Unbroken

by Rachel Caine

  I reached for him, and for an instant, just a single flash, I saw him. Not the image of him from our bed, not the smiling, lazy, sexual creature I'd imagined in that moment--no, this was a frightening vision of a hard, battered man, stained with smoke and blood, and his eyes were as dark as empty windows as he drew and shaped a fireball in his hands.

  And I heard him, just a whisper. I might have imagined it, so quickly did it pass.

  Luis said, I'm coming.

  And then the singing madness rose inside me to a shattering pitch, and the needles piercing me drove deeper, and it was all darkness, solitude, loss. I was weightless, then falling into the darkness.

  Alone.

  Trapped.

  Chapter 9

  LIGHT.

  It came in a white blaze that seared my skin, blasted my eyes even through the squeezed-closed lids, and I heard myself make a rusty, metallic sound of protest.

  It was a single, thin crack in my prison, and I felt a tiny whisper of something so sweet and precious that I couldn't identify what it might be. Fresh air? Hope? Both seemed impossible to me now.

  There was a sound that echoed even through the impenetrable walls pressed against me, and I felt a shudder go through the world, my world... and then, the tiny crack of light widened into a bar. The darkness shattered and left me bare.

  I couldn't move. The weight that had trapped me in this tiny space was gone, but when I tried to lunge for the light, I couldn't get free. Moving woke screaming agony everywhere in my flesh and bones, and all I could do was open my eyes and stare in confusion at the blur of brightness in front of me.

  There was a sudden, horrifyingly loud babble of sound. Voices. I couldn't sort them out. It was all too real, too harsh, and no matter how bad the dark had been, at least it had been constant....

  I picked one voice from the noise. "Cass? Cassiel?... Damn you, let me go. I have to--"

  "No!" said another voice. "Keep him back. He doesn't need to see this."

  The first voice--I knew it, and I felt something resonating inside me, a kind of warmth, a glow that I hadn't even known was gone until it returned. Power, flowing into me. Making me live again.

  I blinked. The haze before me resolved into the shape of a tall man, dressed in a stained flannel shirt, blue jeans, boots. His hair was long and untidy around his lean, angular face, and he was looking at me with an odd hesitancy.

  "Cassiel," he said. It was half a whisper, and in a sudden move, he crouched down. I was lying on the ground, I realized. Above me was stone, and the light that had blinded me shone from a single flashlight he'd averted at an angle. "I'm going to get you out of there. You just stay still. Struggling will only hurt more."

  I blinked and tried to speak, but the raw edges in my throat could only make an indistinct rough whisper. I tried to move my head, tilt it forward so I could look down at myself, but he was right; the effort woke sharp and screaming pain in my skull, neck, and shoulders.

  "Where is Luis?" I managed to say. The man who crouched over me smiled a little, but his eyes looked tired and heartbroken.

  "He's over there," he said. "First we have to deal with this, okay? He got us here. Now let me get you out. Stay strong."

  I couldn't nod, but I blinked to let him know I understood.

  Lewis Orwell, the most powerful Warden in the world, took a deep breath, lowered his head for a moment, and when he raised it, there was an aura of golden power that glimmered around him even here, on the human plane.

  He bent forward and slid his large hands over my face, through my hair, around my head in a slow, sweeping motion.

  It hurt. I stiffened with the snaps of agony, one after another, like tiny bones breaking.

  His hands met at the back of my head, then moved down, cupping my neck, spreading out over my shoulders. Every gentle touch sent waves of agony through me, snaps of white-hot pain. He paused there for a moment. He was as close as I'd ever let any human get, his body all but pressed to mine, and Orwell's lips hovered very close to mine. His eyes were dark, very dark, and full of a power I didn't fully comprehend.

  "Look down," he whispered.

  I did.

  I was encased in a coffin that had been fitted exactly to my body, one made of glittering pink crystal that shimmered in the artificial light.

  And the coffin was alive, and it had grown into me. Needles of crystal, a whole forest of them, pierced and punctured my skin, some thin and just in the skin, some thicker and driving to muscle. Still others had drilled into bone.

  They were flushed red with my blood.

  "I have to break them," Lewis said, still very softly. "This thing is alive. It's fighting to keep you. It's feeding off you. I won't lie, this is going to hurt."

  I could nod now. After a second's horror, edged with fear, I did.

  "Hold on," he said, and jerked me violently forward. At the same time, I sensed a hammer blow of power coursing through him, through me, and all the crystals shattered at once in a mind-destroying white-hot wave of agony and fury and hunger and disappointment...

  ... And then I was lying limp on Lewis's chest, cradled in his arms. Screaming voicelessly, because the pain was worse, somehow, as if the crystals were still inside me, still drilling...

  And they were.

  The broken ends of the crystals were moving. Driving in.

  Lewis wrapped his arms around me, and I felt another surge of power blast through me in a cresting wave that hit and shattered every one of the deadly fragments, until I was lying limp against him, covered in a coating of shining dust.

  "Get Rocha, somebody," Orwell said. He let his arms fall free to hit the ground at his sides, and didn't move. I couldn't. My muscles felt loose and slack, unnaturally dead within my body. My bones felt as if they had been broken into dust as well... and then a strong pair of hands was pulling me up and into another embrace.

