by T. A. White
"You can't survive out here without us," Christopher said, his eyes closed, his face tilted to the sun.
Tate didn't respond as she considered the wagon. She didn't remember seeing any water containers, but she hadn't been looking either.
"There's nothing in there," Christopher said, guessing her thoughts. He still hadn’t opened his eyes. "I had a feeling you'd wake up and be a touch upset, so I planned accordingly."
Tate glanced sideways at him in thought.
The smile he aimed at her was gleeful and victorious. "The drugs would have dehydrated you. You're going to need water soon and for that you'll need the two of us alive."
He could be lying. Even if he wasn't, all she had to do was wait for Ilith to wake, then fly out of here as a dragon. Only problem was Ilith’s attempts to fly were only successful three out of five times. Did she really want to risk perishing from dehydration? It wasn’t the most pleasant way to go.
Tate inhaled before letting her breath out, the sound weary and resigned.
Christopher grinned in anticipation of having won this round.
"Try anything—either of you—and I'll kill you," she said, pointing the device at him again. "I'll take my chances with dying of thirst."
"Whatever you say, boss."
Tate grimaced. She was going to regret this. Sooner rather than later, if past experience had taught her anything.
CHAPTER EIGHT
To Tate's disappointment, she found Christopher had been telling the truth. A thorough search of the wagon turned up no food or water. In the end, it was probably wise she hadn't killed him, regret it though she might further down the road.
She left Christopher tied up in the back with some rope she'd found under one of the benches. The other man she forced up front to drive, taking a seat just behind him.
Tate ignored Christopher as he hummed softly to himself. Instead she directed her attention to the scenery rolling by outside. What she saw didn't fill her with confidence about her chances of escaping this situation alive.
Despite its stark monotony, she found the vista oddly soothing. The land was painted with every shade of red, yellow and brown imaginable. Exposed bedrock from where harsh winds had stripped away the softer layers of dirt stabbed up from the ground, creating twisting formations carved by the elements over time.
In the far distance, brown and red mountains pierced the sky, preceded by sandstone cliffs that snaked their way across the arid surface. There was little evidence of formal roads, the driver picking his way over compressed ground as they bumped and jolted along.
There was little breeze and even when it blew, it was more uncomfortable than not. No hint of coolness lingered in its dry embrace. Tate felt like she was being abraded continuously by sand. Comfort was a distant memory.
Worse, was the knowledge she'd strayed perilously close to severe dehydration. She'd been keeping track and she thought she'd stopped sweating at some point in the last hour. Her temples pounded behind her eyes, a headache making it hard to focus. Neither symptom was a good sign.
"What's your name?" Tate asked the driver abruptly. She needed a distraction from how thirsty and hungry she was.
His hands clenched on the reins as his shoulders stiffened. For a long moment, he didn't answer.
"Peter."
"You're Silva." She should have realized it sooner. Maybe she would have if she hadn't been so distracted by her discomfort and keeping an eye on Christopher so he didn't escape.
All the proof she needed was there—his muscular frame, the amber eyes, the chestnut brown hair with lighter shades of caramel threaded throughout.
Tate glanced at his hands. They were oddly shaped. It took several seconds for her to realize what she was seeing. Each finger was shorter than it should have been and lacked the fingernails or claws all Silva had. There was also significant scaring around the nubs at the tip.
Someone had de-clawed him at some point, amputating the tip of the finger at the first joint. An awful practice Tate thought had been abandoned over a century ago in most parts of the Aurelian empire.
It explained why he hadn't ripped her to pieces when he’d had the chance.
Peter ducked his head in acknowledgment, his hands tense as he kept his gaze resolutely forward.
"You know he killed his last partner," Tate said conversationally.
Peter's head turned toward her slightly.
Christopher blew a raspberry. "Oh please, you don't care that I killed the archaeologist. Elijah was a self-serving bastard whose hands weren't exactly spotless, if you remember correctly."
"Maybe so, but I'm not the one who used him and then left him with a knife sticking out of his back."
"It was actually the side of his neck," Christopher muttered.
"Wasn't the Red Lady also a partner of yours?" Tate said idly. "She's dead too."
"I'm not the one who killed her. You and your dragon were responsible for that, if you recall," he said in a cheery voice.
"You certainly didn't stick around too long after things went sideways," Tate observed.
"She was a sadistic monster with delusions of grandeur. Her end was better than she deserved."
"And yet you're the one who chose to work with her."
Christopher snorted. "When you're fighting gods, you can't always be picky about the tools you use."
"Was that all they were to you?" Tate asked. "Tools?"
"What else would they be? Sometimes you need a monster to fight a monster." Christopher's eyes were dead and blank, no trace of emotional turmoil or regret there.
"And who are the monsters in this scenario?" Tate asked.
Christopher went back to his humming. Guess he was done with the conversation. Pity.
Tate returned to staring out the wagon. Ryu and the rest would have been worried when they discovered her missing. She needed to find a way to link back up with them. Easier said than done.
