by Allie Jean
“I’m fine.” She tried to sound cheerful. “A couple of bumps and bruises. I’m more worried about you.”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Mathias said, giving her a warm smile, then he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. She winced when her left arm was squeezed between them. It had not gone unnoticed by Mathias, but before he could react, all attention turned to the warrior standing nearby.
“Can we save that for later?” a gruff voice said. Chantal pulled away just enough to see one of the Mors staring at their display with disgust.
“Thank you for coming when you did,” Mathias said in a less than hospitable tone.
“Well, it weren’t for you,” another one replied, his thick southern accent reminding Chantal of a dirty western cowboy, mouth full of chaw trying to have a conversation.
“This here lady was setting off a beacon fur da whole durn worl’ ta see.”
“You should’ve kept her out of the Shade,” a more civil voice said. The dark-haired male stood before his group of five with the arrogance and command of a leader. Unlike the torn and tattered garb his partners were clothed in, he wore a long-sleeved dress shirt with a velvet vest over it, gleaming gold buttons trailing down its center. His hair was combed with immaculate care, and his dark pants and shoes completed the outfit, giving him a regal and gentle aura that seemed at odds with his warrior nature.
The man had been staring at Mathias with flat disregard, as if his mere presence sickened him. She thought that was odd, since his underlings seemed like the pickings at the bottom of the barrel. As if he could sense her appraising him, he turned his searing gaze on her.
“You are the daughter of Quintus.”
Chantal nodded, feeling unsure in this man’s presence. She almost felt like she couldn’t determine where this group’s loyalty was placed.
“Where’s your daddy been hidin’ you, girlie?” the dirty cowboy said, coming closer to get a better look at her. Chantal flinched, and Mathias took take a step in front of her.
“Wyatt,” the leader said in a smooth yet commanding tone. Wyatt stopped dead in his tracks, but didn’t turn his interested glare away from her just yet. In fact, all five of the Mors stared at her as if she were a piece of meat.
“I’d like to meet with Titus,” the leader said, his gaze going back to Mathias. “It’s time we have a sit down, I think.”
“We need ta get our comeuppance,” Wyatt said, but stopped when his leader held up a hand.
“This is hardly the time or place, gentlemen.” Andreu came in and joined with Mathias in shielding her from view.
“True.” The leader nodded. “But soon.” Andreu nodded his head in agreement, and Chantal thought he seemed a little forlorn. Another tidbit to file away.
“I’d like to speak to him, too.” The group whirled around to see Damon step into the circle of hallowed ground, followed by a dozen Kajola soldiers. “My Master has an offer on the table, and he’s been a tricky bastard to get a hold of. Perhaps he’d be more willing if I took that little bundle off your hands.” He pointed to Chantal, pure hatred on his face.
“You’d have to kill me first,” Mathias said, and reached behind him to assure himself Chantal was still close. She placed her hand on his blood-soaked back for reassurance.
Damon smiled.
“You love her,” he said, laughing outright when Mathias didn’t deny it. His comrades join in, their shooting peels of morbid laughter sending jolts of fear and anger down her back. “This couldn’t be more perfect.”
“I will end you,” Mathias said, the truth of his words the only thing keeping the small sliver of hope inside of her. He’d had kept her safe for this long, whether she knew it or not. He’d keep her safe now.
“Good,” Damon said. “I die, you die . . . I’ll enjoy it, no matter the outcome.”
A gleaming sword went sailing through the air, sheathing itself right into the gut of a Kajola soldier. Everyone turned to see where it had come from, and Chantal noticed Wyatt standing just a few yards away with a look of impatient bloodlust on his face. When he saw everyone watching, he shrugged.
“Well, day wouldn’ shut da hell up! Thought I’d get dis turkey dancin’ on my own.”
And with that, utter chaos broke out.
Mathias pushed Chantal toward Conlan, and her new defender wrapped his arm around her, taking her out of the fight. She struggled against his hold, wanting to reach her abandoned blade on the ground.
“I can help,” she said. “I can fight.”