  Luis.

  The smell of him washed over me, familiar and strong--male sweat, damp earth, the spicy sweetness of peppers and chocolate. I saw the tattoos on his arms first, winding sinuously up his bronze skin, and finally I focused on his face.

  "Luis," I whispered. It was all I could manage. He looked shaken and anguished, but he smiled and kissed me.

  When he pulled back, there was blood on his face. Fresh red blood in a pattern of dots.

  I raised my fingers to touch my face, and felt the holes left by the crystals, the wetness that seeped from them. My whole body wept red.

  "Stay still," he told me. "Don't try to move. Just stay still."

  It seemed like sound advice, and just this one time, I obeyed.

  Two days in a Warden hospital in Seattle, while they pumped blood into my almost-drained body and carefully closed up every wound. The final count had been in the hundreds of punctures. Damage to my bones had been extensive, they told me, and I had several painful rehabilitation sessions with an Earth Warden to repair them.

  No one explained to me what had happened until the afternoon of the second day, when Lewis Orwell dropped in and shut the door on a fluttering entourage of anxious Wardens with questions, alerts, and requests. He nodded to Luis, who was sitting at my side holding my right hand in both of his; Luis nodded back cautiously. "How's she doing?" Orwell asked. He had a pleasant, resonant voice, and like many Earth Wardens (except me) he seemed to exude a soothing, reassuring presence that everyone liked.

  "I am fine," I answered before Luis could speak. "There's no need to keep me confined to this bed. The bones are healing."

  "Note the present tense," Luis said. "You're not out of the woods, Cassiel."

  "Of course not. We are in the Pacific Northwest."

  "And... that was too literal. I meant--"

  "I know what you meant," I said, "but I am fine. The healing will continue whether I am in the bed or out of it."

  "She's right," Orwell said, and dragged a steel-backed chair over to the other side of my bed, which he straddled. He rested his chin on crossed arms and studied me
with clinical interest. "You're a fast healer. Comes from the Djinn part of you, most likely." He fell silent, and I wondered what he was thinking, or wanted me to say.

  I stared back, unwilling to give the first ground.

  "I expected you to be full of questions," he said.

  "Did you?"

  "Most people couldn't have come out of that sane," he told me. There was an interestingly tentative edge to his voice now, as if he couldn't quite understand something he'd previously thought an open book. "But those who did would want to know what happened to them. They'd be demanding it. Unlike you."

  I shrugged. It hurt; healing meant that the functions were intact, but the residual pain would continue for a while, like the fading ache of deep bruises. "You'll tell me when you think you know," I said. "I could tell from the discussion in the halls that no one understood very much."

  He tilted his head a little to the side, as if trying to consider me from a slightly different angle. "Hasn't he told you?" Orwell glanced at Luis, who was sitting silently at my side. There was an odd dynamic between these two men, something like a power struggle, but I didn't understand why.

  "He hasn't been forthcoming," I said. "He says he doesn't remember what happened after we broke through in the mine and found the Djinn standing at the top."

  "And you?"

  "Something came, something even the Djinn feared. Ashan retreated, but they took the others with them. I didn't see what it was that threatened them, but it took me for its own. Then I remember waking up in the--confinement." It hadn't been a prison. It had been a coffin--no, worse. It had been a chrysalis, something that would have transformed me into something else altogether. What, I didn't know, but I had come perilously close to finding out. "The other Wardens? Alive?"

  "We found Rocha and the other five unconscious five miles from the mine entrance," Orwell said. "Rocha tells me they were going to be killed by the Djinn, so they went at it hard; one died of her injuries, but they were all pretty bad off when we found them. The first thing he wanted to do when he was on his feet was saddle up and go off looking for you."

  "And you let him."

  "No, I went with him. Good thing I did; you were buried in there deep, and there weren't a lot of traces to track. Between the two of us, we managed." He gave a modest shrug. "Then it was just a matter of digging you out."

  Somehow, I doubted it was quite that simple. I thought back to the nightmare of coming into the light, of the crystals drilled into my flesh and bone. "What was it doing to me?"

  "You don't know?" Orwell stared at me steadily for a long moment, then shrugged. "I'll be honest, I've never seen anything like it. Your flesh was turning crystalline, hard as diamonds. Your eyes--it had only just started, I can tell you that much. What you would have been at the end of it is anybody's guess, but it would have been..."

  "Irresistible," Luis put in softly, and drew both our gazes. "Like the irresistible force. And beautiful, too. Scary beautiful."

  It reminded me far too much of what Pearl had promised. I ached still in every cell; I was, I sensed, lucky that the process hadn't gone much further or I'd have never survived the reversal.

  I forced myself to think beyond my own fears. "How long have you been here, Orwell? Where are the Wardens who went out to sea with you? The Djinn?"

  "We docked in Miami four days ago," he said. "The Wardens are where they're needed. The Djinn..." He hesitated, and looked away. "They were taken as soon as we got out of the black corner. We lost them, one way or another."

  "But they held," I said, and felt a burst of amazement that was almost pride. "The Wardens held. Against the Djinn."

