Crash turned to face her. She could make out his eyes, glimmering like a nocturnal beast. For a moment, the sight made her uncertain, reminding her of what he was.
If he noticed her pause, he didn't mention it. “Couldn't sit still?” he asked softly.
She shook her head, suddenly at a loss for words. What could she say to him? Nothing came to mind. She turned back to the ruins and they stood in silence for a few moments, studying the large black stones.
“I can't stop thinking about tomorrow,” she finally said. She couldn't tell him the full truth—that she was afraid of what it might bring. This might be her last night in this world.
“Me too,” he admitted.
Sora didn't expect that. She blinked. He stood closer to her, though she hadn't noticed him move. He was almost shoulder to shoulder with her now.
“Are you...having second thoughts?” she asked, remembering his private conversation with Burn.
“No,” he replied.
This was the Crash that she had come to know: one-word answers, a mask of quiet indifference. Yet she knew him better now. His silence was a shield—and at times, a door. His words were like small keyholes, allowing her moments of insight.
“I thought taking a walk would clear my head,” she said brusquely. “But I suppose that's impossible. Are warriors always filled with this much doubt?”
He paused thoughtfully. “It gets better with time,” he murmured.
“How do you deal with it?”
He turned to look at her, observing her quietly. She stared resolutely out at the stone circle, focusing on the stars, the rush of the ocean, the moist air. Pretending she didn't need to hear his answer.
“Doubt is a product of fear,” he finally said. “And fear is a response of the body.” He followed her eyes out to the ruins, also studying the large black stones. “I haven't felt it in a long time.”
She curled one of her hands into a fist. Her mind returned to the note he had left her more than a year ago, folded into the hilt of the Dark God's weapon. For the first time I felt fear. Perhaps he had truly meant it—more than she could know. She still kept the note in her room at her mother's house, hidden in a desk drawer. She hadn't showed it to anyone. It had been private. A part of him that he had shared in confidence.
Either way, his advice wasn't very helpful. He might be able to rise above his emotions, conquer the impulses of his body, but she wasn't like him. This was her first true battle. She thought back to her fight with the wraiths, the Catlins, even the garrolithe in the Caves. She had been afraid, but not like this. Not with the long, drawn-out expectation of her own demise. She felt as though she stood on the deck of a ship barreling through the ocean, unable to stop it from crashing against the rocks.
She turned to face him. They were inches apart, their chests almost touching. She looked up at him with her neck stretched a bit, since he was so much taller than she. “Why are you here, Crash?” she asked directly.
He almost stepped back, shifting in place. He stared down at her, his face fully visible—wolfish and cunning, his hair longer than before, sweeping down to his jaw, black as pitch. She had the sudden urge to touch his hair, to brush it away from his face. Why not? she thought suddenly. If this is our last night together, then why not?
She felt a little wild in doing so, but she forced herself to reach up and move his hair to one side. It was soft against her fingers, slightly tangled from sleep.
He gripped her hand suddenly. She didn't see him move. “Sora,” he said quietly. She couldn't tell if it was a warning, or if he was simply surprised.
“I might not be here tomorrow, Crash,” she said, her voice breaking. Fear constricted her chest. She wasn't...she wasn't ready to face death. And she especially wasn't ready to watch any of her friends die. That was an even worse outcome. The vision of Dorian's body, cold and lifeless in the fields, flickered before her eyes. She hadn't been able to save him. Volcrian's wraith had struck him down easily. A terrible guilt seized her about Dorian, and her throat closed with grief.
Crash watched her face. He frowned. “I'm not going to let anything happen to you,” he said quietly.
She shook her head. “You can't promise that.” And I don't want you to. She didn't want to survive while the rest of them perished. She didn't want to live through that kind of pain.
“Why are you here?” she repeated. He hadn't answered her question before.
“To check on you.”
“Is that all?”
