Chapter 2 #5
Essence-wielders who gain power by consuming another’s blood as a vampire does, or another’s energy in the manner of a succubus or incubus, are also creatures of lore.
Though there are certainly awry capable of stealing and harnessing power from other essence users, as there are creatures who consume human blood or flesh — including the rabid and feral shifters who deliberately consume human flesh to transform into berserkers.
My heart stutters in my chest.
The Cataclysm cocks his head to the side, easily noting my involuntary reaction and smirking over the rim of his wineglass.
For a moment, all I can see is Reck sitting across the table from me. My permanently untethered soul-bound mate. I blink, wiping the image away by focusing on just this moment.
When we were facing off with the unusual berserkers by the portal, Bellamy had outright declared that she’d created them, tied them to the Cataclysm MC.
And that she could therefore kill them. Had she discovered some way to focus, to refine, the process of creating berserkers — whether on her own or as directed by the Cataclysm?
Say, by deliberately feeding them the essence-infused blood of an awry? Her own blood?
“So very astute,” the Cataclysm murmurs, as if I’ve spoken my thoughts out loud.
Or as if he can read my mind. “Your mother was quick like that, but I always thought it was due to the seer powers. Disa was incensed when Merrick chose your father. The centuries-long rivalry between the Gages and the Zhen is rife with vicious jealousy. Disa did everything she could to keep them apart, especially after you were born.”
The rage is smoldering within me again. Not even a hint of essence hovers at my fingertips, though.
Not yet. So I let the rage invoked by his casual mention of my mother’s name, my mother who he murdered in front of me, keep me present, keep me upright and focused on where I should be — in the now and poised to move forward.
The Cataclysm continues blithely sipping his wine and nibbling on the seared tuna, seemingly unaware of the shift of my focus, my intent.
So thankfully, he can’t actually read my mind.
“Though admittedly, I didn’t know the reason for that until I laid eyes on you myself, little Conduit. Perhaps Disa knew —”
“That you’d kill my mother given any chance?”
He shrugs, apparently not bothered by my interruption.
“Not my intention. And no, I don’t think Disa knew.
Not then. But she hid you from me after.
Imagine my surprise when Carlos proclaimed he no longer belonged to me, that he’d found his soul-bound mate, and that that bond transcended my blood-kin claim.
For him and his brothers. I’d lost track of you, you see, between the unfortunate incident with your mother and the summer of your seventeenth year. ”
He means Reck. Carlos is his given name.
I take another bite of my fish. I try to not react to the truth spilling out of the creature across from me, even as I absorb that truth for myself. This is the secret — the betrayal — that Reck is hiding. Or part of it, at least. He led his father to me?
I still remember none of what occurred before or during my first death, or what happened in the immediate aftermath.
And I’m beginning to suspect that’s not due to repressed or wiped memories.
Because it’s only the memories revolving directly around my soul-bound mates that refuse to filter back to me.
I have other memories of those years that I can dredge up, though they’re admittedly vague.
The image of the sealed armoire in the office in the estate tower flickers through my mind. I brush it away, though a new ache lodges in my chest.
“Zaya …” The Cataclysm drawls my name mockingly.
“Carlos’s sweet savior Zaya. I didn’t need anything more than your name to know that the universe isn’t as clever as it tries to be.
That Disa was never as clever as she tried to be.
She should have killed all three of my boys the moment she understood their connection to you.
Though I suppose that would have drawn my attention as well. ”
He drains the rest of his wine, then pours himself another glass.
“So you … killed me?” I ask, pleased that my tone is even and sure. “You couldn’t take me from the intersection point, from Disa’s protection, so you killed me instead? To hurt your children? To hurt her?”
He swirls his glass, peering at the dark-red liquid with a frown.
“Disa, the Conduit, kept stepping between me and fate, as if she had every right to do so. Though if you believe in such things, I suppose your fate, and the fate of my children, was written in the stars long before I claimed this mortal body for my own.”
Another shiver of terror runs through me, and based on the way I snag his attention, I don’t manage to hide the reaction this time.
But … ‘mortal body’?
“Clever, clever little Conduit,” he murmurs mockingly.
Is it possible that he can read my mind, at least sometimes? Has he drawn so much of my power within himself that he —
The Cataclysm’s smile sharpens, becoming just a little too wide for his human visage.
“You killed your own brother,” I blurt without meaning to. “You killed … you killed … your own soul-bound mate.”
“More than one.” He frowns again. “That was a … setback.”
A setback? What the fuck?
“But I have you now,” he says, rising and moving toward the food on the sideboard. “Eat your fish. I need you strong, Conduit. Then we’ll get started.”
“What exactly do you want from me?” I ask as he uncovers and starts carving a large blood-rare roast.
“I can’t have you getting bored with me, little Zaya,” he says, smooth and playful as he piles hunks of red-dripping beef, mashed potatoes, and some sort of stewed greens onto two plates.
“What’s the human saying? Familiarity breeds contempt?
No, I’ll keep my plans to myself, and you will enjoy the journey that much more. ”
He turns and sets one of the plates before me on the table, taking his own seat. My stomach roils at the food. I’ve never been great at eating protein in large amounts, and red meat actually makes me sick. I struggle to stay in my seat.
