Chapter 6 #2
A bitter taste coated the back of my tongue as my heartbeat kicked into a racing tempo.
The sensation was familiar, now—the hard edge of fear, the rush of blood as my body prepared to defend itself, the moment of questioning whether such a terrible thing was really, truly happening.
And maybe that familiarity was why I didn’t freeze or gape or choke on my breath.
“Stay at my back. We’re moving away from the wall,” Stefano instructed, guiding me forward until we were next to the boy, who lay frozen on the ground.
The last fight that child had been in had resulted in the death of everyone and everything he knew. I expected him to be curled in a ball, maybe crying in panic, but his young face was fierce instead, hands braced on the soil where he hid.
“They aren’t here for you,” Stefano told him without looking down, as the distance between us and our attackers dwindled. “The second they engage, you run, and get out. And maybe get some help for us, too.”
“Knife,” was the boy’s muffled response.
Stefano didn’t hesitate, sliding yet another dagger from the back of his waistband and dropping it to the ground.
If he was arming the boy, he knew he couldn’t protect him.
“Do you think they’re here to take or kill me?” If it was the former, I’d give myself over now. It was the only chance I had to spare them both. Harthon might actually murder me, but his threat paled in comparison to this.
“They wouldn’t be able to smuggle you out from the center of the Citadel.”
Kill, then.
“Is this really happening?” I breathed, because…how could it be? We were in the heart of the damn Citadel.
“Now really isn’t the time to doubt your senses.”
“Not doubting my senses. Just the likelihood of this.” My body vibrated as adrenaline took control. You might be dead in a minute. “Should we yell for help?”
A quick shake of his head. “Anyone who hears will think it’s noise from the training grounds.” His boyish face was all fierce angles and determination.
“Don’t you dare give your life for me, Stefano,” I demanded. “If there’s an opportunity to run, go.”
Stefano didn’t respond, just lifted both daggers in front of him. The looter boy began to slink away on his belly, creating space between us so he wouldn’t be trampled.
Twenty paces. Fifteen. When they came close enough to see the apathy in their eyes, Stefano’s right hand swooped low.
A flash of steel cut through the air and disappeared in the center of the nearest torso.
The man stumbled back, a grunt emanating from his throat that was far too quiet for the pain he should have felt.
None of his companions bothered to check on their fallen comrade. Nor did they continue their slow and steady pace.
Instead, they charged us.
No way could Stefano defend against four of them at once.
Defying his orders, I bolted to the right, away from the shelter of his back. As I’d hoped, two changed their trajectory for me, just as the clash of blades and blunt impacts of flesh on flesh broke the garden’s quiet.
I looked back in horror as an edge sliced across Stefano’s arm, an arc of blood spraying into the air.
I’d never seen him struck in a fight.
I sprinted toward the far wall, knowing I stood no chance if my two pursuers attacked me at once. I likely stood no chance against one of them alone, not if they were able to land a blow on Stefano.
Survive until he can help you.
A shitty plan, but the only one that might work.
Arms pumping hard, I pushed to maintain the distance between me and my attackers. I was light and fast. They were muscled and heavy. My only advantage.
And then a sharp pain sliced deep into my side, obliterating that advantage with brutal efficiency. I stumbled, gasping, as I watched a bloodied blade land in the grass before me.
They’d thrown a dagger at me.
They would throw more. Any second now.
Terror overrode pain. My body kept moving at its frantic pace, but it wouldn’t be good enough. I needed to do more than just run, or the next dagger wouldn’t just slice me.
Think, Etarla.
I couldn’t attack them. Couldn’t outrun their knives. But I could make them mess up.
Adjusting my trajectory, I aimed for a strip of wet soil beneath freshly watered plants.
I soared over the soaked earth, then cut a hard left just as they came upon that very spot.
Without stopping, I glanced back to see one of the men skid in the wet dirt as he tried to follow my change in direction.
The other didn’t slip, but at least their pursuit was staggered now.
Far away, Stefano was still a flurry of movement with his two attackers.
I needed to find something else in this garden to use. The trees? Maybe the—
A blade suddenly struck my outer thigh, and my stride faltered as white-hot pain screamed up my leg.
