by Laura Kaye
Pain. Fire. Rebirth.
Heat raced up his spine, followed by ice. He fell on all fours and gritted his teeth against the searing blanket spreading across his back. Rhys lifted his head, trying to locate Ravyn, but his vision blurred. He pulled his body across the ground, his need to protect her driving him forward. He wouldn’t fail her, not this time. Balanced on his hands and knees, his vision finally cleared to see Ravyn standing in the middle of the chamber. What was she doing?
She cradled his dagger against her chest, the tip poised over her heart. Someone screamed. A man? A demon? Rhys tried to call to her but his throat constricted, choking off his cry. Fire engulfed him.
“That which was taken, settle in those who Bring true.”
Ravyn plunged the blade into her heart.
A howl ripped from Rhys’s throat, finally finding voice within his tempest of pain. Her body crumpled to the ground. He reached for her but couldn’t move.
The tightening eased and his shaking stopped, tears running unfettered down his cheeks. He dug his fingers into the rock and forced himself to move toward Ravyn’s lifeless body.
“No.” The word repeated over and over in his mind. This wasn’t possible. She wasn’t dead. Rhys stepped into the silent hall. As the fire drained away, rage took its place, filling and consuming him. He snarled at the gawking demons, allowing the dragon to have its way. The Bane stumbled away from him, jostling and bumping each other.
Only yards away now, she lay with her hand gently curved around the delicate handle of his blade. Grief sliced through him. His dagger. The gift he’d given her, and the gift that had taken her from him.
A large demon launched from the dais and landed inches from Ravyn, crouching over her. His wings folded around her body and he roared. “She’s mine.”
Vile. Energy burned through Rhys. With barely a thought or intent, he shifted and changed to his dragon form. He and the beast were one, no longer at odds, no longer one without the other. His powers coalesced and filled every cell. Strength surged through his mind, body, and spirit.
Demons screamed, climbing over each other in an effort to flee the dragon’s path. He lifted his head and roared. The walls trembled and the ceiling quaked. Small stones and dirt cascaded over the frantic crowd. Vile moved as if to scoop up Ravyn, and Rhys spun. The tip of his spiked tail hammered the demon’s body, sending him crashing into the dense rock wall.
Vile plummeted to the floor, his wings crumpling under his massive frame as he rolled and came to his feet. Rhys swung his head toward the demon and released a jet of fire. Vile catapulted himself into the air, narrowly avoiding the flames. He landed on a ledge twenty feet above the throne room. The demon’s stare raked along Rhys’s scales as he glared down at him.
“How?” the demon yelled.
Rhys spewed another stream of fire at the ledge, forcing Vile higher. The Demon King’s injured wings struggled to lift his mass. He clawed at the rock, digging his talons into the wall, and hoisted himself onto the next ledge. The outcropping was too high for Rhys to blast. The dragon roared and loosed a jet of fire anyway. The beast wanted its prey.
“Attack the dragon,” Vile yelled from his perch.
Rhys coiled his body around Ravyn and snapped at the approaching horde. They would not touch or defile her. Hadn’t these abominations done enough? With a blast of fire, he sprayed the shrieking mob.
Cries of agony swelled. The smell of burning flesh permeated the air and clogged his nostrils. The demons turned and scattered toward every doorway.
“Stop, you gutless cowards,” Vile yelled. “Get back here and fight.”
Rhys lifted his head and jettisoned another stream of flames. Vile jumped back and disappeared from Rhys’s view. Ignoring the chaos and tortured wails, he shifted back to human form and knelt over Ravyn. His hand shook as he reached for the knife protruding from her. Grief consumed him and he stopped, unwilling—unable—to pull the dagger from her body. No amount of revenge would bring her back.
With Ravyn’s warm body cradled in his arms, he strode from the throne room and into the dark corridor.
Icarus stood at the entrance of a black tunnel. He stared at Rhys, his demon gaze fluctuating from glowing yellow to swirling silver. He didn’t speak.
Rhys waited. Would he have to fight Icarus? One last trial before he could take Ravyn home?
