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

  “You don't fall in love?” she supplied, though love was such a strong word, and what they had was like a thimble in comparison, a small seed struggling to grow in the dirt.

  “We're not supposed to,” Crash relented. “And anyway...I don't know how.”

  Sora looked at him for another long moment, then back out to sea, licking her dry lips. She thought about his words, puzzling over them, trying to find something tactful to say. “I don't think anyone really knows how to love,” she finally offered.

  “Let's stop calling it that,” he said quietly.

  “All right...but you know what I mean.”

  He shook his head slowly. “You don't understand. I can't be that person for you.”

  “You shouldn't care what others think....”

  “I would hurt you, Sora.” He finally met her eyes, hard and solemn. “Whatever this is...it can't happen.”

  She didn't know what to say to that. How could he be so logical? So certain? All of his excuses seemed small in the face of what they had been through. Didn't he trust her by now?

  She squeezed his hand, letting him know that she understood, though it was a lie. Truly, she didn't understand anything. Her throat closed. This is much harder than I expected.

  Then her eyes landed on his lips. Memories surged. Perhaps she went mad for a moment—lost her wits. Suddenly she couldn't stop staring at his mouth. So close. Why not? He had already rejected her—what did she have to lose? One last time.

  She went up on her toes and pressed her lips against the top of his scar, at the ridge of his jaw. Her heart pounded. She felt dizzy with courage.

  Crash went still. His entire body turned rigid under her touch. Then he abruptly released her hand.

  He grabbed her face and turned her head, crushing his mouth down on hers. She gasped against him, surprised. Butterflies flooded her stomach.

  His kiss was full of pent-up yearning, unspoken need. He stroked her lips, easily tilting her head back. His tongue entered her open mouth, soft and teasing. She responded clumsily, attempting to follow his lead. He squeezed her jaw in response. Her knees weakened. Her cheeks flushed. She leaned into him more, pressing against his shoulder, gripping his arms, unwilling to let go.

  He watched her the entire time, his eyes on her face, gauging her reaction. She shuddered from the intensity of it. They were so close; he held her in the palm of his hand. He could tighten his fist, and she would break in his hold. Please tighten, she thought, pressing close. Please don't let go.

  Then, abruptly, he stopped.

  Sora gasped, bereft. Her lips felt stung. He released her gently and stepped back, still watching her impassively, his eyes filled with a strange darkness, a brutal hunger that she didn't understand.

  “I can't,” he repeated hoarsely, his throat full of rocks. Then he turned and walked away.

  She watched him go. A small part of her trailed after him, having abandoned her body. She held out her hand to call him back, but the words wouldn't come. How did one argue with an assassin? How could she fix this, when she didn't even know what she wanted?

  She dropped her hand, leaning back on the railing, trying to regain herself. He had a point. She knew he was dangerous. There was a certain darkness in him that scared her—she had seen it plenty of times. He had kidnapped her, held her hostage, forced her through a treacherous swamp, dragged her into this entire situation. If she had a lick of sense, she would take his advice and forget about everything.

  And yet...he had protected her, saved her life, proven to be far more gentle than he believed possible.

  She turned back to the ocean, twisting her fingers together. In the light of a new day, there was a silent expectation, as though the sun's illumination would make all things known. And yet she was just as troubled as the night before. Nothing made sense.

  Her gaze traveled to the distance. Somewhere far away, the City of Crowns awaited, and the mysterious, ominous Shade. How were they supposed to track down such an organization? And where was the third weapon of the Dark God? The assassins had The Book of the Named—perhaps they already had the third weapon, as well. This next leg of her journey felt even more intimidating than the last. She simply did not know what to expect.

  Sora sighed. The sun pierced the horizon, mounting the distant waves, spilling across the ocean. She needed to rest and recover—not waste her energy worrying about Crash. There would be time for that later.

  She turned her back to the sun and headed toward her cabin, burdened with doubt. The gray water slowly lightened with the sky.

  ...so what's next?

