EXALTED
Stained Series Book Four
Ella James
Copyright © 2012 by Ella James
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places, characters, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are purely fictitious. Any resemblances to any persons, living or dead, are completely coincidental. PLEASE DO NOT PIRATE THIS BOOK. PIRACY SUCKS.
Part One
Chapter One
He burst through the waves howling. One crested over his head, and freezing water sloshed into his mouth, pulled down his throat by a gasp. His lungs sputtered, aching as they tried to contract—but the current was swift and unrelenting, pulling him along head-first, and when his body called for air, his lungs just found more water.
I’m drowning.
This was a mystery to Cayne, not just because he’d been swimming since he was a wee lad, but because in his mind’s eye he saw only snow. Where the snow had been, he couldn’t recall, but he knew he’d been somewhere with heaps of snow, and he'd been there with Julia.
As the current jerked him over sharp stones, he saw a swatch of landscape: rushing water between tree-lined banks, branches crisscrossing in front of gray sky. His knee caught on a rock, his body spun, and when he surfaced again, his plane of vision was level with the grassy shoreline.
That’s what gave it away: the grass. It grew in tufts, like an old man’s hair. It was thick and pale yellow and sweet-scented, and along with the particular bend of the river, it conjured a distinct impression: the Falls of Dochart.
In the back of his stinging throat, he could taste the particular tang of Loch Tay: earthy, boggy, and with just a hint of brine. The taste had been called home once, the falls the site of boyhood feats.
Now the rapids sped him toward his demise. He banged his temple against a sharp stone and moaned, gulping more water. Starved of oxygen, his mind spun like a film reel, jumping from Rosa’s house to a stolen car to Nepal with Samyaza, then the river; he told Julia about the exorcism and there was shame, but her hands were soft; he was kissing her mouth; there were tears on her cheeks as she fled his cell; they were escaping an alpine resort. Lots of snow.
Julia!
He thrashed his arms and legs, and his heel met the stony river bottom. He used it to kick off, throwing his head back so his mouth was just above the water. A chilly wind slapped his cheeks as he choked down air.
Somehow he found the strength to spread his arms out. When the falls rammed him face-first into a rock that jutted above the current, he clung to it with all his strength.
He sucked another deep breath then coughed violently, golden sparks bursting behind his eyes. The water pushed him from behind, but he wrapped his legs around the stone and held steady, breathing in a frenzied rhythm while his mind searched for its own foothold.
He’d been confused like this before…no clue where he was or who he was. The confused feeling dredged up another: one of loss. He’d lost Kat. God. The memory was crushing, but it was nothing compared to this…this claw inside his chest. This desperation to find her. Julia.
He remembered it in pieces, the terrible thing that had happened. An attack in the night. Stained everywhere, shooting blue-fire from their fingers, running through the snow in bedclothes. But they escaped. Escaped and...what?
Cayne wanted to scream his frustration, to bang his head until he remembered, but he wiped his eyes, peering over frenzied white-caps and beyond the wooded banks: Killin.
He was here—but how? And where the hell was Julia? When he tried to remember what had happened to her… What had brought him here…
He lost his hold on the rock and choked again as he surfed the falls. He was able to stay above water until he could grab another rock closer to shore. He pulled himself up onto the flat topside of it, bracing himself against a battering wind.
He tasted something thick and tangy; he raised his hand to his face, and it came away bloody. He was bleeding from his mouth, and it was staining his shift.
And wasn't that something. He wore a shift just like a wee bairn. Soaking wet, it clung to his chest and hips and thighs as he climbed from the boulder onto the ragged grass.
He dropped down into the muck and covered his face. His shoulders trembled from the cold he hardly noticed. Nothing mattered to him but Julia and the awful, haunting feeling of something gone so wrong. He couldn’t lift his pounding head. He didn’t want to be here, back in this cursed place!
He heard steps to his right, soft footfall. He looked up and felt a surge of joy. Julia! Julia, dressed oddly—she wore a day gown and had her long, dark hair pulled up in plaits—but still Julia.
He started to rise, to throw his arms around her, but before getting up, he halted. She was still standing a few feet away, watching with flat eyes as he struggled to breathe.
“J-Julia?” His mouth trembled from the cold.
For sure, something was wrong. Her lovely lips pressed thin, and she blinked down at him with an unreadable expression. “Cayne.”
He looked her over, hoping for something to explain why her arms were still folded and not reaching out to embrace him.
“D-do you know what’s going on?” he asked her.
“I was gonna ask you the same thing.” She edged a slight bit closer and frowned down on him, like he was a bug she'd come across.
He rose on unsteady legs, glancing behind her at the cobblestone lane on the outskirts of the village, where men and women went about their business, completely unaware of two intruders.
“How did we get here?” he asked.
“Again,” she said, “something I was going to ask you. Isn’t this where you’re from?”
She said it almost in a sneer, her nose crinkling like she couldn’t stand the sight of it.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered.