“No,” Conlan said. “With one good hand, you’re better to stay put.”
“Then give me another weapon,” she said in spite of the pain. Conlan looked at her for a moment, contemplative. “It’s better to have me armed than to leave me defenseless. What if something happens to you?”
Conlan nodded and handed her one of his curved short blades from a belt at his side. Chantal gripped it in her good hand with renewed vigor and intent.
“Don’t look so excited,” Conlan chuckled, and then returned his attention to the skirmish. Andreu and each Mor were fighting two Kajola at once, swords moving a blurring speed. Mathias had squared off with Damon, both locked in the depths of heated battle.
Chantal looked for a means of escape. Blackness surrounded the edges of the temple, making it difficult for her to judge exactly where they were. Although the Shadows could not cross the barrier, they stood at the edges prowling. She saw faces appear in the gloom, distorted and disjointed figures writhing and snarling, raring to get in.
“We’re surrounded,” she said. “How are we going to get out?”
“We can’t,” Conlan answered. Chantal felt somewhat refreshed by that, even if the idea terrified her to pieces. “Even if we defeat every Kajola here, more will come. And if the Fallen arrive . . .” He let his statement trail off, an unpromising warning.
“We can fight our way through,” she said, trying to sound convincing.
“Darling, you need to face reality,” he said. “How do you think all of the other Oracles have died?”
She couldn’t formulate a response or make her mind following that train of thought. She’d cross that bridge when she came to it.
Death, it seemed, would find her either way.
“Get back!” She looked up in time to see a slain Mor fall to the ground and break in two pieces. Then his two murders turned their sights onto her lone defender.
Conlan squared his body, ready to protect her just as Mathias had done. Part of her wondered what drove him and the others to go to such lengths to guard a bunch of women they hardly knew. Loyalty to their covenant? Honor and obedience to their Contrite predecessors? Both of these didn’t seem like adequate motivations for men to lay down their lives so willingly and without complaint.
“Step back, warrior, and let us have the woman,” a Kajola said, circling Conlan with his partner in tow. “We will spare your life, just give her to us.”
“You think that likely?” Conlan said.
“No.” The Kajola snorted. With that, both soldiers moved in, with a blitz attack. Conlan pulled his last blade from its scabbard and fought them both two-fisted. Chantal tried to see a point where she could help him, wanting nothing more than to sink her own sword deep into her enemy, but they were moving so fast she didn’t want to chance she’d hurt Conlan. In all honesty, she could barely move her left arm due to the pain shooting from her wrist but she’d push the discomfort out of her mind if she had to.
With a sense of extreme panic, she looked into the center of the temple, hoping that someone could come to his aide, but when she saw each warrior engaging the enemy, she knew that they were alone.
Although she had escaped her brother’s clutches due to sheer luck, something inside her knew how to fight. Whether based on pure instinct or some other, more mystical force, Chantal had the ability to cause damage and destruction.
“Any time now,” she said, waiting for that red sheen of rage. She could feel somet
hing hum inside her, like a type of kinetic energy just waiting to be unleashed, yet refusing to come to the surface. Frustrated, she gripped her blade and gnashed her teeth. “If you don’t want to come out, I’ll make you.”
Just as she was about to strike, Conlan seemed to sense her resolution. For that brief second, Chantal could see the warning in his eyes. That small gesture probably saved her life, but ended his.
In his distraction, a Kajola solider sunk his blade into the side of Conlan’s neck, sending him to his knees with a painful cry.
“No!” Chantal stumbled forward, reaching her hand out. “Stop!”
A second blade came down, this one delivering the killing blow. Conlan’s decapitated body lay still in a pool of his own blood, the Celtic warrior having given his life for hers. She stared down at his body knowing that she’d caused his death with her actions. If she’d just stood still, if she’d just listened to him and stayed out of it, he might still be alive.
“Thanks for that, sheila. I didn’t think we’d get the uppa hand,” the Kajola soldier said. His voice sounded like he was from Australia or around those parts, offering a false sense of camaraderie, if it hadn’t been for the warrior blood he wiped from his blade.