  Caprion's Wings

  A novelette.

  Release Date: January 31st, 2014

  By the age of nineteen, all Harpies know how to fly—except Caprion. He has yet pass the test of the Singing and gain his wings. His family has disowned him in shame and people are beginning to talk. Now an evil voice haunts his dreams, taunting him, drawing out his worst fears—that he will remain wingless forever.

  Caprion decides to find the root of this insidious voice, no matter what it takes. He journeys to the secret prisons of the Harpy underground, where he meets a young slave named Moss. In those sunless, decrepit cells, a forbidden friendship is formed. Can Caprion and Moss find the source of the voice? And can Caprion save Moss from a terrible fate?

  Join young Caprion as he journeys down, down into the earth, finding his wings and forging a friendship that will change him forever.

  CHAPTER 1

  In the dream, he always stood in the same place—Fury Rock at the far end of the Isles, gazing out into the distance, counting the brilliant stars. They seemed impossibly close, bright white orbs as tangible as lanterns, hanging inches above his head, moments away from his hands. One by one, the stars would detach themselves from the net of sky and dance around him softly, silently. Then they would slide apart, opening like a great curtain.

  And there—billowing across an ocean of darkness like giant sails—would be his wings.

  He would reach for the gentle slope of white feathers, their great lengths like bars of light. He could never quite grasp them. They hovered just out of reach, beckoning him to step from the rock and take what was his. Yet he couldn't. He remained paralyzed, immobile, wary of the darkness beneath his feet. Fury Rock stood at the very edge of the Isles, the top of a cliff that dropped hundreds of feet into the ocean. He couldn't fly yet. How could he leap—how could he claim his wings—if he couldn't fly?

  But on this night, the dream unraveled differently. The wings sailed closer than ever before, pure light solidified into bone and flesh. He reached for them, hands grasping a half-inch away.

  The ground suddenly rocked beneath him, pushing him forward. He gasped, wavering, struggling for balance. But the earth kept quaking, shuddering and lurching, and it seemed a great shadow rose from the ground, seeping through the rock, gathering at his back. He stumbled, tripping into black space. His arms swung, thrown out before him, but there was nothing to stop his fall.

  He plummeted off the rock into darkness, away from the stars and his wings, icy wind rushing past him, freezing his skin. And a voice rose from the abyss: lethal, insipid, oily-slick. Your people are dying....

  * * *

  Caprion awakened in a cold sweat, his pale white hair damp against his face. He sat up in his bunk and turned his fierce violet eyes toward the window, taking comfort in the light of the sun, the One Star, the God of Light that shone upon the world, giving life to all things. He closed his eyes momentarily, breathing out a prayer, dispelling the darkness that still lingered in his mind. We do not dwell on these things, he heard the Madrigal's voice say. We do not acknowledge them with our thoughts, nor our words. The voice, after all, was the source of magic. It must remain pure.

  “Caprion!” he heard from the window. Something struck the thin wall of his hut—a rock, perhaps. “Caprion, wake up!”

  “I'm awake,” he muttered, passing a hand over his face. He felt drained, exha
usted despite a full night's rest.

  “You're going to be late! It's past the greeting hour! They've called your name twice now!”

  A jolt of panic shot through him. Flight! He slept late! He leapt to his feet and pulled a white silken robe around his lean, tall form. It hung just below his knees, slightly too small for him. The novice robes were made of smooth material, soft against his skin, weightless. Gold thread embroidered the neckline and wide cuffs. Caprion slipped on his leather sandals, fastening them around his ankles, then he ran from the circular limestone hut.

  He lived in the worker's district, a part of the city reserved for laborers and novices who had yet to gain their wings. The buildings were small, circular and domed, made of chalky white limestone. The surface of the stone was easily carved. Generations upon generations had decorated each of the houses, etching artistic patterns and symbols across their facades, or scrawled blessings and poems. Some of the huts had been built before the War of the Races, when the great island of Aerobourne had flown through the sky, hovering across the mainland, the pinnacle of Harpy civilization.