He hesitated. Then he let out a long, frustrated sigh. His hand still clasped hers, his fingers playing along her small knuckles. “I suppose I should say something meaningful, hmm?” She could sense a slight smile on his face, a shade ironic. “I'm not good at comforting people, Sora.”
She winced at that. It was true. She tried to tug her hand away, but he didn't let her go.
“Do you think I might die tomorrow?” she asked, searching his face.
He finally dropped her hand. “I don't know,” he said briefly.
Finally, an honest answer. “Then what?” she pressed. She knew that she was pushing him, perhaps asking too much, but she had to. She couldn't let this rest. “What do you want to say to me? This might be your last chance.”
He turned away, distancing himself from her. She expected that, and took a step after him, close to his back. “You've saved my life far too many times to count,” she said. “You vowed to die next to me. You...you....” Her voice hitched, a terrible reaction, one that irritated her greatly. Her words came out soft and strained. “You told me that I was beautiful.” It meant something, didn't it? What was he hiding from her?
A brooding silence fell between them. For a moment, he seemed angry. She almost relished the thought. Maybe she could provoke him to answer; force him to explain himself.
Then he turned, advancing swiftly, closing the space between them. He took her by the shoulders, propelling her backward until she was pressed against the tree.
When he looked down at her, his eyes were deep emerald, lit with black fire. Her breath caught. He was brilliantly handsome in the darkness, secretive and scarred, smothered in shadows. She felt terrified and excited all at once, filled with a strange anticipation.
“You're very frustrating,” he said, his voice hoarse from his wounds.
She grimaced. “I know.”
“You shouldn't doubt me.”
She stared at him, surprised. “What?”
“You need to trust my words.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but suddenly his lips were upon her.
Sora froze in shock. He pressed his mouth against hers, hard and then soft. His hands gripped her shoulders, holding her still, giving her no chance to escape. After a long moment, her body relaxed, her head tilted back. She sank against him, unable to resist, responding naturally.
The kiss deepened. He teased her lips, tempting her to open them. Her breath shuddered and she tried to meet him, clumsily mimicking his technique. His hands squeezed her shoulders. Caution? Encouragement? She couldn't tell. He tasted warm and coppery, slightly metallic, like a clean blade. Heat flooded her, blossoming in her chest, pooling lower in her belly. Her heart pounded. She didn't know what to do—she had never been kissed before, and she certainly hadn't imagined it would be like this.
A low, unexpected sound escaped from her throat. Her cheeks flushed, embarrassed, unsure if it was a natural response.
Then he stopped, pulling back without warning. She fell against him, her legs weak. She felt loose, pliant, absolutely speechless.
He gazed down at her, his eyes hooded and unreadable. She could barely look at him, suddenly intimidated.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
She looked up at him searchingly, her lips still humming from the kiss. “Why did you stop?” she asked softly.
He paused. “You're vulnerable,” he finally replied. “You don't want this, Sora.”
She frowned at him, uncertain. I don't? By the wa
y her body was responding, she was pretty sure that she did. The sensations were startlingly intense, difficult to suppress. Her mind began speeding up, imagining all sorts of scenarios.
“I...I've never done anything, uh, like this...before...” she started to say, then stopped. Oh, dear Goddess. If he felt as awkward as she did now, at least he was better at hiding it. He waited for her patiently, his hands warm on her shoulders, his body brushing hers.
She couldn't believe what she was trying to say, but she pushed through it, determined not to leave anything undone. “Don't let my innocence stop you,” she finally finished. She focused hard on the grass beneath them, the small pine cones that littered the forest floor.
“Some people value innocence,” he murmured, repeating her own words from the Crystal Caves.
She gave a small, nervous laugh. “Right,” she agreed. “But tomorrow....”
“You're not going to die, Sora.”
She glanced up at him. “How can you be so sure?”
He didn't answer, but pulled her tight against his chest, wrapping her in his strong arms. She was enveloped by the warm scent of him: trail dust and woodsmoke. “You have to trust me,” he whispered.
