The Keeper's Heart

by Catherine Stovall

  Scooping her up into his strong arms, Marcus’s face turned into a fierce mask of anger and determination. His words were sharp as he stared down the old woman with her evil smile, “We’re leaving. Don’t try to stop us.”

  Marcus tried to keep walking, but Amara’s already swollen hand on his chest stopped his progress. She turned her head and looked into Peggy’s wild eyes. “Why would you do this? Surely, this is not what you were meant to do.”

  “You are sent from the devil, just like those visions. My God is a righteous one, and blasphemers are punished with hell and fire!”

  Amara wanted to respond. Every molecule of her being wanted to scream at the old hag that she was wrong and cruel. She wanted many things, but instead, she focused inward. The uncomfortable stickiness of her skin would have severely disturbed her; except the world seemed to move in slow clarity as her eyes locked onto the rapidly swelling bite.

  Amara carefully examined the huge, discolored knot forming beneath the seeping puncture wounds on her forearm. The epicenter of her suffering, it seemed as if the eternal pits of hell burned beneath the swollen flesh. She could almost feel the venom as it slid through her bloodstream like the very serpent that had bitten her.

  Struggling to find herself amidst the haze of her boiling body, Amara forced Marcus to put her down. Though her head spun and the room seemed to tilt, she steadied herself enough to face down the old woman.

  “Your plan will fail, we will triumph, and then I will seek you out and make you pay for this.” Her righteous sense of injustice was yet another unfamiliar human trait, and as her heart pounded with adrenaline, the poison spread.

  On shaking legs, Amara led the way to the church doors, trying desperately not to sway or fall as the others followed close behind. The pressure of Marcus’s hand on her back was a reassuring gesture, considering she felt as if she were being filleted alive.

  Anthony threw open the doors and the night air rushed in, hitting her in the face and causing Amara’s stomach to revolt. Staggering to the banister lining the long porch, she vomited up what little food was still left in her stomach from their roadside stop. When her body was empty, she continued to heave until she fell to her knees. The concerned and comforting voices of her wards and her Oracle barely cut through the sickness, but the creature in the mists came through loud and clear.

  You will come to me, Amara. That is the hand of death on your throat, taking away your air. That is my hand. I can feel your frail human body beginning to fade. Soon, you will be mine. No one escapes me, not in the end. The raspy voice trickled over her feverish body like ice water.

  “No-o-o!” Amara’s voice erupted out of her in an ear piercing scream as she fought against the Reaper inside her mind.

  When the last echo of her denial faded into the thick woods, she wept, grateful for the silence in her mind. The Reaper had slipped away, back to whatever part of her that held him in silence unless her consciousness slipped. Relieved, Amara tried to fight around the effects of the bite, but before she could find true solace, the spasms in her muscles ripped across her left side.

  A voice spoke, a female purring with evil delight. The words were garbled and the sound of an animal snorting seemed to punctuate whatever it was that the woman had said. Forcing her eyes to open against the poison and pain, Amara searched the dark yard in front of her through a blurred haze.

  At first, she thought she was hallucinating, the sight before her seemed out of place. Six warriors sat astride black horses, their weapons glinting in the moonlight as if they were out of a Camelot movie. Her vision cleared, and she looked into the eyes of the largest black stallion. The red glow pulsing around the black iris flashed and glittered like flames within a glass globe.

  Fear made her mind waver on the brink of hysteria as Amara let her gaze travel upward. Everything else in the world around her blanked out, not even the sound of Peggy and her followers flowing out of the open door reached her ears. It took every ounce of her strength to understand what she saw standing before her.

  Amara drew her gaze away from the horse’s crimson eyes and frothing mouth to the right and followed the line of the body that sat in the saddle. The toe of the boot was capped in dark metal and a trail of shiny studs led up a slender calf to the bend of a knee. Tracing her way up a black clad thigh, her eyes met the belted sword at the rider’s hips before moving upward to the armored chest plate. With a hard thump of her heart, Amara took in the grill of Chiyo’s mask and the hatred in the warrior’s eyes. Only because she was so focused on the Apollumi leader, she was able to understand the words that came next.

