’t voiced, they’re growled, and coated with every bit of the frustration barreling through my chest.
He visibly recoils.
Spinning, I scan the city with my awareness and open my mind to Calixis. She remains in the stable. Thank fuck. But what she reveals to me takes me by surprise.
It’s not her that the White Witch stole this time. It’s Mardoch’s offspring, the black stallion I had taken earlier. A horse I have no connection with. Which means I can’t see through his eyes to find her.
Smart.
Very smart.
And deeply maddening, because tracking her now will be twice as difficult and likely take twice as long.
I waste no more time. I move through the motions with ruthless efficiency, saddling Calixis and preparing for a longer journey. I mount her in one fluid movement, then ride out to hunt the white beauty who is rapidly turning my life upside down.
The only thing that offers me any measure of grim satisfaction as I push Cali into a hard gallop is thoughts of her punishment.
Except, eight hours later, I returned empty-handed, having lost her trail in the forest, which has never happened to me before. Not once.
It’s as if she vanished completely—her tracks there one moment and gone the next.
My temper and the urge to throttle her with my bare hands reach dangerous levels because I know it could be many months before she returns—if she decides to return at all.
Questions of her whereabouts pester me daily, a continual distraction I cannot afford—especially when Kahill arrives with thousands of men and women in tow, taking up residence along the borders of my city.
He’s a mighty tempest of unrest, his presence alone enough to agitate not only the humans he brings with him but every person within the city gates.
My life turns to utter chaos in a different way as my control over the city withers, and everything spirals into madness.
After being firmly reminded of our shared purpose—and his orders—Kahill begins to pull back his influence over the hearts and minds of those he commands. Even so, the residue of it lingers—volatile, combustible. It clings to them like static in the air before lightning strikes.
I spend an untold number of days and all of my energy replacing his hold with my own, weaving steadier threads of order into the masses. Calming fear. Tempering aggression. Redirecting restless hands toward labor instead of violence.
There will be a time for war.
This is not it.
Until that day, I must maintain my hold over the ecosystem here so it does not ignite prematurely. Otherwise, his actions could have catastrophic consequences at the cost of these souls.
According to the terms of the pact Heaven made, they are due more time.
I must do all I can to see to it that they have it.
Which is easier said than done.
Some days, despite my efforts, my thoughts venture elsewhere. They stray—unbidden—to a white-haired woman with feral eyes and a mocking smile, as if part of me is always subconsciously scanning the city and the surrounding area for any evidence of her return.
She longed to know about my brother’s arrival. Surely, now that he’s here, she’ll reemerge. It’s a thought that brings me some measure of comfort.
Except as the days go by, as the weeks unravel, and one month stretches into another, she does not make an appearance. Each day dawns with hope, and each night falls as the one before. With no sign of her on the horizon.
And though the city stabilizes beneath my hand and Kahill’s fury dulls into something manageable, the absence of her grows louder with time.