She looked down at her gown—pale yellow, with a ribbon at the hem. When she looked back up at him, her mouth was pinched, a bitter expression that didn't suit her face. “What do you think is wrong? Suddenly I’m in medieval Scotland dressed like some kind of servant girl—”
“You're not dressed like a servant girl.” It seemed irrationally important that he explain this, the single thing he understood. “You're dressed like a young woman of mean. A wee bit chaste perhaps, but that's not...” She blinked at him like she couldn’t understand how he could be so inane, and Cayne found himself at a loss.
Of all that was wrong about their situation, it was her manner that had him twisted up inside.
His feet edged a little closer to her. “Do you remember anything about where we were before...this place?”
“The first thing I remember is looking up to see you break the surface.”
Cayne had never been a look-on-the-bright-side kind of guy, but as he looked at her drawn face, he reminded himself that all the gray above him had a silver lining: Julia was here at least. She was off: anxious, unhappy—probably “freaking out”. He supposed he would be bothered, too, if he were her. This was almost two hundred years before she was born, while for him it was merely childhood.
“It’s okay. We’ll work this out.” He stepped toward her again, but again, she stepped away, and again he felt a noose around his heart. “You’re angry,” he said, half question.
She shook her head. “I just don’t want you touching me.”
“Julia, why?”
Her mouth pinched in that un-Julia-like manner, and when she looked up at him, her eyes were like ice.
“Cayne, I'm sorry but I just don't w
ant you anymore. When I woke up here, in this weird time, in this weird place... I realized for the first time what you are.” She raised her hands, gesturing loosely to the landscape. “You should have been a man here. You should have died here. But you have your father in you.” She shook her head, as if to say for shame. “Even if I could forget your past...how could I stay with a-a monster in whose nature it is to destroy?”
He stared at her, unable to draw breath. He stared at her, really stared at her face. Julia's face. His Julia. “You don't— you can't mean that.” Looking into her pretty brown eyes, he shook his head. Even if Julia felt this way, she wouldn’t behave this way. She was kind and thoughtful, and she would never want to hurt him.
And she wouldn’t feel this way. She accepted him. She would never turn him away. Even when he couldn't fathom why she cared for him, he trusted that she did.
“Who are you?” he asked the thing that looked like her.
“What are you talking about?”
“You do a terrible Julia.”
False Julia pursed her lips, appearing for a moment to consider. Then she was gone, dashing down the riverbank, toward the village. Cayne groaned as he dashed after her—or it, whatever it was. Not Julia!
He followed the apparition over grassy moors, around trees, across a bridge that spanned the thrashing water, into the village center. Dimly he noted the church building, the schoolhouse. He realized he was running on bloody feet, still coughing up loch water and choking on the biting air, but he couldn’t let her get away.
Villagers appeared, all oddly unfamiliar, lining the lane like gawkers at a parade—but these waved dull swords or clubs. Cayne hardly spared a glance their way. His eyes were on the imposter Julia, sprinting in her day gown, now at the far edge of the village.
Cayne slowed. Dear Christ. He knew where she was leading him.
Fog rose from the soggy ground and night fell like a blanket. Deep voices echoed in his ears, and his knees trembled as emotion overcame him. He wrapped his arms around himself and sank down to the ground.
“There he is!”
“The wicked boy!”
“On the hill!”
Something slammed into his shoulder: a farmer’s cudgel. Another man attacked him with a stick, but Cayne wasn’t a bairn. He wouldn’t cry or cower. He spread his wings, knocking the villagers away, and he rose into the air while they screamed in fury. He turned a circle and spied false Julia several dozen yards away, up the road to the earl’s castle: a dark, two-story stone structure with fog all around, pale and curling in the black night.
As he hovered there, over the rioting villagers, she dashed across the lawn, disappearing inside heavy oak doors that slammed behind her. He was across the sky in an instant, throwing the doors open almost as soon as she'd closed them, stumbling inside on legs that trembled with remembered horror. He found himself in a drafty, candle-lit foyer. The ceiling rose to the second floor, and Cayne spied the earl waiting for him on a wide staircase.
As he stared at the man's distantly familiar face, the earl morphed. The figure on the stairs wasn't a human at all, but a great shadow, indescribable and dense, speaking to him with a mouth of razor teeth and a tongue of rotted meat. “At last. My son.”
Cayne froze, stunned by something he hadn’t felt in almost two-hundred years: genuine mortal fear. His father? The creature before him was certainly a Demon, but Cayne had never imagined a Demon this strong. Its presence filled the room like a physical illness.
Before he could make sense of what was going on, invisible hands seized his shoulders and he was pushed forward, into an ornate meeting hall.
“Cayuzul, Cayne, Somairhle. Hello.” The torches lining the walls of the great hall flared, and the well of dread inside Cayne’s chest cracked open.
The darkness took form in the earl’s fine chair: a simple man with the look of a shepherd, one of many on the Highland slopes.
The pale-haired, blue-eyed man stretched out his hand, and a small door to his left burst open. Julia flew directly into the earl’s arms. He wrapped his hands around her neck, and her face contorted as she screamed.
Cayne rushed forward— He tried to, but something was holding him in place.
“Let her go!”
