Stormbringer dreamwalker.., p.24
Stormbringer (Dreamwalker Book 1), page 24
Morys unsheathed the object he carried, laying it flat across his palms. I stared blankly at it, not comprehending what I was seeing. I recognized the menacing glint of a blade, the winged cross guard, and the hilt terminating in a diamond-shaped pommel, but I could not for the life of me reconcile this weapon with Morys’s intent.
“A sword?” I blurted stupidly.
“Not just any sword,” said Morys. “A rare masterpiece—one gifted to me by a man more powerful than I. A man who shares your power, in fact.” His fingers traced a rope-like shape curled around the grip and cross guard. “Its name is Bloodfang. It will help you adjust to your new magic.”
“Adjust how?” I asked. My mouth was dry; the words came out raspy.
“Let’s call it…a symbiotic relationship.” Morys nodded, satisfied, then passed the sword’s ornate sheath to Millan.
“Are you sure about this?” Millan inquired of his grandmaster. He seemed unable to take his eyes off the sword. “I don’t think Serai wanted—”
“Millan.” Morys glanced sharply at him. “Be quiet.”
Millan’s unease was infectious. I shifted in my restraints, every muscle in my body protesting. My heart was pounding. “Is this it, then?” I said. “I spend the rest of my life chained up in your basement?”
Morys sneered, amusement warring with impatience. “You’re too valuable to let loose, Nikkeah,” he replied, gesturing the third Bloodcaster forward. “You may not like it, but it’s the truth. With that said, this doesn’t have to be a permanent arrangement. In time, we will give you all the freedom and luxuries you desire—but only if you cooperate with us.”
The unknown Bloodcaster came to stand behind me. With one arm, he held me in place; with the other, he drew my shirt up to my ribs. The feel of his hands on me—coarse and hot—made me sick to my stomach. I squirmed, tugging hard on the chains. Static coalesced around my hands, trapped uselessly in the mitts above my head.
But the more I struggled, the more the Bloodcasters retaliated. Their magic threatened to pull me back under. My legs couldn’t hold me, and so my arms took my weight. My head lolled heavily on my shoulders.
And then I felt the cold point of the sword against my skin.
I opened my eyes, vision swimming, and watched as the blade buried itself, inch by excruciating inch, into the Dreamblight. There was no abrupt thrust—only the slow, agonizing violation of damaged flesh as it yielded to cold, merciless steel. I hated that I cried out. Hated that I thrashed in pain. The Bloodcaster behind me closed his arms tightly around my middle, holding me stock-still until the blade halted. Blood—no, a substance darker and thicker than blood—crept down the length of the sword.
Morys’s expression was rapt. He exhaled a controlled breath and then commanded, “Bloodfang.”
Smothering cold snap froze the flesh around the sword buried inside of me. It coursed through my body in an avalanche, locking up my muscles, freezing the breath in my lungs. I clenched my eyes shut as my nerves flared with sensations my mind couldn’t process. Before long, I couldn’t move at all—I could only dangle in my restraints as a supercell of power overloaded my nervous system.
Voices rose urgently in the room, but I couldn’t pick out the words over the rush in my ears. A great, numbing fog permeated my body. Dimly, I was aware I was panting, as if I’d abruptly forgotten how to breathe, and yet I couldn’t control my own respiration. The realization tripped my pulse and plunged me into panic.
My reserves flooded with power. Lightning crackled to life in my veins. Morys and the others retreated far across the room as the pressure rapidly dropped around them. I would’ve laughed at their terrified expressions had I not been so fearful myself.
But I didn’t have to dwell on it for long. Blackness overtook the blood-red room and, with it, a single whispered command.
Out.
23
NOBLE BONES
I woke with a start and a ragged breath, my lungs tickling as though laden with dust.
The pain hit me only moments later. I all but whimpered as I unfolded myself from my rigid position in bed. No—not bed. An armchair. I was sprawled in an armchair, hugging myself for warmth, my knees hooked over an armrest so that my feet dangled over the floor. Gingerly, I pulled myself upright and promptly bowed my aching head over my knees, waiting for a wave of vertigo to pass.
