Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles)

  * * *

  Sora climbed over a fallen log, dappled with dense sunlight. It was a few hours past dawn. She had taken a brief detour in the woods to relieve herself, and was now headed to her appointed place—the far side of the ruins, close to the pedestal that stood on top of the cliff. Once there, she was to stay safe and out of the way, separate from the fight.

  Burn and Crash would wait in the circle of stones, luring Volcrian into the open. There was still no sign of the mage, yet the forest felt different today. Subdued and quiet, it seemed that an ominous hush had fallen over the island. She hadn't seen any Harpies in the sky and she doubted that she would.

  As she walked, her mind inevitably returned to the night before. She lightly pressed a finger to her lips. Crash....

  Last night, he had kissed her. More than just kissed—devoured. She had felt completely overtaken, swept up in his presence, his hands, his mouth, the heaviness of his breath....How could a simple touch be so powerful? She still felt consumed, anxious, humming with the memory.

  She didn't know how long they had spent under that tree. Her mind had become lost in the darkness, in the sensation of his body, in the way his calloused hands had moved over her skin, in the heat of him, his scent....She could barely remember being lifted from her feet, clasped in his arms and carried back to their camp.

  As promised, he had made her forget her fear, her worries, her trepidation. And yet they had only kissed. Perhaps it was for the better. He had refrained from taking her innocence, and in the light of day, she felt a sense of relief. She hadn't truly been ready to part with it, and she didn't know how it would have changed things.

  Sora climbed over a fallen long, still lost in thought. When she woke up that morning, the assassin was absent from their camp. Burn assured her that he had gone to scout for Volcrian, to see if the mage had arrived. As far as she knew, he still hadn't returned.

  And as the morning crept by, the thought of confronting Crash became more and more terrifying. It was almost as frightening as their fight with Volcrian. This will have never happened, his voice repeated to her, over and over again. Perhaps he meant it. If she tried to address what he had done—what they had done—would he deny it? Brush it off like some sordid dream? Declare it was a mistake? Was it a mistake? Her stomach fluttered at the thought, squeezing uncomfortably.

  Wrapped up in such troubling doubt, Sora didn't notice the brightening light that fell through the trees, strengthening in vibrancy and power. Suddenly, a figure landed directly in front of her. She yelped and fell back, raising her staff, prepared for an attack. She lashed out without thinking. Thwak!

  A reassuring smack met her ears, but when she finally saw her opponent, all she could do was stare.

  “C-Caprion?” she stuttered in surprise.

  The Harpy General had a slight grin on his lips. It faded as he looked at her, and a frown touched his face, thoughtful. His hair looked tousled and messy and his clothes were streaked with dirt, much different from the last time she had seen him. His eyes had faint circles underneath, evidence of a sleepless night. His gaze shifted, focusing on the air around her body, as though he could see something that she couldn't. Then his frown deepened. Sora bit her lips, suddenly nervous.

  “You look....” he paused, still gazing at her. “Did the assassin....” Finally, he shook his head. “I suppose it doesn't matter.”

  She yanked back her weapon, realizing that Caprion had grabbed it from midair. He released it willingly.

  “What?” she demanded, on-guard.

  Caprion shook his head again. “His aura has mingled with your own, that's all.”

  Sora frowned, unsure of what he meant. Her mind briefly returned to last night, the shadows that had risen around her body, cradling her, tightening their grasp....Either way, it was none of Caprion's concern.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked bluntly.

  “I came to tell you that Volcrian has landed on the island,” he said.

  Sora's heart skipped a beat. “Oh.”

  “He's not alone,” he added. “He is accompanied by twenty men and a woman. He is controlling them with his blood magic.”

  She nodded, alarmed. So many?

  “Also,” he said, “you should know that the Matriarch and her soldiers are laying low for the moment, watching to see what he does. I led them away from you. I think she suspects my involvement, but she hasn't said anything directly.”

  Sora let out a sigh of relief. At least they didn't have to worry about the Harpies for now. “Thank you,” she murmured. “And what about the Dracians? Are they nearby?”