  Now the great floating island lay in a series of isles, scattered across the ocean, a cracked shard of its former self. The city of Asterion, once the capital of Harpy society, had grown old. Flagstone paths had fallen to disrepair, cracked and split by weeds, tree roots and wildflowers. Untamed foliage crawled down alleyways, up windowsills and across the road.

  Caprion dashed down the pathway outside his hut. He followed it over a slight hill and through a small patch of forest that separated the novice district from the main city. A second figure joined him—Esta, his laughing younger sister, who matched his pace easily, her feet barely touching the ground. She was only thirteen, but she had gained her wings three months ago in the early Spring. They gleamed at her back, two small figments of light, each about three feet in length and a foot wide. Small wings, those of a seamstress, horticulturist or tutor. She currently worked with the younger Harpies at the Academy, teaching them to sing.

  “Sleepy head!” she teased. “It's like you don't even want to fly!”

  “Quiet, little bird,” he grunted between breaths.

  She stuck her tongue out at him, still laughing. Her long hair was the color of pearl, shining in the wind, falling almost to her waist. She had decorated it with bluebells in honor of his Singing—the only one who had bothered to attend.

  “If I hadn't come to find you, you would have missed the entire Singing!” she said heartily.

  “I was awake,” Caprion grumbled.

  Like their older brother Sumas, Esta had gained her wings at a young age. She found her star on her first attempt at the Singing—a small, yellow orb of variable light that flickered and flared in the pre-dawn sky. After finding her star, the light of its magic had transferred into her body, manifesting as wings, figments of energy that sprouted from her back. She could now practice true Light magic, not just simple singing spells.

  Caprion tried not to feel a bubble of jealousy at the thought. He was nineteen; five times he had searched for his star in the Singing Chamber, and had yet to find it. He was getting older now. People were beginning to talk. Perhaps he is not pure enough, some whispered. The God of Light has shunned him. He will remain wingless. Wingless, meaning one without a star, without the ability to fly. It was a terrible thing to fail at the Singing. Those without wings were excluded from many parts of the city, which could only be reached by flight. They often worked at night while the city slept, cleaning the streets, mending buildings or serving the more prominent families. It was a life-sentence, shameful and uncompromising.

  This would be his sixth attempt in the Singing Chamber—if he could make it on time. He could already hear the Madrigal's voice in his head. The stars are ever moving, fledgling... the sky is different now than it was an hour ago. Your lateness may have cost you another year.

  Depending on a Harpy's hour of birth, the Madrigal could predict where his star would be, what time of day he would find it, what season, what hemisphere of sky...but five times now, the Madrigal had predicted, and his star had not shone. It left a hollow feeling at the base of his throat. Perhaps his Song was not strong enough, his voice did not carry across the vast emptiness of the heavens, and could not reach his star...or perhaps...perhaps the rumors were right. Perhaps he did not have one.

  No, he couldn't think such disturbing thoughts, not before his Singing.

  He entered the main streets of the city. Asterion had once been a grand spectacle of ornate architecture, and it still showed. All of the buildings were carved of gleaming quarts and white limestone, towering domed structures interconnected by bridges and balconies, arches and entryways with hardly any doors. The framework stretched up and up; parts of the city were only accessible to those who could fly.

  The windows were of gleaming crystal. Rainbows refracted from their depths, some strong enough to fall across the street, as bright as woven banners. Ancient mosaics and statues decorated the walls and archways, symbols of stars, moons, and patterns that mimicked the ocean and wind.

  Yet the wilderness had crept up over the years. Trees sprouted between the flagstones, small saplings bearing fruit or berries. Vines crawled up the sides of balconies, cascading into the street. Grass and weeds abounded, filling flower pots, framing tall columns and porch steps.