The room in which I found myself was suffocatingly dark and reeked of rot and mildewed wood. With my heart pawing nervously at my ribs, I conjured a luminous ball of violet lightning, bright enough to illuminate my surroundings. Scattered around my feet were a dozen books, their spines falling apart, their pages stained and wrinkled. Sturdy bookshelves enclosed the room like fortress walls. My armchair was one of a twin set situated before a cold and empty fireplace.
Nothing about this room was familiar to me. An office? A home library? I couldn’t tell, nor could I recall how I’d gotten here in the first place. I cast my light into every shadowy corner to ensure I was alone and then assessed myself. My body felt depleted, siphoned of all strength. I was still wearing the white cotton garments Bloodthorn Coven had dressed me in, but they were stained with all manner of troubling substances. I lifted up my shirt to inspect the Dreamblight and discovered, much to my dismay, that it was now as large as my entire hand. A raw-looking wound bisected it; this must have been Bloodfang’s bite. It did not appear to be openly bleeding, but it glistened beneath the tinted light of my magic. I gently prodded the outer edges of the wound and snapped my head back in pain, groaning. Either Bloodfang had a nasty bite, or this wound was infected.
I swallowed down my rising despair. One thing at a time, I assured myself. First, I had to figure out where I was. My best guess? Another room in Scarlet Sofia, although this one didn’t appear to match the existing style. I knelt on the floor and examined the books, hoping their titles would jog my memory. Magic. History. Even a few journals lay at my feet. But none of them gave me the clues I required.
Shivering from cold and nerves alike, I proceeded to the door and was both relieved and astonished to find it unlocked. The hall beyond was just as dark. I paused on the threshold, listening hard, peering up and down at the other doors. Dead silence.
Buckled and debris-laden floors forced me to advance slowly lest I puncture my bare feet on rusty nails. Adjacent to the library were five bedrooms, each stripped of most furniture, as well as a small and ancient bathroom that reeked of sewer and rot. Thwarted by the stench, I crept my way to the staircase.
It dawned on me then: This wasn’t Scarlet Sofia. I had awoken on the top floor of an old, dilapidated house, a relic of past decades, judging by the architectural style and historic floor plan. The size of it brought to mind a manse or small estate owned by some minor family. I was more baffled than ever as I slowly descended the stairs to the main floor. Peeling wallpaper, busted floorboards, and scampering rats greeted me at the landing, which dumped me off a few paces from the front door. My ball of lightning cut through the darkness, illuminating cobwebs, animal droppings, and suspicious stains across the ceiling and floor.
I held my breath as I peered into the remaining rooms: the formal dining room, parlor, and kitchen. The surviving furniture was either broken, rotted, or too heavy to move by practical means. Rubble littered the floors atop a thick layer of dust.
I ignored the sound of rustling as I crossed the parlor to the doors leading into the backyard, which rested beneath a starless night sky. There was ample space out here, even if all that was left was barren earth, a large woodshed, and a half-shattered gazebo. I stepped out into the middle of the yard and faced the house, pointing my light at its weathered stone body and crumbling spires. After several moments of blank staring, I registered the massive slabs of rock protruding out from the house’s attic space, as well as the cavernous structure shielding the whole of the property.
The Burial Pit. I had woken up in the Burial Pit.
That wasn’t the sky above me; it was collapsed rock and clay and earth. Somehow, I had escaped Scarlet Sofia and materialized in the city’s underbelly. An icy fist of alarm socked me square in the solar plexus. I had no memory of arriving here. Had someone come to my rescue? Whisked me away to some obscure sanctuary in the Pit? As far as I could tell, I was alone. There were no signs of habitation inside the house—no boot prints in the dust, no supplies, no fires burning for warmth. If someone had relocated me here, they had abandoned me entirely.
It didn’t make sense. Had I brought myself here, then? Tumbled into the Echoes after Morys cut me open? That seemed more likely, although I couldn’t recall opening any rifts, nor could I puzzle out how I’d broken free from my restraints. My wrists and ankles still bore the bruises from my imprisonment, however.