Icarus flared his wings and Rhys tensed. “Calm yourself, Bringer.”
The demon moved to stand behind him, slipped his arms around Rhys’s chest, and pushed off from the ground. Icarus’s wings struggled to lift the extra weight. They slowly climbed, the huge fans elevating them until they reached the large outcropping Rhys had landed on as a dragon.
The demon dropped him and Ravyn onto the ledge but didn’t settle. “It’s up to you now, Bringer.”
“Thank you.” The words didn’t seem enough and yet didn’t seem deserved.
“Perhaps you’ll return the favor one day, Rhys Blackwell.”
Shivers crept across Rhys’s skin as the demon spoke his name. The only favor he planned on returning was his death. He stared, saying nothing.
A wicked smile spread across Icarus’s face a second before he folded his wings and dove back into the Shadow World.
Chapter Thirty
Rhys circled the clearing and spiraled lower to gently place Ravyn on the ground. Before touching down, he shifted to human form and dropped the last few feet.
Luc and Siban rushed from the trees.
“You found her.” Luc skidded to a stop, his excitement flagging as his gaze fell upon the knife in Ravyn’s chest. “No.”
Rhys swallowed the denial he wanted to shout to the world. How could she be dead? He rubbed his hands over his face and struggled to find words—any words—to explain how he’d failed her yet again.
Siban stepped forward and knelt next to Ravyn’s body. Rhys tensed, not wanting the Tell to touch, or even look at her. She was his, in death as in life. He’d take her back to Alba Haven to be buried so she’d always be with him.
Before Rhys could stop him, Siban gripped the hilt of the knife and yanked it free. Rage flashed, and Rhys launched himself at Siban, wrapping his hands around the Tell’s throat. Nobody touched her. Nobody but him.
The men careened backward, rolling across the ground until Rhys came up on top, pinning Siban to the ground. Siban clawed at Rhys’s fingers, mouthing words he couldn’t push past Rhys’s crushing grip. Somebody had to pay for her death—and his failure.
Luc tackled Rhys, knocking him sideways, breaking his hold on Siban’s throat. They tumbled to the ground but Rhys jumped to his feet. Luc grabbed him around the knees and knocked him to the ground, facedown.
“Rhys, calm down,” Luc shouted. Rhys twisted and took a swing, but Luc dodged his fist by an inch. “He didn’t mean any disrespect.”
Anger clouded his judgment and the dragon pushed for retribution. Somebody had to pay.
Luc held him down. “Tell him, Siban. You didn’t mean any disrespect.”
Rhys reached for the Tell, but couldn’t move with Luc’s body on top of him. He clawed at the earth and fought against his friend’s weight.
“She’s not dead,” Siban rasped.
Luc relaxed. “What?”
Rhys tossed his friend off him and crouched, ready to launch himself at the Tell again.
Siban struggled to sit and pointed to Ravyn. “She’s not dead.”
The words leeched through Rhys’s rage. Slowly, they merged, made sense, and drained the anger from his body.
Luc ran to Ravyn. He touched her skin and pressed his ear to her chest and smiled. “She’s alive.”
Rhys raced to them and skidded next to Luc as he dropped to his knees. He scooped up Ravyn, and realized for the first time she was still warm and pliant. Relief swamped him. Praise The Sainted Ones, he’d been given a second chance. His mind raced. He would have to heal her.
He rose and cradled her in his arms, swearing he wouldn’t fail
her again. Not waiting for his friends, he jogged toward Illuma Grand. His long strides ate up the distance as he tore across the open field, onto the manicured lawn, and up Illuma Grand’s front steps, taking them two at a time. He raced down the winding corridors to Ravyn’s room. Footsteps echoed behind him, letting him know Luc and Siban followed, but he didn’t slow.
He kicked open her door and lay her on the bed, where he knelt beside her.
She was alive.
Luc and Siban entered, shutting the door behind them. Rhys jump up and bound into his room to grab his healing pendants. He slipped one over his head and ran back to Ravyn’s side to hang the other around her neck. This would work. She would be all right.