This is bad. So bad.
Gritting my teeth, I kept moving. Kept pushing, my thigh throbbing with every panic-stricken step, terror moving time at breakneck speed.
Unless I did something, I was going to die.
Come on, dammit. Think.
I scanned the garden, searching for something. My eyes settled on a row of squash plants in Stefano’s direction. The kernel of heat in my chest pulsed, and I ran straight for them, not knowing what they would do for me, but knowing they were my only choice.
Instinct shouted. I zigzagged just as another blade sailed past my ear.
Then the squash plant’s thick vines came into view, and I knew why I’d come this way—why that warmth had signaled to me.
Please hold.
I didn’t slow until the last second. As I reached those vines, I came to a hard stop, my injured leg nearly buckling as my feet grasped for purchase.
In one smooth motion, I snatched a vine and spun out to the side.
My closest pursuer didn’t stop in time. The taut vine caught him at the knees, and he sailed forward, landing flat on his face.
His friend bearing down on me, I launched into a run toward Stefano, who was now fighting only one mercenary. I stole a glance behind me and watched in horror as my hunter palmed a dagger.
I whipped around just in time to vault over a massive lump splayed on the ground. As soon as I landed, the thing moved with a high-pitched battle cry.
The looter boy.
I slid to a stop as the boy lurched up from where he hid in the produce, jabbing his blade into the mercenary’s leg. The man fell, but recovered way too quickly. His heavy hand flung the boy into the ground, where he didn’t move.
With a cry, I threw myself at the man. Swinging with wild desperation, I stabbed him in the arm, anchoring my knife there, my other hand wrapping around his neck as he tried to dislodge me.
Then he lurched up, and I didn’t realize his intent until it was too late.
Until he’d already thrown his weight back, and I landed on the hard, unforgiving ground, my head knocking back, his full weight crushing me.
Air fled my lungs.
I couldn’t breathe, even when that suffocating weight rolled off.
A haze filtered over my vision as I stared up at the gray skies, unable to move. Gray skies I was supposed to fix but never would, because this man was about to end my life. He lifted his blade above my head, and I closed my eyes.
As if screaming in outrage, the warmth within my ribcage violently flared, lifting my shoulders from the ground with a jolt.
My lungs filled. And I moved.
Rolling to the side, I dodged the lethal blow, taking us both by surprise.
My attacker’s momentum carried him into the ground, and I sent mine directly at him. Wrapping my hand around his face, I ground my fingers into his eyes as I reclaimed my dagger from his arm. He grunted, tearing my fingers away, and I jabbed my blade deep into his shoulder, cutting through muscle.
His back arched, and he blindly waved his dagger behind him. I ducked beneath it and pulled my blade free just before he stumbled to his feet. We circled each other, both of us panting, blood seeping from wounds.
Kill or be killed. Kill or be killed.
He lunged. I spun. He swung out with a fist, and I ducked, sending my dagger up toward his neck. He blocked it, but a slap from his open palm sent me staggering back. Metallic blood filled my mouth.
The warmth pulsed again.
I feinted with a clumsy swing, which he easily blocked, then sent my foot into the knee of his injured leg.
His knee buckled. I followed with a flawless jab.
Made contact with his nose just as his blade nicked my forearm.
My dagger responded, hitting his shoulder a second time, slicing toward his neck.
He shouted in pain. Brought a hand to the wound. In that second, I struck again.
And again.
And again.
And then somehow, he recovered, because he was no longer there, crouching over the ground, but touching my shoulder. I blindly swung toward it with a shout. A strong grip caught my arm.
Somehow, through his injuries, he was back on his feet and—
“Etarla.”
My arm still trapped, I kicked. Spun in. Jammed my elbow into a rock-hard torso. I heard a soft grunt above my head, and a muscled arm banded over my chest and free arm, sealing me to his front.
Caught. I was caught. Should have never spun and gotten so close—
“Etarla. It’s—for fuck’s—”
The words were lost to panicked chaos as I dropped my entire body weight. He held fast. I yanked on my knife hand, needing to use my weapon, but his grip was an iron manacle. Then my feet left the ground, and I was carried to the gray stone wall before me.