“From one god to another,” he says, not remotely mocking as he spreads his linen napkin over his knee. The words are spoken as if they’re some sort of litany, or part of some specific ritual.
I’m able to face off with a creature who claims to be a god, or at least an entity that’s invaded our dimension and taken a ‘mortal’ form … but I’m felled by a still-bleeding hunk of roast beef. I’m not that … mortal, am I?
The latch on the door creaks, as if someone is trying to unsuccessfully ease it open. The Cataclysm moves so quickly that I catch the devastation he levels in his wake first — chair thrown back, table shoved to the side and upended, food and red wine splattered across the floor and sideboard.
I pivot in my chair, untouched by the Cataclysm’s tantrum, to watch him viciously yank open the door and snarl at the three figures clad in motorcycle club leathers in the corridor.
For the briefest of moments, I think — no, I hope — that it’s my three soul-bound mates standing there, ready to rescue me. That somehow sneaking them in was the promise hidden in Jewels’s message on the mirror.
It’s not.
“How dare you interrupt me?” The Cataclysm grabs the tallest and broadest of the three by the neck and actually lifts him off his feet, shaking him, then throwing him against the far wall.
A slightly shorter, blond-haired shifter on the right stutters as he speaks, keeping his gaze low. But surprisingly, he doesn’t stumble back from his MC president’s vitriol. “You said … if it was … an emergency … Jewels —”
“Jewels what?”
“She’s … sick?”
The half-strangled shifter holding himself up against the far wall coughs and chokes out, “And three of our border outposts didn’t report in, like they’re —”
“You think that an issue with stalled communication is more important than the health of my unborn child?”
“No, no,” the blond shifter says in a rush. “Just, we waited until there was more than one reason —”
“You waited!?”
All three shifters stumble back until they’re practically flattened against the far wall.
The Cataclysm gets himself under control, at least enough to seethe, “Where is Jewels?”
“On her way to the hospital?”
“The hospital?” the Cataclysm echoes, like his enforcers are utter idiots.
“She … she thinks it’s just food poisoning, but she … she smells like …”
“Like what?” the Cataclysm roars.
The half-strangled shifter croaks out, “Wolfsbane …”
Most of the aconite flowering plant species are extremely poisonous. But poisoning shifters with pure wolfsbane, sometimes to the point of actually killing them, is more myth than reality. Unless an uber-powerful mage is involved — or the shifter’s health is already compromised.
Such as being badly wounded or … pregnant.
No. No. No.
Jewels wouldn’t … she wouldn’t …
The Cataclysm whirls around to look at me with narrowed eyes. Again, as if he can read my thoughts. Or at least pick up enough of my emotions to make a guess at my thoughts. Maybe from shifts in my scent? Changes in my heart rate?
The blond shifter chances a look in my direction. I can’t feel his essence, not even through the open door, but I don’t think he’s a berserker.
If Jewels made this sacrifice to pull the Cataclysm away so I can — somehow — get through the door while knowing he isn’t on the premises, I won’t get far if I have berserkers guarding me. The last one I faced managed to kill me, though not before dying himself.
Granted, I hadn’t bonded to Rought and claimed the intersection point then.
“The hospital …” the Cataclysm repeats, keeping his gaze on me.
“The … the Diné healer is gone,” the blond shifter says.
The Cataclysm slowly pulls his attention from me, fixing it to the incompetent enforcers in the hall. All three of them rear back from whatever they see etched across his face.
“She, um, the healer, she left sometime last night,” the half-strangled shifter says. “Or maybe the night before? But, you know, there are mages who work … at … at … the hospital … if it’s not food poisoning … Jewels thought that was safest. She said not to disturb you, but —”
“Right,” the Cataclysm says. “Get eyes on all three outposts, report back to me.”
The blond nods. “Already in progress, Prez.”
“Bring my fucking truck around.”
The shifter who hasn’t spoken once, likely due to whatever the chain of command is among the three, takes that opportunity to race off down the hall.
“And … send a trio of hunters after the fucking healer and her fucking guards. I want their heads by morning.”
“And if they’ve made it over the border?” the blond shifter asks. Into the Navajo Nation, he means.
“I’m sure the hunters will find their way,” the Cataclysm croons creepily.
The blond shifter nods. “I’ll go myself.”
“No,” the Cataclysm snaps. “You two stay. What you guard here is far more important than anything else.” Then he pivots, grinning at me. “Please excuse me for a moment, Conduit.”
I don’t bother answering him, but he doesn’t lose the grin as he steps out into the corridor and yanks the door closed. It hits the doorframe, or maybe the end of its upper track that I can’t see buried above it in the concrete, with a brutal bang. Then the latch clunks into place.
The Cataclysm doesn’t know his own strength.
Good to know.
I get up and cross to the door, laying my hand on it and trying to keep my head clear of thoughts that are a near-constant tangle in my head.
Nothing else happens.
Smirking, though I’m still utterly exhausted, I cross back to the table with the long silk dress dragging behind me.
Avoiding the broken china and glass littered across the floor — I’m still barefoot — I yank the linen tablecloth free from the tipped-over table, then reach for the mostly full crystal water pitcher on the sideboard.
I eye the carving knife but leave it for now.
My blood might be necessary to get through the runes etched on the door, but I’ll try the water and some scrubbing first.
No point in weakening myself — as I constantly admonished Bellamy — if it’s not necessary.