  “We may not get this one back alive after all. Pity. I’d liked to have watched her suffer.” Chiyo tossed her head back and laughed.

  The cold-hearted mirth echoed in Amara’s mind as fear carried her away. Unconsciousness took her into a place so deep inside herself that not even the Reaper could find her.

  Chapter 12

  Let Me Die

  The cold air made her shiver and the smell of molding wood filled her nostrils. Amara opened her eyes a slit, unsure if she had lived or had been cast into the deepest pits of Sheol. The pain in her arm still throbbed with the power of a thousand burns and her head pounded in rhythm. Even the sharp reminder of the snake bite did not reassure her that she lived. After all, she had broken the Keeper’s law and her afterlife would no doubt be one filled with worse punishments.

  When her eyes, at last, adjusted to the pitch of the room, Amara realized that she was alone, but still breathing. She searched her surroundings by the light of the watery moon seeping through a hole in the roof above her and the small windows. Her arm had been bandaged, and other than the pain at the source of the bite and in her head, she was no longer ill from the venom. Scared and confused, she sat up from her makeshift bed of rags on the cold, wooden floor.

  Amara strained to listen, but the sound of crickets and the distant hooting of an owl were the only things she heard. Slowly, she rose up onto her knees, bracing her hand against the rough wooden wall. The pain in her head doubled and the dark room swam in slow circles as she breathed heavy breaths, trying to fight back the nausea.

  Time passed in slow painful ticks inside Amara’s head as she pleaded with her body to cooperate. You can do this, Amara. You are a seasoned veteran in this game. Keepers are not supposed to be weak. They are strong, unfeeling, and undaunted souls. Just because the body is human, it doesn’t mean that the mind is. Shit, I wonder how the Apollumi does this.

  The question brought back the fuzzy edged memory of her final moments of consciousness, and the panic overrode her physical condition. Thoughts of her wards being dragged away or killed by the Apollumi swallowed the pain for a brief time. Fighting to believe they still lived and were safe, she tried to push the images away, but failed. A wave of remorse and failure washed over her even as she denied that they could really be gone.

  Scrambling to stand, Amara didn’t hear the footsteps on the rickety porch just beyond the door. Instead, she was caught by surprise when the hinges squealed in protest at being forced open and a figure stood in the darkness beyond.

  Pressing her back against the wall, Amara frantically searched for an escape route. The old windows were full of broken and jagged glass, and the way to the door was blocked. She had no idea if there was more to the house than the one small room, so attempting to run might just end her up in another corner. The options were limited and her pounding head was already causing her to weaken. Any form of escape seemed to purposefully elude her, causing Amara to do something she had never done before—give up.

  Her back slid down the wall, but she didn’t care when the weathered wood caught her shirt and left ragged scratches up her back. Instead, she hung her head and cried, waiting for whatever demon, Reaper, or Apollumi guard that had come for.

  The footsteps came closer, but Amara didn’t bother to look up as she spoke, “Do your worst, I don’t care. I’m tired of running and fighting.”

&
nbsp; “Tut, tut. Girl, what in the world are you talking such nonsense for?” The unforgettable voice seemed to swallow the silence in the room, “Is this the thanks I get for dragging myself out here on this dirty island to help you?” The question was followed by the loud sound of an arm load of wood being dumped onto the floor.

  Amara looked up through her tears to see Mabel’s shadow across the room. A second later, a match struck and the strange woman’s profile became visible as she leaned over to light a small kerosene lamp.

  “Mabel? How do you get here? Where are the others?”

  “I got here by boat, much the same as you, my dear. Sadly, I believe the others might have been captured by the Apollumi. In the madness, I was only able to rescue you.”

  Mabel’s unapologetic approach scraped against Amara’s nerves. “You let those beasts take them? They are only human, they will be killed!” The pounding in her head turned to a sharp pain, and she instantly regretted raising her voice.