“Let me go!” I shouted, flailing my legs. My injured side and thigh screamed in protest. He was going to kill me.
Too quickly, I was pressed against cool stone, my chest and arms, my legs, my very face held immobile between a muscled body and the wall.
“Carella.”
The name, spoken low in my ear, cut through the chaos. Anyone could know my name, but that name had only been said by—
“It’s over. He’s dead. They’re all dead. It’s alright.” Harthon added more words, more murmured reassurances in a quiet, deep timbre that soothed the jagged edges of my panic.
That body behind me was no longer a captor, but familiar safety. Warmth. Protection.
I sagged.
“That’s it,” he gently encouraged, lowering me to my feet. But he didn’t release his hold on my arms, keeping me cocooned in his heat. “Drop the dagger.”
But what if more men came? What if my attacker wasn’t actually dead, and he tried to kill me again?
“You’re safe now. It’s over. I need to help you, but first, you have to release this dagger so you don’t hurt yourself or me.”
“I’m not capable of hurting you,” I whispered.
“Yes, you are.”
Not with the blade, no.
His hand slid from my forearm to the hilt in my palm. My arm tugged, unwilling to surrender my only defense, but his grip was too firm.
“I’m here, carella.” Lips brushed my hair. “I’m your weapon and your shield. You don’t need this blade right now.” One long finger soothed over the top of my hand, gently coaxing.
With a shaky exhale, I peeled my fingers away, just as the stone wall swam.
He quickly removed the weapon and tossed it away.
Then he carefully rotated me until his leather armor, not the wall, was what blurred before my eyes, his arm around my back keeping me upright.
My injuries burned, increasing in their intensity as my muscles liquified.
I was going to pass out.
But I couldn’t pass out, because I needed to see, needed to know—
I tipped to the side, looking for my attacker’s body. Harthon gently righted me, but not before I saw the man’s legs splayed out on the blood-stained ground.
More bodies to add to the count.
More bloodshed heaped upon the last few days.
Too much of both, following me. Would it ever end?
“Stefano? The boy?” I managed in a shaky voice.
Harthon tipped me back, his free hand softly holding my chin, which was steadily falling toward my chest. I saw his face, then—a tight mosaic of concern, lines creasing his forehead as he quickly cataloged my injuries. Those lines deepened at what he found.
“Alive,” he answered, releasing my chin, which immediately fell.
I felt him shift, and then I was falling, but not really.
His arm came beneath my knees and shoulders, and I found myself encased in the shelter of his hold, held tightly to his warm chest. I stared up at the gray skies again, but this time, a chiseled, whisker-covered jaw was within the view.
I allowed myself a moment to appreciate it, then fell into a different place, only half aware of our movement.
“Get the healer to my rooms as fast as you can,” he demanded to someone, somewhere. “Cal, get…”
His words were lost to a dense fog, one I should have fought, but couldn’t.
That fog that only half-cleared when a voice ordered, “Etarla. Keep your eyes open.”
When I didn’t comply, I was jostled. Not roughly, but enough for my side to screech. “Hurts,” I mumbled, eyes still closed.
“I know, and I’m sorry. But you need to stay awake for me, carella,” he said, each word heavy with urgent concern.
I didn’t like Harthon so concerned, not when he was always in control. But I also understood why he was worried.
I wasn’t okay.
A thought came—a possibility that might soothe his distress. And I really wanted to soothe it. “Maybe…like the magvis…I also need to pass the route on to another person…before dying—”
“You’re not dying,” he growled.
“You could…be that person…if you let me—”
“Talking is good. Keep talking. But do not finish that sentence.”
Because if I died, there was a chance I wouldn’t give that path to another person, to him, and he would lose his way into the Domus.
“I get it,” I breathed tiredly.
“I have a feeling you don’t. At all.” His chest vibrated against my side as he spoke.
It was a soothing sensation.
“Stay with me.”
That murkiness solidified, becoming a lead weight, dragging me down, down, down.