She buried her face in his shirt. He made it sound so simple, so easy. “Then take away my fear,” she said, her voice small, muffled by fabric. She didn't want to be afraid. She had tried not to be. But when he was this close, she felt completely undone.
He reached between them, tipping her head up. For a brief moment he searched her eyes, looking for something, she didn't know what. But he must have found it, because he set his lips against hers again, softly this time, gently. He kissed her with a sense of controlled power, as though holding back something monstrously strong. She could sense the shadows shift around them, moving on their own accord, clasping her in a dark embrace, an extension of his own body. She felt completely consumed.
He broke away again, muttering against her lips. “I will do this,” he said, “until you can't think anymore.” He trailed his lips across her mouth, tendrils of fire slipping through her body. “Then we will go back,” he murmured, “and you will sleep.”
She began to tremble, barely able to stand. His arms clamped her to his chest, strong and secure, sliding across her back. One traveled up to her neck, cradling the back of her head, adjusting her position. He opened her mouth easily, capturing her tongue, controlling her.
After a long moment, he finished his thought. “Tomorrow we will fight, and you will be safe, and this will have never happened.”
Why? she wanted to ask. Why can't this happen?
Because he's an assassin, her inner voice answered through the foggy cloud of her mind.
I don't care, she thought.
You do, the voice murmured. And he knows it.
She couldn't argue anymore. Crash's hand wove into her hair, and then she was truly lost.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
DAWN BROKE ACROSS the ocean, spilling over the brink of the world. Gray water trapped the light, carrying it to a pale beach, curling over the white sand and washing away a series of footsteps.
Volcrian took a deep breath of the fresh sea air. His eyes searched the sky. The Lost Isles, the sacred home of the Harpies. He didn't see any now. The storms had been fierce on the ocean and he was certain that the Harpies knew of his arrival, but they weren't here to greet him. A grim smile crossed his face. Perhaps they were hiding?
He didn't really care about the Harpies. He wanted the assassin. And the moment he set foot upon the island, he felt a firm warmth seep up through the soles of his boots. It sang in his blood, provoking his anger. The Viper was near. Fool, he thought. What is he playing at? If the Viper thought to evade him on this island, he was sorely mistaken. Volcrian would find him eventually. There was no place left to run.
He glanced over his shoulder, back toward his ship. It dipped and wove on its anchor, a little less than a league offshore. Several small boats sailed between the beach and the larger vessel—his crew. He grinned. One by one, he had slaughtered the men and bled them dry, turning their corpses into loyal servants, just as he had the priestess. Yet unlike the priestess, these men were far easier to control. They gazed at him with empty, glassy eyes, doing whatever he said without question. Their spirits were weak, easily manipulated.
He would meet the Viper with a small battalion at his back. No matter what the assassin's tricks, he and his companions would not survive.
Volcrian didn't know why, but it seemed like in the past few months, his powers had grown immensely. Sometimes he lay awake at night, feeling the energy burn through his limbs. At times he had trouble focusing, he was so full of thirst, the need to crush the assassin's throat—and anyone who got in his way. Is that an effect of the blood magic? He felt like something else was growing within him, something far larger than he could explain. He hardly glanced at his grandfather's book anymore. He felt as though the spells were born into him now, a new knowledge that arose with his growing power.
As the day brightened, he could feel the familiar itch of a headache behind his eyes. He grimaced, rubbing his temples. He had suffered from migraines almost as soon as they left Delbar. He could only assume that it was the spirit of his dead brother hovering over him, pressuring him to complete his task. Soon, he promised. Soon, Etienne. Soon we will rest. He could tell it was almost time. Somewhere deep inside, he felt everything drawing to a close.
Before him lay the thick jungle of the Lost Isles, a solid wall of wilderness. As he looked at the trees, he felt a strange vibration in the air. He twitched his long ears and could almost hear music. Yet the sound went deeper than that, settling just below his diaphragm.