She had no idea where she was or how to get back to Auburn. She suspected from descriptions Roslyn had given her, that she was somewhere in the Catsinth desert, but she might be wrong. There was no way to tell if she was even in Silvain anymore. The only thing she knew for certain was she was on her own. No one was coming for her.
Their task from the Emperor was important, and Ryu was nothing if not mission oriented. He might spare a day, maybe two, to search for Tate before being forced to resume the mediation.
That was the sole bright spot in all this. If the Morain had intended to delay talks, they had failed. Between Roslyn and Ryu, they should have the mediation handled. Both had more diplomacy in their little finger than she did in her whole body. This meant she could concentrate on surviving without having to worry about what was happening in her absence.
Dewdrop and Night were the only unknowns. They’d likely remain behind to continue the search. The two were loyal to a fault. Neither one would abandon the trail while there was still hope. Jost might be of some help, but he wouldn’t stray far from his ship in the event Ryu needed to stage a quick retreat.
It didn't sit easy knowing Dewdrop and Night would be largely on their own in the same city as those who'd kidnapped her. At least they had each other to count on. If anyone could survive in a strange city full of enemies, it would be those two.
Another hour passed before the wagon rocked to a stop, startling her out of her thoughts.
"Why'd we stop?" Tate asked as Peter looped the reins and tied them to a knob on the front.
"Water," he grunted.
Tate's movements were slow. Her body ached and protested as she climbed down after him. Her feet hit the ground and she swayed, dizzy and slightly nauseous. She clung to the wagon's side as she blinked away the black spots trying to take over her vision.
"What about me?" Christopher called.
Tate ignored him in favor of trudging after Peter.
They'd stopped next to one of the twisting rock formations. This one wasn’t as big as some of the giants in the distance
, but still dwarfed Tate and Peter. Two rocks rose in front of her, creating a small chasm to slip through.
Tate reached for Ilith's warm presence, flinching when nothing but cold silence echoed back at her. She felt weaker without the dragon. Except for the brief instant she'd drawn on Ilith’s power when questioning Christopher, the place where Ilith resided in her soul felt dark and silent—not necessarily empty, but not as occupied as it normally was.
It was disconcerting, being so alone in her own head.
She lifted her arm, touching the spot were Ilith still sprawled, her snout nestled in the crook of Tate's elbow, her paws outstretched and her tail wrapped around Tate's wrist. It was the fourth time she'd checked on the dragon since waking. Just like every time before, there was no response.
The dragon appeared to be sleeping, the deep blue of Ilith’s scales shimmering with a strange inner light. When Tate had first become aware of Ilith, the tattoo had been flat, two dimensional and slightly faded. Lately, Ilith had become more three dimensional, even while in tattoo form
Tate looked up just as Peter disappeared into the small chasm. She hurried after him, alarm wiping some of the exhaustion from her thoughts.
"Peter," she called. She angled away from either rock, moving forward carefully as she braced for an attack. She stepped through the entrance to find Peter kneeling next to a small pool bubbling up from the ground.
"What's this?" she asked, relaxing slightly.
The other man dipped one hand into the pool and lifted it, letting the liquid run through his fingers. "Water."
"I can see that. How are we supposed to take it with us?" Tate didn't see anything to carry the liquid in. There were no jugs or bags lying near the pool. There hadn't been any on the wagon either.
"We don't," Christopher said from behind her.
Tate whirled, her body sliding into a defensive crouch.
Christopher ignored her as he walked past. The skin around his wrists was raw and red from the rope with spots of blood smeared on his arms and hands from the broken skin.
Tate watched as he sauntered toward the watering hole, sinking to his knees gracefully while giving no indication of the pain or stiffness he must feel from spending hours tied up in the back of an uncomfortable wagon.
"The whole point of not having water is to make it impossible for you to kill us." He cupped his hand and dipped it in the liquid before bringing it to his mouth. There was a slurping sound as he drank. "You're going to have to keep playing nice if you want to reach the next watering hole."
"That's your plan? Keep me hostage through water scarcity?"
Christopher didn't answer, sucking down several more handfuls.
"How did you get loose?"
Christopher dipped a handkerchief in the water before wringing it out and using it to wipe down his neck and face, his expression one of pure relief. "I can't go revealing all my secrets."
Tate glared as the two men continued to take turns drinking and wiping some of the dirt and sand from their skin, neither seeming particularly interested in her or the threat she presented.
Tate noted Peter's lack of surprise at his partner's escape. Interesting, considering she knew damn good and well the knots had been tied properly. Time on a ship had taught her many things, among them being how to bind someone so they didn't escape.
"Drink, Tate. You need the hydration. The next stop isn't for several hours," Christopher said, looking at her expectantly.
Tate didn't move.
He shrugged. "Or don't and risk death. Your choice."
Or do and risk the both of them attacking her again.
Tate palmed the device she'd stuck into the waistband of her pants. Neither man reacted.
"That's an option too," Christopher observed.
Tate remained where she was, fiddling with the weapon.