Chantal was seeing red, the mysterious sense of hatred and rage finally getting some fuel. She was overcome with her need for justice, all pain forgotten. These men had chosen the wrong side. If they hadn’t known it before, they’d soon learn the truth of it.
In a blur of motion, she ran toward them in a dead sprint. When she was within a few feet she slid to the ground and took down the Aussie with a brutal slice to his knee, tearing into the ligament. He went down cursing, spittle spraying from his mouth. The words died quickly in his throat when she sprang to her feet and finished him off with deadly accuracy.
“Come on, me next!” the other man shouted, coming at her again and again with his heavy sword. The metal looked ancient. She couldn’t help but notice the breadth of it thick and unyielding. They exchanged blows, hers delicate and precise, his heavy and overbearing. His larger size threatened to overcome her, and he seemed to notice this fact as well. Like a bull, the soldier came charging toward her at a high speed, knocking her down to the ground.
Chantal grunted in pain when she landed just at the edge of the barrier, the impact knocking Conlan’s blade from her grip. She could hear the cries and growls of the creatures lying in wait behind her, their clawed hands and dripping jowls reaching out. The ends of her hair passed into the darkness, and she could feel them tearing it from her head.
“I should let them have you and tear you to pieces,” the huge man said. He seemed to think about it, deciding if it’d be worth upsetting his master. Perhaps loyalty didn’t run true on that side of the line.
A flare of regret and resolution crossed his face. It seemed he’d decided not to send her out into the Shadows, but his disappointment was short lived as he gave her a wicked smile and reached a hand back to knock her unconscious. Chantal braced herself, closing her eyes and truly praying for the first time in years.
She prayed for her safety, for Mathias, for Conlan’s soul. She prayed for the other Oracles like herself who’d forever be in hiding. She prayed that God would take her away from this place, welcome her into The Heavens and out of the grasp of evil. Above all, she prayed that her enemy couldn’t use her visions against her friends once they had her.
It took her a couple of seconds to realize that the blow didn’t come. One moment, she was standing on her own two feet, the next, she felt nothing but air.
She opened her eyes to see the Kajola lying dead on the ground beside her, his mouth open with blood pooling around his head. Andreu stood beside her and offered her a hand up.
“Where’s Mathias?” she said as she searched for him. Andreu gestured toward a far corner, and Chantal gasped when she saw Mathias lying still and unmoving, Damon standing directly over him.
“Pity . . .” Damon said, nudging Mathias with the toe of his boot.
“Leave him be,” Chantal yelled. The red haze began to feel like a different being inside of her, wanting blood and vengeance. The pain in her wrist and body were forgotten. Seeing Mathias possibly dead on the ground had triggered it into a bigger frenzy than ever before, and Chantal had to keep herself in place when every fiber of her being wanted to rip her enemy to shreds.
Damon glanced at her, seeming to see her clinging to the edge of rage. He took a step away from Mathias and his rank rejoined his side. Three of the Mors had fallen, but two had remained. Wyatt and his leader stood stoically to the side, picking neither side, waiting to see how the confrontation would end.
“I’m surprised to see you haven’t changed sides, Andreu. Last we talked, you were sick of Titus’s reign.” Damon spoke in a casual, conversational tone, but her entire focus remained fixed on Mathias. She willed him to move, but he remained immobile.
“I do not serve Titus. I serve our cause, young one. You’ve been misinformed on a lot of things, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t speak to me like you’re my elder,” Damon said, sneering at Andreu. He turned his gaze onto his sister. Interest sparked anew, and Chantal could see that her brother had something burning in his back pocket.
“Did you ever stop to think how we found you tonight?” Damon asked, adopting that same nonchalance he’d tried earlier. “I mean, you and Mathias were parked out in the middle of nowhere. Kind of odd how we were able to set up a trap, don’t you think?”