I circled to the front of the house, where a crumpled cobblestone path stretched out into the darkness of the Pit. If there was ever any vegetation planted out here, it had long since rotted away. All that was left were a few decorative elements, such as a dry fountain and a tarnished statue of the goddess Cygnus. Nothing here offered me any further clues.
Unease shivered up my spine. I felt clammy with shock or illness. My awareness returned to the open wound in my side. I didn’t have the means to attend to it myself. I couldn’t even determine where in the Pit I had ended up. If I started walking, would I soon recognize my surroundings? Where would I even go?
Vision was the obvious first choice, assuming they weren’t lying about their whereabouts. I had no idea where to begin my search for them, however, and I wasn’t sure I could stay on my feet long enough to scour the whole of the Pit. No. I could find Vision later, once I sought help for my wounds.
And I knew exactly where to find it: the old cathedral of Cygnus.
I turned to survey the house behind me, committing its image and location to memory. Something had lured me to this place, and I was determined to find out what. When I was satisfied, I set out onto the cobblestone path into the cool, damp darkness of the Pit with only my lantern of lightning to guide me. Each step was agony. My feet were bruised, my muscles weak; I hadn’t eaten anything of substance since I’d last seen Olivia, and dehydration had turned my head to cotton.
Olivia. I felt a pang of guilt at the thought of her trapped within Scarlet Sofia. Had Morys punished her for attempting to help me? I hoped not. Morys had used her as bait, after all. Maybe that was enough to spare her from imprisonment.
I was forced to stop and rest multiple times on my journey through the dark. The path was taxing, twisting up inclines and through passages narrow enough to admit a single body at a time. All the while I trekked, I studied my surroundings, noting various landmarks so that I could remember my way back to the old manse.
Roughly half an hour had passed when, at last, I glimpsed the first signs of habitation ahead of me. Torches and lanterns served as beacons for travelers heading to the Strip, the heart of the Burial Pit. I dismissed my ball of lightning and plodded along through the tunnels, one hand braced on the wall, the other gently cradling my injured side. Every now and then, a passerby crept wordlessly past, pausing to regard me warily. I could only imagine how I must’ve looked to these people: bloodstained, trembling, on the verge of collapsing. I doubted anyone would recognize me in this condition, but I was paranoid all the same.
General commotion heralded my arrival to the Strip. Music from half a dozen different sources—nightclubs, portable stereos, street performers—enlivened the dismal atmosphere of the Pit alongside bright swatches of light and color. Bodies swarmed the open streets, workers and revelers alike, their voices raised in challenge and cheer.
I hadn’t set foot in the Pit in seven years. I had forsaken it in favor of grander dreams and familiar luxuries. My heart had been torn asunder here, my mettle tested beyond its limits. Whatever I had cultivated here had long since withered away.
And so I stumbled through the streets, a foreigner—an impostor—in a place I had once dared to call home. I clung to the shadows, weaving my way through back alleys and tight passages while my blackened feet walked the familiar path to the old cathedral. Heads of idling denizens swiveled to track my slow progress. Several of them offered aid that I nervously refused. Whispered speculations trailed after me: Was I a murderer? A victim of assault? Best not to know.
The streets grew quieter the farther I got from the Strip. I took a breather on a flat boulder and inspected my wound again. It had reopened over the course of my journey and now oozed congealed blood. I swabbed my face with my sleeve; I’d been sweating despite the chills that wracked my body. Almost there. I was almost there.
Up I went, muscles aching, bones creaking. One foot in front of the other. I’d endured everything else. I could endure this, too. Morys, Reva, Millan—I would tear them apart. Topple their stronghold. Carve my name into their bones.
It was those thoughts of vengeance that saw me the rest of the way to the old cathedral. At the sight of its imposing, half-buried body, I let out a strangled cry, part relief, part joy, part sorrow. DO NO HARM, read the sign out front, freshly painted on a board of plywood. I was here. I was safe.
The heavy doors were ajar, enough for me to slip through. I swayed as I entered, my swimming vision turning the nave’s bounty of candles into a kaleidoscope of light. I dropped heavily to my knees on the marble floor and squeezed my eyes shut. Familiar scents rose up to greet me, incense and candle smoke and aged wood, and for a dizzying moment, I was eighteen again, returning to the cathedral after a hard day’s work in the Fire Pit.