  Mabel turned to look at her, some of the kindness erased from her softly wrinkled face. “You are human and you are what matters. They are all dead without you. Should I have saved them? Should I have left you to die from that snake bite or be hauled to Sheol by the Apollumi?”

  Amara couldn’t answer. She knew the woman was right, and the shock of the cool fire burning in Mabel’s eyes had a silencing effect. Instead, she laid her head back against the wall and hoped the throbbing might subside.

  Mabel busied herself with building a small fire in the rustic stone fireplace as Amara rested. Soon, the light and warmth of the flames filled the damp and broken hovel. With her back to Amara, she dug through a black bag, reminiscent of the type used by doctors in old movies, and hummed to herself.

  Withdrawing several vials and various supplies, she placed them on the uneven table, and pulled up a rickety chair near the fire. Everything inside the cabin seemed to be made of wood, old and dilapidated by the elements.

  Gliding across the filth covered floor, Mabel made her way to Amara’s side. “Sorry about that, dear. It has been a very trying day. Even I sometimes have my moments. Come, sit by the fire and warm up, while I take a look at that bite.”

  Amara allowed the small woman to help her stand, surprised by the strength of the arms that secured her. The world pitched and wobbled as her insides rolled. The short shuffle across the room drained her, and by the time she made it to her destination, cold sweat beaded on her forehead as she trembled. Tears slowly traced down her face as she thought of Marcus, Desiree, and Anthony in the hands of the Apollumi.

  Her voice scratchy and weak, she sounded as if she were older than the mad preacher, Peggy. “I don’t want to be human, Mabel. It hurts to have this flesh and these feelings. The hopeless despair of being so weak and so exposed, it feels as if I might be crushed by the weight of it. Let me die. There is nothing more that I can do. I should have never saved them only to condemn their mortal souls to an eternity of unrest.”

  She paused, letting her silent tears fall in glistening drops filled with the reflection of the crackling fire. Mabel stood silently at her side, one softly wrinkled hand on Amara’s shoulder, waiting for the girl to cry herself out.

  “I wanted to keep them safe, and now, they will be destroyed. They will never fulfill their destiny. Their souls will never again come together. What have I done?” Amara choked out her words, her crying becoming louder and more hysterical with every passing second.

  Mabel’s voice was soft and kind as she lifted Amara’s wounded arm to examine it. “Amara, no matter what form you are in, you are still a Keeper at heart. This journey you are on has been in motion for longer than you have existed. No one knows why this has come to pass, but there are many who are counting on you. Find yourself inside that mortal shell, girl.”

  “No, no. They are all gone. There’s nothing more I can do. I cannot simply go into Sheol to save them. I have no idea how to find the Weaver’s lair. I’m lost, Mabel.” She tried to pull her arm away, but the woman’s grip was like a vice, causing a fresh run of pain to sear through the swollen wound. “Do you have anything for the headache? If you won’t let me die, I’d like to at least live without feeling like my brain is being pureed.”

  Mabel shook her head and made tsking sounds, causing her tight curls to bounce under a ridiculously small brown hat with a white veil as she reached back into the bag. When she turned back around, she held two small pills in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

  Amara took the pills without bothering to ask what they were. The cold water washed them down, quenching the dry heat that had felt as if it were going to cause her throat to close. She closed her blue eyes and savored the promise of release from the aches plaguing her. As she rested with the base of her skull tipped back against the low back of the chair, Mabel took her damaged limb into her hands again.

  “Hold still. I will not let you die. If you want to give up, be my guest, but I will not be part of the reason for such a sad occurrence. You can do as you wish, once you are healthy.”

  All words ceased as Mabel used a small dropper to drip an amber liquid on the puncture wounds left behind from the rattlesnake’s massive fangs. Amara’s fevered flesh prickled and stung as it tightened. The feeling was more of an irritation added to the already constant ache than any real addition of pain. However, as the swollen appendage continued to constrict, the agony grew.