  Caprion nodded. “They should arrive by nightfall. Perhaps tomorrow morning if the winds change.”

  She shifted on her feet; their arrival was sooner than expected, but still worrisome. If she succeeded in killing Volcrian, she would have the Harpies to contend with. Caprion might be able to distract them for a while, but they would catch on to his game soon. There were very few places to hide on an island.

  He seemed to know how she felt. Perhaps it was obvious on her face. “Don't worry,” he said. She could hear the ring of command in his tone. Too bad she was immune to it; she could have used the extra confidence. “The dawn star was clearly visible this morning. It is a sign of luck. I think you will succeed.”

  Sora raised an eyebrow. A sign of luck? “That's encouraging,” she said. It came out more sardonic than she intended, but Caprion didn't seem to take offense. He nodded over her shoulder, toward the ruins.

  “I will return for you tonight,” he said. “I, too, wish to leave this island as soon as possible. Together we will find a way.”

  Sora gave him a slight smile. He was trying to reassure her. She appreciated the attempt, though it didn't work. “It's good to know that we have help,” she affirmed. “You've done more than enough....”

  “Not enough,” he interrupted her. “Not until Volcrian is dead and we are safely away from the Matriarch. I won't be able to join you in the fight—it would be too suspicious—but know that I am counting on your survival. We will leave this island together.” He smiled in return. “Until nightfall.” Then he bowed his head slightly in farewell.

  She watched him turn back to the trees. A halo of light glowed around him, illuminating the forest in a bright glow, outshining the sun—then he leapt into the air. Sora squinted, her hand shielding her eyes. Then he was gone.

  She sighed, turning back toward the ruins and continuing on her way. Crash still didn't know about her alliance with Caprion; he distrusted the First Race and would suspect the worst. But Caprion was the only reason why they all weren't in prison right now, awaiting Volcrian's arrival behind bars.

  She clutched her staff in sweaty hands and continued walking.

  A minute later, she exited the forest and stepped onto the dewy grass of the ruins. The black stones were just as she had left them—tall and ominous in the daylight. A hollow wind swept through the clearing, carrying the distant crash of the ocean's waves.

  Her eyes found the treeline across from her, where Burn supposedly stood watch. She had to tell him about Caprion's warning: Volcrian was on the island and he had a band of warriors at his back.

  She took two steps, then winced. Something sharp stung her hand. She looked, puzzled, and saw a small bead of blood slide down her index finger toward the ground. She lifted her finger in front of her eyes. A bee sting?

  Quite suddenly, she couldn't move.

  At first Sora didn't know what was happening. She twisted around, but her feet were firmly planted in the dirt, as solid as stone. She caught herself on her staff, struggling to stay balanced.

  "I'd suggest you stop moving before you fall over," a soft, silky voice drifted to her.

  All of the hair on Sora's body stood on end. The voice's breathy quality caused a shiver to run down her spine. She had never heard it before, but she knew who it was. Who it had to be.

  She turned, looking over her shoulder, slightly to her left. Ab
out ten feet away stood a man, one she dimly recognized from a vision long ago. In person, however, he wasn't quite as tall as she'd thought. His shoulders were broad, though not as muscular as Crash. He was covered by a midnight-blue cloak. He wore a midnight-blue cloak. His steel-silver hair and blue eyes reminded her of an arctic sky, sharp and bright. His lips were pale, twisted into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. It left her feeling chilled.

  One long, sloping ear twitched, and that sick grin widened. "It seems that you are quite firmly trapped," the mage murmured, and began to walk forward. Sora's stomach lurched with each step. The closer he came, the more she could smell something heavy and sour in the air. The stench of rotten meat.

  "Volcrian.” She hadn't meant to say his name, but it fell from her lips like poison. The Wolfy's fangs glinted at the sound of it.

  "So you've heard of me," he murmured. “Sora Fallcrest, isn't it? My, but you are a pretty young thing.”

  Sora blanched. She hated how he said her name—mockingly, like an insult. She hadn't used her surname Fallcrest in more than a year. It was a taunting reminder of her past, of the life she had left behind, of the family she didn't belong to.

