Kreios tried to keep his voice even, but it shook slightly in spite of his effort. “I believe that the Sword of Light will protect us from the drain of power in battle—”
“You believe, but have no proof. What happens if the battle lasts for days? What if, over time, you lose all of your power? The Shadowers will not be able to protect you as you return to the city and lead the entire horde to our gates. Then, not only will you and the entire army be weak and dying, but also the city will stand at the mouth of its own grave.”
Kreios could feel his temper rise, but resisted. “Understand, they will be at our gates on the morrow no matter what we choose to do today. I do not know how, but the Seer is able to see past our defenses. How he does it is not the point. The enemy would not expect us to leave a fortified city in favor of open battle in the wilderness. If we attack swiftly, he will not see it coming.” Kreios stopped, looking at Anael, gauging his reactions. He was still stone-faced.
Kreios slumped his shoulders slightly in acknowledgment. “We have to try. I can leave half the Army here to defend the city in case we fail, but we must try. Our lives are all at stake.”
Anael muttered, conferring with the other elders in a hushed tone, occasionally stealing a glance toward Kreios and the Sword that hung at his side.
Kreios had no evidence that his plan was sound. He simply knew what was true and what was not. He knew he would protect his daughter at any cost. If that meant meeting the Seer in battle on his own, he would do it.
“We will have to hold further council over this matter,” Anael stated matter-of-factly. “It is a difficult thing to judge. The Sword is back in our hands now, and I have a hard time with the idea of risking it in open battle. It might be taken away again.”
Kreios flinched in fury. “Why is a sword forged, O Great Anael? Why are shields made? For what purpose does a man bend a bow and craft arrows? Why does he train his hands to battle? Is it to hide these things in obscurity when they are most needed? Would you, in fact, have us run from the risk of battle when the possibility of victory is at hand, if we would but reach out to grasp it? I lost the Sword once. Once. That will not happen again, Anael. I am the keeper of the Sword, and the rightful use of it is mine alone. If I must, I will fight the horde single-handedly. But you would open up the gates of the City of Refuge for the enemy to trample our very graves and defile them, while trying desperately to keep safe that which is not even your responsibility. Do you stand with me, or no?”
Anael smirked and turned aside dismissively in his seat. “Kreios, you speak as a fool. You are indeed the keeper, but the Sword belongs to us all. Even you must see that. If you lose it or are killed, we will be lost and our city will have no chance of defense. The enemy army will be here, as you say, in a day or two. Why attack them when we can prepare our own city and hold it when they come? After all, what is the purpose of the City’s great walls?”
“You are blinded by your own fear.” Kreios despised the weak of heart. “If we fight them away from the City, we have a chance of keeping it secret. If they find it—where do you propose to rebuild? We will then be locked in perpetual war. Do you not remember why we live in hiding? Our last refuge will be under attack until everything about it has been snuffed into legend—including any of us unfortunate enough to be caught here. And then where will we go? We will be outcasts, vagabonds, sojourners. We have no other home.”
Kreios saw that this got through.
Anael looked at each member of the council with growing concern. Some, he could see, were swayed, and he felt his grip on them slipping. He spoke, finality dripping from his voice. “We will prepare the City for war. I will give you a third of the army and enough Shadowers to hide you and your men. If you fail, we will defend the City with the rest of the army and pray for El’s mercy.” He stood, declaring that the council was done discussing this matter. Everyone stood and bowed. The council left the circle without a word.
Kreios stood, not as stunned as he probably should have been. He’s given us just enough to ensure our failure. He watched as the council departed.
The old oak, a hole torn in its canopy, symbolized the emptiness Kreios now felt. It fluttered majestically, moving regally with the breeze.
Zedkiel and Yamanu approached Kreios. Yamanu clapped him on the shoulder, grinning broadly. “When do we start?”
Zedkiel and Kreios were gazing thoughtfully at the hole in the tree’s branches overhead. “A third is not enough,” said Zedkiel, “but it is better than the three of us against the horde.” He was trying to be cheery.
Yamanu scoffed jokingly at them. “You two look like you’re on your way to eternal death. Do you not remember who you are?” His voice bubbled with joy. “Do I need to remind you? You are the Sons of God…”
Kreios and Zedkiel looked at him, and smiles began to break over their dark countenances.