Urgent voices drew me back to the present. A small cluster of worshipers had noticed my arrival and came rushing to my side. “Cygnus have mercy,” a middle-aged woman remarked. “What happened? Are you injured?”
“Rita,” I managed to say. “Is Rita here? Charlie?”
“Come with us,” said another. “Can you walk?”
Propped up between two women, I was escorted across the nave and into a room on the right side of the cathedral. Whatever purpose it had served in life, it had been repurposed into an infirmary, a healing space for convalescents. Cots, mattresses, cushions, and various other comforts had been installed here, along with an impressive collection of medical supplies.
I was carefully lowered onto one of these cots, after which several figures bustled around me, preparing lamps and blankets and clean water. My awareness of them dimmed in and out of focus. Fingers palpated gently across my body, testing problem spots; I kept my hand locked over my wounded side, unwilling to reveal the blight to strangers.
“High fever,” someone murmured. “A lot of bruising.”
“Fetch me a cloth and a bucket.”
“Did someone send for Rita?”
“What do you suppose happened?”
The splash of warm water against my battered feet snapped me back to my senses. Someone was trying to wash the dirt off of them. How long had it been since my last shower? I had no way of knowing, but judging by my oily, irritated scalp, it had been at least a few days. I reassured myself with promises of long, fragrant baths and forced myself to relax.
“Pardon us,” another woman said near my ear, and I felt someone’s fingers close around my left wrist, trying to pry it away from my wounded side.
“No,” I choked out, tugging my hand back. “Don’t. Don’t look.”
“Oh, blessed Cygnus.” A voice, honeyed with maternal affection, eased into my awareness. “Nikkeah?”
Her presence itself was a salve, soft and unobtrusive. Rita Pasco-Adriano hovered at the edge of my cot, crowned by a gossamer of pastel purple hair, her expression warm with recognition and sympathy.
“Nikkeah,” she whispered again, stooping over me. “Dear, what’s happened to you?” One papery hand came to rest upon my forehead.
“Is Charlie here?” I asked, searching her eyes. “I need to talk to you two…alone.”
Rita regarded the helpers who had clustered around my cot. They dispersed wordlessly, including the one who had been washing my feet. One young man volunteered to fetch Charlie and hurried out of the room. The moment the others were out of earshot, Rita pulled up a folding chair and looked me over.
“We heard the news about Spectrum several days ago,” she murmured, examining the IV puncture scars on my hands and elbows. “When I heard your name…oh, I was so worried.”
I felt on the verge of tears. “Rita, I never intended for that to happen. I swear. Whatever they’re saying about me, it’s not true.”
“Shh,” she hushed me, continuing her inspection. “It’s all right. I promise it’s all right. Just relax.”
“Mum?” Charlie advanced cautiously into the infirmary as if expecting danger. He crossed the room in five long strides and halted beside her, his gaze locking onto my face. A glint of recognition in his eyes and then: “Oh, my gods. Nikkeah?”
“I’m so glad to see you two,” I said weakly. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
Rita stroked my hair; I grimaced on her behalf, knowing how grimy it was. “You came to the right place. Can you tell us what happened?”
“Yes,” I said, “but may I ask a favor first?”
“Of course.”
“I need to borrow a phone.”
24
SANCTUARY
A major downside of living in the Pit was that cell service was practically nonexistent except in select areas near the surface. Anyone wishing to make a call or send a text had to seek out one of these access points and hope for a strong enough connection.
So when I requested a phone and help reaching one of these access points, Rita shook her head and gently chastised me. “Your condition is too fragile,” she said. “Charlie will make the call for you.”
I couldn’t argue with her, so I sent Charlie off with Micah’s phone number and a message and waited nervously for his return while Rita attended to me. She first examined my wounded side, her eyes widening at the mess of pus and Dreamblight; after delicate cleaning, she helped me out of my soiled clothes and replaced them with fresh ones. A resident Bloodcaster was summoned to attend to my open wounds and assess the older punctures. Though she was clearly bursting with questions, she inquired only about the nature of the injuries rather than the events that had led to them, likely at Rita’s silent instruction.