  He approached her from behind. Sora felt a surge of anger that shocked her into action. She sent a silent command to the Cat's Eye, and the necklace twisted against the force of his magic, trying to break free. Blood magic was more complicated than that of the other races—it wasn't purely energy, but made of physical matter, difficult for the stone to absorb. She focused her mind, commanding the necklace—and with an audible snap, her legs returned to her.

  She stumbled forward, not expecting the shift of balance. Volcrian lunged at her at the same time. She ran a few steps, then felt his hand snag her hair, wrapping it around his wrist, dragging her backward. A shriek escaped her lips. He pulled her against his body, holding her with bruising force.

  The taint of his magic made her skin crawl. He was icy-cold, clammy, like a dead corpse. Sora struggled, trying to slip from his grasp, but he was far stronger than he appeared. Unnaturally strong. He held her effortlessly, dragging her into the air by her neck, her legs kicking futilely. She tried to bring her staff around to hit him, but it was at a bad angle. He was using her body as a shield.

  "Bastard!" she choked in outrage. “Let me go!”

  "Keep struggling and I'll snap your neck," the mage hissed. His hand tightened viciously, cutting off her air. Sora went limp, knowing a threat when she heard one. This is all wrong! she thought, screaming in her head. This wasn't the plan!

  Volcrian held her up like a caught fish, facing the treeline across the clearing. He breathed deeply, sniffing the air. Finally he paused, facing a particularly thick patch of shrubbery; she felt his hand clamp a little harder on her neck. She was forced to breathe in small, short spurts through her nose.

  “I know you're there, Viper!” he called out, almost friendly. “I can smell you!”

  A pause. Nothing stirred but the wind.

  If anything, the breeze only seemed to make the mage more certain. "Oh, come now, my friend," the Wolfy barked out jovially. “Do I need to persuade you? I have a pretty girl here who I believe you know. I could kill her, if you'd like.”

  Sora grasped the mage's hand, trying to pry his fingers from her neck, but his grip was like iron. His strength was inhuman, fueled by magic. He dug his nails into her throat and she felt a burning sensation. Blood leaked through their entwined hands, staining her shirt. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to gather herself. I must remain conscious, she repeated over and over again. Her head began to swim.

  A shadow emerged from the treeline. Sora's eyes fastened onto it desperately. It had to be Crash, though her vision was growing blurry, interrupted by white dots. He stood against the dark shade of the forest, his clothes ripped and stained, his features grim.

  “Kill her then,” he called.

  Sora would have gasped if she could breathe. The assassin's voice was cold and strong, rough from his brutalized neck. This was not Crash speaking—it was Viper, the trained killer. A knot of fear formed in her belly. He's bluffing, she thought desperately. He has to be!

  Volcrian shifted. He seemed disappointed by the turn of events. “How dull,” he murmured quietly, as though personally confiding in her. Then he shook her viciously, like a small kitten. Sora stiffened, trying not to break her neck.

  “Maybe I'll have some fun with her first,” he said loudly, his voice carrying easily across the clearing. They stood perhaps a hundred feet apart, not quite yelling distance. “She's a firm young thing. And if her blood is any indication, she hasn't been touched yet.”

  Crash watched him silently.

  Sora's skin crawled. She writhed against Volcrian, kicking futilely with her legs. It was a position that her mother had warned her about. There was no easy trick to make him let go. His nails dug deeper into her skin, and she heard his voice in her ear. “Tsk tsk,” he muttered. “Oh no, you aren't going anywhere.”

  Suddenly, someone lunged out of the trees. Burn charged at Volcrian's back, his longsword already swinging through the air. A guttural cry ripped from his throat.

  Volcrian staggered in surprise and loosened his hold. It was all that Sora needed. She sank her weight downward and then up, cracking her head back against his chin. The Wolfy stumbled and released her.

  “Run, Sora!” Burn roared. His blade whirled past Volcrian, barely missing the mage's head. She scrambled to her feet and grabbed her staff, then took off across the clearing, running toward the nearby cliff.