She needed that water. She wasn't sure she'd make it to the next watering hole since it had taken hours to reach this one. Even if by some miracle she reached the next one, there was a good chance she would be delirious or convulsing as her body began to shut down. Either way, she'd be an easy target for Christopher and Peter. It wouldn't be hard to subdue her in those circumstances.
Christopher seemed to read her thoughts because he sighed. "I'm not your enemy." He cocked his head, his forehead creased in thought. "At least not today."
"What does that mean?"
The look he speared her with was piercing, all trace of joviality wiped away. The lightning fast way he could flip from levity to seriousness made it all the more difficult to trust him. "There are more dangerous enemies on the board than a Savior the rest of the world has already forgotten."
Peter started, lifting his head to focus on Tate.
Christopher half-shrugged. "Ah, I forgot to tell you about that. Peter, meet Tatum Allegra Winters, Savior and former lover to Jaxon Kuno."
Tate rolled her eyes. "Don't believe everything he tells you. He's a compulsive liar."
"Only when I need to be." There was a crafty look in his eyes. "I take it you haven't got to that part of the journal then."
Tate fixed him with a glare. "What would you know of that?"
Christopher lifted his shoulders in a nonchalantly careless gesture. "I may have read it a time or two."
Tate kept her silence, unsure how much to believe.
"Ah, and I may have liberated it from your bedstand shortly after you were abducted." He reached beneath his shirt, withdrawing a small leather-bound journal Tate recognized. She didn't move as he tossed it at her feet. "I thought you might want that back."
Tate gritted her teeth, but didn’t pick the journal up.
"I'm surprised you could read it," he said. "Not many can read ancient."
"As you said, I'm a Savior." Tate threw his own words back at him. "Why wouldn't I know the language?"
His teeth flash. "Ah, but you're a defective Savior with zero memory of before. That's a different story altogether."
His words held a note of truth. Most of Tate's personal memories were gone. She got a flash here and there, a feeling of familiarity where there should be none. Usually it happened in the presence of the ancients’ relics at the worst possible time.
However, some things remained. Muscle memory for lack of a better word. She'd always been a decent fighter, picking up and adapting the moves Danny and Jost had taught her as if they were second nature.
When they’d found her, she’d been speaking a language that sounded like gibberish, but was in actuality the same language Jax and his contemporaries had spoken.
Never taking her eyes from the other two, Tate bent and snatched the book from the ground, tapping it on her pant leg to get some of the dirt off before tucking it into the waistband at the small of her back.
She didn't know if she'd ever be able to trust what was inside the journal now that Christopher had spent time with it. She wouldn’t put it past him to have doctored it in some way. That didn’t mean she could leave it in the dirt. She felt some connection to the journal despite everything.
His lips twisted. "As I was saying, I have much bigger things to worry about than you."
"Like what?" Tate would play his game for now. Any knowledge of the bigger plot at hand might help her down the road.
"Like dealing with that pain in the ass you failed to prevent from raising," he said waspishly. "I gave you all you needed to stop that sequence of events, and you still failed. I’m glad I don't have your moral compass. I’d never save anything."
"What do you know of him?" Tate asked, interested in spite of herself.
The man who had been raised in the tunnels under Aurelia a few months ago was on the list of things she needed to take care of. She had a lot of questions for him when she finally caught up to him again. Starting with his presence in a picture of the Saviors, when his behavior made him seem more like a Creator.
"More than you, I suspect. He's put into motion some very bad things," Christopher said. "Things you're going to
want to do your utmost to stop. I'm here to make sure you succeed."
"Right, I believe that," Tate scoffed, her throat feeling like sandpaper. Every second she spent standing here without sucking down the life-giving source of liquid right in front of her felt like an eternity.
"Believe what you want. It won't change what I do in the end."
Tate had had enough of his circular logic. She no longer had the patience or willpower to bandy words about. She gestured to the wagon. "Let's go."
"Go? But you haven't drunk anything."
"Worry more about yourself than me."
Peter and Christopher stood and preceded Tate back to the wagon. Once they reached it, Tate stepped back. "Stay here. If I see either of you before I'm done, I'll kill you."
Her threat delivered, Tate made her way toward the pool and the liquid nectar waiting for her there.
With relief so close, her entire body burned with the need for water. If she wasn't so dehydrated, she'd be salivating just from the thought of finally quenching her thirst.
If she didn’t drink some water in the next second, she felt like she might actually go mad.
Her hand touched the water as a shadow passed over the sun. Tate blinked and looked up. There hadn't been any sign of clouds earlier.
She gasped as the dark shape arrowed out of the sky, its wings splayed as it grew rapidly in size. Her heart leapt. Ryu.
The water momentarily forgotten, she watched the dragon wing closer, a goofy smile on her face. He’d come. She honestly hadn't thought he would.
She wouldn't even have blamed him if he hadn't. She would have understood. There were times when the consequences of a situation eclipsed your personal desires. It became bigger than yourself.
The dragon's wings snapped open as he sailed over her head. A frown formed as the dragon overshot her, the bright light of the sun beating down on her once again.
She stared at the sky in consternation. Where was he going?