The ancient chant tumbled from his lips, calling to the healing spirits to take from him and give to Ravyn. He closed his eyes, opened himself, and waited. No healing light or comforting breeze entered the room. He chanted louder, willing the spirits to help. Still, his request went unfulfilled. He clutched the pendant and squeezed the metal, raising his voice yet again. He commanded the spirits to answer his call.
Silence.
Minutes? Hours? He didn’t know how long he chanted and still they didn’t come. He felt his hope ebbing and desperation rolling in on a new wave. He had to heal her. It was his duty. It was his obligation. It was his only hope from his endless loneliness.
Luc placed a hand on his shoulder. “Rhys?”
He ignored him and continued to chant. Why weren’t the spirits answering? They had to save her. His chant turned to a plea, beseeching them to not abandon Ravyn or him.
“Rhys,” Luc said again.
He opened his eyes and stared at her still form. She wouldn’t die—couldn’t die. The thought that he’d lost her and found her only to lose her again drove him to the edge of madness.
Luc’s hand slipped from Rhys’s shoulder. “Now we just have to wait.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Ravyn opened her eyes and stared at the gray ceiling. Was she dead? She turned her head, expecting pain, but experienced no discomfort. Her gaze darted around the room, taking in the familiar gray-colored walls, and Rhys.
She must be in paradise if he was here with her. She closed her eyes and strained to remember what had happened. Angela…the dagger…and then…nothing.
How in The Heavenly Saints had Rhys rescued her from the Shadow World?
She smiled at his slouched form. He slept in a straight-backed chair with his feet propped on the bedside table. His breathing moved in a shallow rhythm. She wondered how long she’d been unconscious, and how long he’d been here. Cradled lovingly in his lap lay his father’s journal.
“Rhys.” Her throat burned and her mouth ached as she spoke his name. Clearly, she’d hit the ground face-first when she passed out. “Rhys.”
He stirred and opened his eyes, looking at her but not seeing her.
She smiled and his eyes widened.
“Ravyn.” His voice hitched, thick with emotion. His feet thumped to the floor as he scooted forward to kneel beside the bed. His fingers threaded through her hair, sending tingles of warmth through her. “I thought I’d lost you.”
A lump formed in Ravyn’s throat as she wrapped her hand around his and held it to her cheek. Calloused skin brushed tender hands, an affirmation that she wasn’t dead.
“Almost,” she said.
He brushed her hair from her face. “Why, Ravyn? Why did you stab yourself? I saw you …I thought you were de—” His voice broke.
She shimmied into a sitting position and clutched his hand. “Not dead. Resurrected.” Excitement cleared the fog from her mind. “Rhys, the dagger, it’s an immortal weapon.”
His brow crinkled. “Immortal?”
Ravyn nodded.
He shook his head. “How did you know?”
She pointed to the journal he still held. “He wrote about it. There was a drawing and words. I didn’t understand until I released Angela’s soul. Haven’t you ever noticed how it binds to your hand?”
Rhys looked lost. “I thought I imagined it.”
Ravyn shook her head. “These are our people’s weapons. It’s like they recognize us. The soul isn’t trapped forever inside the Bane. With immortal weapons we can release them. I released Angela’s soul. And I think we can bring the mix-blooded Bringers to full power.”
“You’re not sure?”
“No, I’m not. I stabbed one of the demons at the inn, but his soul didn’t release. I don’t know what the difference between him and Angela was.” She wanted Rhys to believe her but she was running on gut instinct, remembering how the dagger had felt so right in her hand, as if the knife guided her. “I believe with the words in the diary and the dagger we can resurrect the Bringers to full power. You were stabbed by Vile, but the words were never spoken. That’s why you didn’t die as a child, and that’s why your powers were stronger than most.”
He stared at her for a few seconds. “‘Resurrected by the blade.’ My father said that to another man once. Could it possibly be?”
“We’re living proof.”
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “But how do we know for sure?”
“I guess we get some willing soul to let us test out our theory.”