  Gritting her teeth, Amara fought the scream building inside her. On and on the pain went as Mabel’s cooing voice tried to console her. Her vision darkened and a sick feeling flowed up through her body. Just when she thought a reprieve might come, and she might pass out, Mabel added more of the medicine. Building as if she were a pressure cooker, the shriek of pure, undiluted terror finally burst out of Amara’s small body and shattered the quiet island night.

  When her air ran out, and she thought she might get what she asked for when she had said ‘let me die’, Amara slumped over and panted for breath. The pain lessened, but the queasiness remained. Desperately trying to swallow the need to retch, she closed her eyes on the spinning room and concentrated on Mabel’s voice.

  “Shh. You will be okay, Amara. I know it hurts. I know. I’m very sorry, but the medicine is necessary. It has kept your skin from rotting and your body from allowing the poison to spread. Without it, you could be disfigured or die.” Mabel repeated the same lines in many different ways, as she waited for her patient to settle.

  Mid-way through the third chorus of Mabel’s reassurances, the door burst in as if a bomb had exploded and a group of shadowy faces appeared in the slanted opening. Her reactions slowed by drugs and agony, Amara attempted to move, but only managed to fall out of the chair and onto the floor. Her descent landed her too close to the fire and the radiating heat made her wounds burn even worse than before.

  In confused desperation, she used both arms to push herself away, and the consequences ended in another ear piercing scream. Death eating at her body, death in the doorway, and death in her mind, she collapsed. Laying her head down, she pressed her cheek to the cold and dirty floor, tears making tiny mud puddles beneath her face.

  Her voice was barely a whisper as she pleaded once more, “Please, just let me die.”

  “Amara.”

  The voice drifted into her head as she laid motionless, waiting for the worst to come. Opening her eyes, she tried to smile, but her body refused to obey her mind’s command. Instead, she managed a sort of lopsided twitch of the lips followed by a single slurred word, “Marcush?”

  Chapter 13

  Heads Sometimes Roll

  The fire kept them warm through the night, as they took turns watching over Amara and adding logs to the flames. When dawn finally broke, the weak light of the rising sun filtered through the ramshackle cabin walls, busted windows, and caved-in roof.

  Blinking against the glow, Amara awakened, feeling both afraid and starving. As her stomach growled, she rolled to her side to find Marcus lying next to her. A
s she stirred, his sapphire eyes met hers and she was lost in his gaze­—her hunger forgotten. Something about the way he looked at her made her want to touch him. He smiled and she lost all control.

  Without any idea of what she was doing, Amara pushed her lips against his. Just as quickly as it was done, it was over. Leaving her cheeks burning, the gentle first kiss made her newly human mind scream in elation and her heart pump. She trembled, waiting for his response, fearing both rejection and acceptance of her expression of human emotion.

  At first, his brows shot upward and his eyes went wide, but then Marcus’s expression became serious. Gently placing his palm onto her cheek, he looked almost sad as he shook his head from side to side.

  “I’m…sorry,” Amara choked out, feeling ashamed. Did I do it wrong? Does he not like me? What’s wrong with me? She tried to pull away, but his hand stilled her.

  “No. Don’t pull away. Don’t be ashamed. It is so easy to forget that you are not as young as you appear.” His own shame filled his expression. “I was surprised, that is all.”

  Unable to form anymore words, Marcus gathered her into his arms and held her. The woman inside Amara rejoiced at the feel of his heartbeat against her cheek, but the human who knew nothing of mortal things still hid in the corner of her mind, trembling and afraid. They lay in silence, listening to the fire crackle in the early morning hours, watching the dawn chase the shadows from their temporary shelter.

  At first, her gnawing hunger was easy to ignore, but when her stomach growled like an angry beast once more, Amara giggled. Having all but forgotten her wound, she reached up to stifle the sound.

  Gasping and flinching, she yelped, “Damnit! That still hurts like hell.” She and Marcus examined her arm in the dim light. Carefully, Amara traced her finger around the bruised and still weeping golf ball sized knot. “That is just nasty.”