“The Evil One has sources that are both sinister and vast, Damon,” Andreu replied for her. “He’d been able to turn you against your own sister. Both sisters, it seems.”
“He didn’t have to try very hard,” Damon said.
“And what does that say about you?” Chantal said. “Family meant nothing to you. Loyalty? Love? What do you stand for, brother?”
Damon spared an apathetic glance in her direction before turning toward the Shadows. “Bring her out!” he ordered, and the creatures parted like the Red Sea. Behind them stood a creature that resembled the Grim Reaper, its skeletal face glinting in the moonlight, its bony fingers gripping the handle of a gothic scythe. Beneath its robes . . . stood Lydia.
The small girl stood trembling and sobbing, scared out of her mind. Her wet little eyes brightened when she saw Chantal, but the bony hand clutching her shoulder kept her in place.
“Lydia!” Chantal mirrored the girl’s movements, every fiber in her desperate to reach the little girl, but Andreu held her back.
“Who’s dat?” Wyatt asked, sounding concerned for the first time. He and the Mor leader stepped back to flank Andreu, the girl’s predicament seeming to have spurred them to choose a side, at least for the moment.
“She’s an Oracle like me,” Chantal said. “And she doesn’t deserve this, Damon! Where is your sense of morality?”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Damon said. “If you come out of the temple and take her place, I’ll let her go.”
“No,” Andreu said. “It’s a trap.”
“Think about this, Chantal. How do you think we found you tonight?”
“I’m sorry,” Lydia said, tears streaming down her plump and reddened cheeks. “They made me tell them. I didn’t want to.”
“I know, baby. Shhhh, shhhh . . .” Chantal tried to comfort the poor thing, knowing how confusing and terrifying her ordeal must’ve been. “It’s all right. It’s all right.”
“Now,” Damon said, folding his hands together in front of himself. “I can keep this girl out here, torture her, make her bleed until she tells me what I want to know, no matter how long it takes for the detail and meaning of her dreams to develop. Or . . . you can come out here, take her by the hand, and lead her back to your warriors. All you’d have to do is take her place at my side, right where you belong.”
Chantal struggled with her decision, looking around her for answers. She’d seen an endless supply of evil tonight, hell-bent on her capture. Conlan, and possibly Mathias,
had died for her. So much death and destruction, would it be better if she just gave in?
“Don’t even think about it, Chantal,” Andreu said. “You are far more important.”
Chantal clamped her eyes shut, which sent a torrent of fresh tears down her face. A memory surfaced of a vision she’d had not long ago, one with a small, dark-haired boy and a church, much like Father Ralph’s.
The boy had seemed so familiar to her at the time, someone she could trust and wanted to protect in turn. His innocence and intrigue over the congregation’s blasé attitude had saddened her in some way. It spelled out the misdeeds of humankind with such ease.
It felt that way until the evil had possessed him, causing the child to pull a knife to his neck and slit his own throat.
Looking back now, she could see that perhaps her vision had depicted what happened to her own brother. Maybe Damon had lost his faith in mankind.
She opened her eyes to see Lydia clutched in the hands of their despicable and lost brother. No matter what her brother’s motivations were, no innocent child deserved to suffer such a horrible fate. The child in her vision may have sounded naïve and inquisitive, but he made the decision to get the crowd’s attention with his death, influenced to mock the sacrifice of the man on the cross. She could see that kind of arrogant quality in the man she once called her big brother, whom at one time, worshiped the ground he walked on as his little sister.
Squaring her shoulders, Chantal decided to give in to his demands.
Seeing the resolution in her eyes, Damon smiled victoriously.
“No, Chantal!” Andreu shouted.
“This is my decision.”
“You can’t! I won’t let you.”
“The child is more important, Andreu.” She turned to face him. “Promise me that you will take her out of here.”
“There is nowhere to run!” he yelled. “We are surrounded from all sides. The best thing is to sit here and wait for reinforcements.”
“That will never come,” Damon said. “And if you sit in your little hidey hole like the coward you are, dear sister, I will slit her throat now and let her bleed onto the ground.”