  “Priestess!” Volcrian yelled from behind her. “Stop her!”

  What? Sora didn't know who he was talking to. She looked around, prepared for an attack, then noticed several bulky shapes emerge from the jungle ahead of her. They limped awkwardly into her path, moving so strangely that at first she didn't know what they were: human or animal? The wind changed, blowing against her face, and she almost gagged from the bitter, bloated smell of dead flesh.

  A figure in a brown cloak ran to cut her off. It moved faster than the rest, though still clumsy in the long grass. The wind shoved the cloak's hood back and she saw the face of a dead woman staring at her. Sora stumbled out of pure shock. The woman's flesh dripped from her bones, flaking away with each gust of wind. She could see patches of teeth through the rotted holes in her face. In her hand was a long, naked dagger.

  Sora felt her gut sink. So these were the men that Caprion had mentioned. Only they weren't men at all. They were corpses.

  The priestess paused, blocking her path. The other corpses reached her side, fanning out in front of her. They stood between Sora and the tall cliff that led to the Cat's Eye's pedestal. She had no choice. She would have to force her way through.

  Sora ran forward, brought her staff up, and jammed it into the chest of the first corpse. The body imploded, crumpling inward, oozing with blood and putrid gas. She held her breath as she slammed her weapon into the man's head, his skull shattering beneath her blow.

  Yet the body did not fall. It continued to lurch toward her, hands grasping at her weapon, trying to pull it from her grasp.

  Sora fell back and touched her Cat's Eye, desperate for help. The necklace was slow to respond; it jingled distantly. A shield of green light fell around her, moving inward until it sunk into her skin. She felt strengthened and protected—for the moment.

  A cry of fury ripped from her throat, and she launched herself again at her foe. Two more corpses converged on her only a few yards away. They were slow, but strong. I can handle this, she thought, and she ducked down, sweeping her staff under the first corpse's legs. It fell onto its back, flailing helplessly on the ground like a toppled turtle. That's one, she thought. Twenty more to go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  OUT OF THE corner of his eye, Crash watched Sora sprint across the wet grass toward the hill. Numerous shapes were emerging from the trees and wandering into her path. He didn't know what they were, but he could see that she was so
rely outnumbered. “Burn!” he called. The giant mercenary stood facing Volcrian, his sword held at the ready. The two Wolfies appeared to be at a standoff. “Burn, help her!”

  The hulking warrior must have heard him, because he turned and dashed back to the treeline, following it to Sora's position. Volcrian watched him go, his blue cloak brushing in the wind. Then the mage turned to look at Crash. He could see the man's smile at this distance. He gritted his teeth, a black rage boiling inside.

  Crash drew his dagger and started across the grass, closing the distance between them.

  “You seem very eager to die,” Volcrian called. He drew a saber from his cloak, a thin blade used for fencing. Crash barely glanced at it.

  “Thought you could escape me?” Volcrian continued. “You certainly had a good run.”

  Crash didn't reply. There was no point in speaking to a man who would soon be dead. He felt a grim satisfaction move through him at the thought. This was a kill he would enjoy.

  Volcrian waited until he was only a yard away. Then he whipped the saber up and lunged. Crash parried the blow with his dagger, sparks flying between the blades. The mage whirled and attacked again, unfastening his cloak and allowing it to fall to the ground. He lunged forward once, twice, thrice—Crash was able to block, but he was surprised by Volcrian's strength. The mage's blows were unnaturally hard, close to breaking the saber's blade. Such a sword was built for speed, not force.

  Crash saw an opening. He ducked under Volcrian's swing and lunged forward, ready to stab the mage under the ribs.

  Surprisingly, the Wolfy grabbed his arm and pulled him forward, as though assisting Crash with his attack. Then he dropped his saber and slipped a small knife out of his sleeve. He brought the knife down on Crash's arm just as the dagger entered his body.

  The mage stumbled backwards. Warm blood sprayed across the grass, dampening his shirt. Volcrian clamped a hand over the wound, then looked up, a smile still plastered on his face. They stood a few yards apart. The Wolfy was breathing hard, his skin shiny and pale.