  "We're maintaining," Orwell agreed. He looked exhausted, I thought; leadership sat well on him, but it was a crushing load. "We're not winning. Look, I know from Brennan that you think dealing with Shinju is dealing with the devil, but trust me: Right now, I'll take the devil and all his pointy-headed minions as long as they do what I tell them. I have to, because our only other choice is obliteration." He let that sink in before he continued. "As best we can tell, the reason Rocha and the other Wardens who survived that mine are still alive is that Shinju brought her kids and fought on their side. They'd have been ground into hamburger, otherwise. As it was, the odds were way too close."

  "Pearl--Shinju--is the one who sealed me in that prison," I told him. "I know it. I heard her voice."

  "Maybe so, but I've got no energy right now for personal grudges," he said. "Revenge can wait until we've got bandwidth. For now, I need every soldier fighting our enemies, not each other."

  I raised my eyebrows, and did not answer. Luis, on the other hand, did. "If she makes another move at Cassie, I'll find a way to kill that bitch. I mean it. I don't care what it costs." His grip on my hand was tight, too tight, but I understood, for the first time, his emotion. The hate and fear was a tight little ball inside him, bound with razor-edged guilt. "You saw her. You saw what it was doing to her."

  Lewis Orwell inclined his head just a little, a silent acknowledgment, but he said, "Revenge can wait. And it will. Get me?"

  "I get you," Luis said, though his tone and his expression were set hard. "What next?"

  "I need her up and on her feet, and you both back in the field," Orwell said. "Things are moving fast now. Joanne's on her own, and she needs backup. I can't go. I'm sending you two."

  "I can't leave Isabel--"

  "Isabel's with me," Orwell interrupted. "Snake Girl, too. I need them, and I'm using them. All assets get deployed. Sorry, but that's just how it is. The kid's a soldier now, too."

  He stood up and pushed the chair out of the way; Luis came to his feet, too, and released my hand. The stare between them looked far too confrontational for comfort, so I took a deep breath, bracing for the pain, and swung my legs over the edge of the bed on Luis's side. He grabbed for me instinctively as I pulled myself into a wavering, teeth-gritted-against-the-pain standing position, and I held on tight to his arm. It was sufficiently distracting to break the moment, and Lewis Orwell took advantage of it. He gave me a last, assessing look, nodded, and left the room, pursued by at least a dozen Wardens all pelting him with questions.

  "Bastard," Luis said. "Son of a bitch has no feelings. I'm telling you--he's like a walking fucking iceberg, and he causes just about as much damage."

  I allowed him to guide me back to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. It shocked me how fragile I still felt. I knew intellectually how damaged I'd been, but what still haunted me was the look on my partner's face when he'd seen me taken from that crystal prison. "Perhaps," I said. "But perhaps he can't afford feelings now. He's right. If anything is to survive, we have to risk everything. Everyone. There are no safe places left."

  He knew it, and he loathed that knowledge just as much as I did. "I need to protect her, Cass. I failed my brother. I failed his wife. I even failed you. I can't let her down, too." He put his arms around me. The care he took told me more about him than me; I might feel fragile, but he touched me like I was made of butterfly wings. As if I might shatter, like the crystal from which I'd emerged. "She's ours, and we can't let her down."

  Ours. The child was, in many ways--not of our bodies, perhaps, but of Luis's blood, and through him, and his dead brother, mine as well. We owed her love, and safety. We'd always owed her that.

  I put my hands on either side of Luis's face and held him still as I said, "We've already let her down. We let her down the instant that Pearl abducted her, and every day since we've been struggling to find meaning for her in that. But she's not ours. She's her own, always. And she wants to fight. She seeks it out, as I do. Step back, and let her be herself. It's the only way we cannot disappoint her now."

  He tried to shake his head. I didn't allow it. We stared deep into each other's eyes. His were haunted, and I'm sure that mine held the shadows of the torture I'd endured.

  My darkness won.

  He pulled me into his arms, and this time, he used his strength; I lost my breath f
rom the force of his embrace, but it was a good pain, a just and correct ache that came as much from my soul as my flesh. We stayed that way for a very long time, minutes long, before Luis pulled back and said, "You got a few things to make up to me, you know."

  I blinked, thrown by his conversational swerve. "Why?"

  "Not every guy has to take seeing his lover stripped naked and lying on top of the head of the Wardens," he said. "Even if you were covered in glitter and blood."

  He was talking about my rebirth from the crystal coffin, when Orwell had pulled me out. Had I been naked? It surprised me, but thinking back, modesty hadn't been the largest concern I'd had. "You seem more worried by the nakedness than the blood," I pointed out. He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug.

  "Yeah, well, we all bleed a lot around here," he said. "But the naked part, that's supposed to be sort of private."

  "You are very odd."

  "You like that about me," he said, and kissed me. Sweet and hot, spicy and smooth, he spiked my pulse hard, and reminded me of the delights of physical bodies. I remembered the image of him that had come to me there in the dark, in my deepest panic and pain... of his bare skin, shimmering in the peaceful light. Of his fingers trailing over mine, waking fire.