Sacred ground. A place where his magic could be amplified. The power emitting from it was palpable, like a beacon of light teasing his eyes. He would begin his search there.
“You're in a rather good mood,” a wry voice said from behind him. It was barely intelligible. The priestess's vocal chords had begun to rot.
He glanced at the woman over his shoulder. She stood on the beach as the rest of the dead soldiers dragged their boat to shore. Her tattered brown cloak swirled in the wind, obscuring her figure. He could see large, gaping holes in her cheeks, a glimpse of white bone through the rotting flesh of her face. A swarm of flies had come to investigate, hovering around her head, crawling over her shoulders. She didn't notice.
“Four years,” he said. “Four years I've been waiting for this.”
Her eyes were almost pure white, but he could sense her looking him over, glancing from his face to his hands. “Only four years?” she asked slowly, a hint of challenge in her voice.
It bothered him, and he passed his hand over his face. His headache was growing worse. No, not four years. Longer than that, much longer....A sudden darkness leapt within him, growling in his stomach, clawing at his chest. Eons, it seemed to say. A star's lifetime, trapped in the earth. The heat, the miserable, suffocating pressure, the crumbling depths of a grave....
He needed blood. He craved it. He wanted to tear this island apart with his hands.
When he looked back at the priestess, he saw a grim set to her face, as though she knew his thoughts. He glared at her. “Four years since Etienne's death,” he growled, pushing through his rage. “Don't worry, my dear. Soon you will join him in that afterlife.”
She watched him impassively. He finally turned away in disgust.
The rest of his crew had reached the shore. They wandered up behind him, stiff and slow. It was the one downfall of his spell; a corpse didn't retain the natural elasticity of a body.
But Volcrian had one more minion at his command. Two of his wraiths had been destroyed by the Cat's Eye, but that only leant strength to the third one. As each wraith perished, its power was channeled into the next. So the last wraith would harbor the ferocity of all three combined.
He drew a knife from his belt and ran the blade down the center of his crippled hand. He barely felt the deep gash.
Blood welled up from his skin. He clenched his fist, allowing the blood to drip through his fingers. Where are you? he asked the wind silently. I need you now. Come to me.
He waited. The minutes stretched on and he twitched his ears, listening for the faintest sound in reply. He called again, sending his will out over the ocean, speaking through the currents and the waves, magnified by the salt water. The ocean was the blood of the earth, a potent vessel for magic. He knew that if he waited long enough, his call would circle the entire world, echoing from sandy beaches to stone wells, up rivers and down streams. Yet he couldn't wait that long. The wraith shouldn't be that far away.
He felt a bit of perspiration on his brow. He knew that his minion was still in existence, yet when he reached for that inner bond, that strand that tied them together—he couldn't find it.
Volcrian frowned. Fifteen minutes passed. Twenty. Thirty. Still nothing.
“Are we going to stand here all day?” the priestess groaned at his back. “I can feel my muscles locking.”
Volcrian gritted his teeth in frustration. The wind was cold and brisk next to the ocean, not good for an army of rotting corpses. Yet if he moved much closer to the ruins, the sacred ground would disrupt his call, making it impossible to be heard by the wraith. Where has it gone? A sense of doubt entered his thoughts, a strange foreboding. Either the wraith had been destroyed somehow...or it had found a new master. But how is that possible?
Volcrian shook his head. He didn't know, but he couldn't waste any more time. With the dead sailors at his command, he doubted he would need the wraith anyway. They would easily be able to overpower the assassin and his companions. Perhaps the corpses were slow and unwieldy, but they had monstrous strength, fueled by blood magic—and they couldn't be killed.
“Come,” he finally said, and whirled toward the jungle, heading swiftly for the trees. The corpses plodded along behind him, the priestess in the lead. They likely wouldn't reach the ruins until midday, but as he entered the trees, he felt a rush of certainty return to him. Yes, the Viper was here. He could feel it in his bones. And by nightfall, the assassin would be dead.