Rhys cocked a brow. “Let us stab them? Who would be stupid enough to do that?”
Ravyn shrugged and flinched from the pain at her back. “I don’t know, but when the time is right we’ll know.”
He sat utterly still, contemplating the thought.
“You saved me,” she said. “Thank you.”
A shadow ghosted across his expression. “I should have done better.”
She touched her finger to his lips. “No, you saved me. From the first night we met you’ve been saving me from the demons, and from myself.” She caressed his face. “From being lonely.”
He leaned in and kissed her. Her mouth burned but she didn’t stop, willing to endure discomfort for more of his kisses. Never would she hide her feelings for him. Life was too short and love too precious.
She broke their kiss and hugged him. “I love you,” she whispered.
He pulled back and stared.
She held her breath, wanting to hear the same from him, but she’d accept his feelings, no matter what they were.
“I thought I had lost you. And when I believed you dead, I wanted to follow you beyond the Veil. You are everything to me, Ravyn, but the words pale when compared to how I truly feel.”
Her nose tingled as tears welled in her eyes. “I’d still like to hear you say it.”
He smiled. “Ravyn, I love you, now and forever.”
“That was worth dying for.”
“Indeed.”
She shifted again and sat upright. As he slipped his arm around her waist, she winced.
He loosened his hold. “Are you hurt?”
“My back feels like it’s on fire.” Ravyn held out her hands for help and stopped, her eyes rounding at the sight of her hands. An angry tattoo of a sun burned bright on each palm. She turned her palms toward him. “What are these?”
Rhys smiled. “The sign of the Redeemer. My mother had them, and I found the symbol in my father’s journal.”
“I’m a Redeemer?” Though she’d happily embrace the powers of a healer, the label didn’t feel right somehow.
He gave her a sly smile. “That’s still undetermined.”
“But I have the symbols.” She bit her lip and flinched.
Rhys’s smile widened.
“What?”
He held out his hands. “Nothing. Let me help you up.”
She stood for a few seconds before she felt sturdy enough to release his arm. She still wore her leathers, minus the boots, and other than the burning on her back and her lips, she felt good. “Can you help me off with this?”
She raised her arms and Rhys slid the tunic over her head and laid it on the bed. He palmed her shoulders and turned her back to him to get a better view.
; “Do you see anything?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Take this off.” He ran his hand across the linen harness. “I want to get a better look.”
She untied and unwound the straps, letting him help her with the garment. She pressed the material to her bare chest and hunched her back toward him. “Am I hurt? Is it bad?”
He ran his finger in stinging loops across her sensitive skin.
She jerked away from his touch.
“I wouldn’t say injured, really.”
She craned her neck, trying to get a look. “What is it? Another hole from a talon? It really hurts.”
“Oh, I know it really hurts.”
Was that amusement in his voice?
Rhys guided her to the mirror on the front of the wardrobe. “Look at yourself.”
She squinted at her image and leaned closer. “What is that?” She licked her thumb and rubbed at the blue line running from her bottom lip to just above her chin. A biting sting spread across her lower lip. She leaned closer to the mirror.
He captured her gaze in their reflection and smiled. “It’s the mark of the Tell.”
Ravyn’s eyes widened as understanding dawned.
“I’m a Tell?” She shook her head. “But how can that be? I thought I was a Redeemer.”
He smirked.
With a slow pivot, she twisted toward the mirror and gasped. The image of an orange and red phoenix danced across her back. Its tail feathers caressed her left hip and its beak touched her shoulder. She backed up a few steps, drinking in the image of the bird. She turned to him. “It’s like yours.”
He nodded.
“Am I a Shield?” The words sounded right.
“As much as I hate the thought of you being a protector, there’s no denying the brand.”
“But what about the other tattoos? Why do I have those?”
He shook his head. “Maybe you have the powers of all three groups.”
“Can that happen?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see what develops.”
She stared at the bird, unable to tear her eyes away. “Why the phoenix and not a dragon?”
“Each Shield is branded with something particular to their nature. For you, fire is not only a weapon, it is what you can become.”