  A few familiar faces called out to him. Serrit, the baker, an elderly man with broad, stout wings. Tulius, a young soldier who patrolled the streets, his wings broader than most, spanning almost twelve feet. Caprion waved to them but kept running. His brother Sumas was a soldier—his wings had been large enough, a sign of his magic, of the strength of his star. He was the pride of their family, both the eldest and the strongest.

  Caprion was relieved he didn't see his brother on the streets. The last thing he needed now was a lecture.

  Finally, finally Caprion turned off the main street onto the Road of Remnants. Statues of ancient warriors and diplomats lined the thoroughfare, some in fierce armor with swords in hand, others in great robes that carried parchments and books. He passed the statues quickly, having seen them countless times. The city fell back behind him. The road would lead him up a great hill, to its peak where the Singing Chamber resided.

  Esta fell back, calling out her good wishes. She would have to wait at the border of the city for his return. Her own wings could offset his voice, create distortion, making it impossible for him to reach his star.

  The Chamber had existed long before the city of Asterion ever came to be. A great wealth of sunstone formed a giant bowl, carved deep out of the center of a hill, magnifying all sound and light. Once inside the Chamber, a Harpy's voice could be cast far above the world, through the sky, into the realms beyond. In this way, a Harpy could find his wings.

  Gasping and panting, he finally reached the peak of the hill. The gates of the Chamber stood before him, tall iron structures twisted into intricate patterns. He paused at the gates, leaning over, trying to regain his breath. Harpy cities were large and sprawled, with wide alleys and massive roads. It was much easier to fly from one destination to another. Unlucky for him, he had to travel on foot.

  When he looked back up, the blue robe of the Madrigal greeted him. Caprion bowed his head again, both to catch his breath and show respect. His face flushed. He was almost two hours late—he wouldn't be surprised if the Madrigal told him to go home.

  “Rise,” the man said briefly.

  Caprion straightened, wishing he had a minute more to rest. The Madrigal was very tall, very thin. His hair was long and billowing, pure white, and his face showed lines around the mouth, sun damage and creases. His skin had a slight glow about it, a sheen hardly visible to the eyes. As Harpies aged, they eventually dissolved into light—the glow was a great indicator of his years. Madrigals lived longer than most. Some said that he was a thousand years or older. He had lived since before the War of the Races—before their current Matriarch even came to power.

  ?
??I'm sorry-” Caprion started.

  “No time to speak, my boy,” the Madrigal said. “We shall discuss it when you are done. The hour has grown late. You must sing before the sky changes further. Have you prepared your Song?”

  Caprion nodded. Last year, the Madrigal suggested he practice a new Song, since his original one was not working. It had been a huge embarrassment. His mother hadn't spoken to him for weeks, muttering always to herself, “I taught him to sing well. He knows how to use his voice. What is wrong with my boy?” She had prayed to the One Star over and over again. Finally Caprion had left the house, moving into the novice district where the orphans and laborers resided. He couldn't stand to hear her pray anymore. He couldn't even look at her face.

  He entered the outer halls of the Singing Chamber. Unlike the rest of the city, the hall around the chamber was built of thick granite. The rock was dense and heavy to help magnify the sound. Usually the halls were full of fledgling novices and apprentice singers, practicing their Songs, learning about the sacred bond between Harpy and star. But this morning the halls were silent, eerily so.

  Caprion sighed. Most likely the Madrigal had requested it. Probably to help him concentrate, but it only reminded him that he was different—close to becoming an outcast. All of his friends had gained their wings and moved on to other pursuits, becoming soldiers, medics, song-casters and architects. Some were already expecting their firstborn children. A Harpy's life was long, but only if one found their wings. Otherwise, he'd be lucky to last a few decades. His days of childhood were almost over. Then it would be too late.

  The Madrigal led him without ceremony to the very end of the hall, where a tall statue of the God of Light stood. The statue was carved of white marble and very large, more than fifteen feet. The God of Light's face was beautifully masculine, tilted upward toward the sky. In one hand, he held a long scepter, the symbol of a sun perched at its top, raised slightly above his head. In the other, he held a long stone sword.