“You were made to be a tool, my son, and that is what you are.” The deep, discordant voice vibrated through the corridor, audible even over Julia's horrible shrieks. Big, pale hands mashed her throat so hard her flailing arms drooped, and Cayne fought harder against the force restraining him.
“It is time to fulfill your purpose,” the evil said, situating Julia's limp body over his knee, so Cayne could see her cheeks redden as she was strangled.
“LET HER GO!” He screamed as he struggled. “Let her go! What do you want? I'll do it!”
The evil being snatched Julia's limp body back against his lap, loosening his grip on her bruised neck, stroking her reddened face. He chuckled as she gasped for air, and Cayne grew so frantic he gasped, too, hardly even hearing the scourge when he said, “What I want is for you to kill her.”
“Never!”
The being shrugged. “Oh well.” He wrapped his fingers around Julia's neck, jerking it way too hard, and Cayne heard a sickening crack. Her body slackened, and the evil being dropped her.
Cayne roared, and finally the restraining force released him. He dropped onto the cold stone floor and pulled Julia's body into his lap, flinching as her head lolled—blood-shot eyes open, neck too loose.
Dear Christ.
He let out a howl that seemed to shake the thick stone walls, and the evil before him grinned. “It was bound to happen. She is meant to die.”
Cayne charged the evil being, who caught his shoulder and, with a flick of its wrist, tossed him to the floor. He lay panting beside Julia's broken body. He watched blood trickle from her lips and thought, I won’t fight back. I’d rather die.
The evil sighed. “We can’t have that foolishness.”
To Cayne’s amazement, Julia took a breath. Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked at Cayne with such love he felt like weeping.
Then she stood, bowed, and vanished.
Cayne was stunned. “What—”
“An illusion, dear son. Meant to prepare you for your role in our Celestial drama.”
“What—who are you?”
The creature smiled. “'Father' not good enough for you?”
“You're not my father.”
“I have many names. The first was The Exalted. These days, most people know me as the Lord of Hell. The Adversary.”
Cayne felt completely empty. Dead and numb. “Are you— Are you saying you're The devil?”
The creature laughed: an awful, mocking boom. “Too much of your mother in you. But you’ll do the job. And yes, I go by devil, too.”
Chapter Two
Julia and Meredith were washing dishes. It was weird because they were back in the dish room at the compound, and Julia knew the compound wasn’t there anymore. But there they were, standing side by side in front of an enormous double sink, their arms soaped up to their elbows and their long hair falling down around their biceps. Meredith was telling Julia a story about Nathan.
Julia was having trouble listening to the story, because she had a story of her own for Mer—a story that involved Nathan and lots of other people. A terrible, terrible story.
Meredith was saying, “uptight… But he’s a good guy at heart. I was in Drew’s dream last night and dream-Drew told me Nathan was walking toward Cayne with us. Does that make sense to you?” She leaned back, tossing her glossy black locks over her shoulders so they wouldn't get wet.
“It doesn’t really,” Julia admitted. “But Meredith, I think you need to get a new crush. I’m not so sure Nathan is a good guy.”
Meredith waved her concern away. “Come on Jules, I can’t imagine a more harmless boy.”
Julia frowned, trying to figure out why she felt so uneasy. “Maybe it isn't Nathan...but there’s definitely somethi
ng bad going on right now. I can feel it in my stomach.” She stared into her friend’s brown eyes, and all of a sudden she got a mental image of Meredith, lying on dark dirt, with her eyes shut, her face pale, and Nathan's jacket draped over her. “Please, Meredith. Promise me you'll be careful.”
Meredith nodded, and Julia knew she couldn't tell her all of it: In her vision, Meredith was dead.
***
“I wonder what my daddy would do if I killed you right now.”
Julia’s rattled consciousness went straight from the dish room to Dizzy’s grating voice: high-pitched but froggy—exactly the kind of voice someone with an ugly aura should have.
“You know, it wouldn’t be very difficult at all. I think you have a concussion. That, or your head’s just scrambled. Either way, makes things a lot easier.”
Julia’s senses came back online one at a time—physical sensations screaming between remembered fragments of the mountainside conflict that had led to her capture. Something sharp dug into her wrists and ankles—probably binding, because based on the numbness of her butt and the cold, hard thing pushing into her shoulder blades, she was tied to a chair.
Her eyelids cracked open and she had to fight to keep her eyes from rolling back into her head. She had a beast of a headache, and Dizzy was right: Her brain was scrambled. Everything looked...hazy. Then Julia blinked and she realized her vision was off because of the water, or rather, melting snow, running into her eyes. The stuff soaked the rest of her, too—her white, long-sleeved t-shirt, jeans, and All-Stars. Someone had removed her jacket, so she felt cold to the bone.
Cold and somehow…unsteady. She had the nauseating sensation that the floor was buzzing, the room teetering. She cracked her eyes open a little more and glanced around, seeing beige walls and smart, minimalist gray curtains over two small windows. Then something jabbed her in the chest.
“Hey, you. Wake up.” And when Julia looked down, she did, because the cold, hard thing pressing into her breastbone was a gun.