“I will gather the best of my kind,” Yamanu said with a dark look on his face. “The old bat has much to fear. A third, two-thirds—it matters not. Numbers are like gold to El. What we need will be provided for us.”
Kreios smiled at them both and said, “Muster the warriors. We depart soon. It is time now to teach this Seer to see fear in spirit and in truth.”
CHAPTER XI
Somewhere in the Mountains of Idaho—Present Day
I WAS RUNNING. THE faster I ran, the worse my fear became. The thing that pursued me grunted and howled with rage as it chased after me. I dared not look back, concentrating on digging into the rough terrain with my feet. I felt each power pulse of my cadence as I sprinted, tucking my head and feeling the resistance of muscle on bone.
I exploded into a clearing. An evil tree cast a demented shadow in front of it, as if leading the way. I was running through the clearing toward a forest of impossible black trees with dark purple leaves.
I screamed as a clawed hand gripped my shoulder from behind, and I put on an extra burst of speed, tearing loose. A slice of my flesh was taken from me as hot pain ran into my shoulder. The evil-looking forest loomed two hundred feet ahead, possibly within my reach. I felt I would be safe there from whatever was determined to get me.
“Airel … Airel …” The voice was guttural and sweet at the same time, taking on the characteristics of the beast as well as my own conscience. The dark woods parted in a curtain and I dove through. I landed on hard shale and skidded to a stop, opening up new wounds in my back. I clambered to my feet.
I turned and saw the hooded beast as he lurched to a stop at the edge of the forest. He howled, and then I heard my name again. “Airel … wake up…”
The beast was hunched over, wolf-like, but standing on two legs instead of four, with clawed hands covered with fur hanging at his sides like broken branches. He paced back and forth outside the boundary of the forest, and his robe fluttered like feathers as it clung to his thin frame. He croaked my name, and my face burned with heat.
“Airel.”
My eyes shot open. Michael was sitting over me with his hand on my forehead. He had a look of concern on his beautiful face, and somehow he looked as if he had aged overnight. I tried to speak, but my body was wracked with pain and my throat was so dry all I could get out was a grunt.
“Calm down—you’re going to be okay. Here, drink this.” Michael handed me a glass of water, and I took it with greed. It burned as it went down, but I drank all of it. I knew it might be drugged again, but I was so thirsty that I didn’t care.
Michael leaned over and kissed my wet forehead. He smiled at me, but it was weak, and I noticed a tremor in his hand.
“What are you doing here?” I managed, but it sent a fresh wave of nausea through me.
Michael shushed me and said, “You’re still here with the crazy man. He let me see you after you fainted. You have been in and out of consciousness for eight days now. He has been trying to heal you with some weird chanting and some other stuff I’ve never seen before. I’ve been trying to feed you, in between your nightmares and screaming fits. You re
ally scared me, Airel. I thought you were gonna die.” At this, his voice caught, and he held back tears, looking away.
“What are you talking about? What are you doing in here? Where am I?”
“Airel, what do you mean?” Michael was visibly upset.
This was it. I knew I was going crazy now. I seriously had no idea which way was up, what was real, what was safe and what was dangerous anymore. “I was so worried, Michael, I thought you were gone; dead. I don’t know. I’m so confused.”
Michael was silent, then said, “Airel …”
I shuddered. I was drenched; I felt disgusting. Eight days? What in the world is going on here? I felt insane.
“I’m sorry, Airel. I didn’t know it would be like this.”
“What is going on, Michael? I think I was drugged.” I noticed that I was no longer dressed in my fancy blue dress. I wondered how that had happened. It creeped me out beyond words. I was wearing pajamas, and they were stuck to me as if I had been wearing them for a week. Gross.
Michael tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and took my hand. “Don’t you remember? We were taken, and … I …” He looked down as if he had done something he was ashamed of.
I scanned the room and some things started to come back to me. I remembered having been locked away in this, my “high tower.” I remembered rainbows dancing on the bed in the new dawn of some lost day I could not recall as of yet. Like a badly cut movie, random scenes started to come back to me.
I remembered calling out for Michael, banging on the door to my room, which, I remembered, had a really nice bathroom with a claw-foot tub. I had been the one who had changed my clothes. Weird. I rubbed my temples. What else? I tried to conjure the past. I felt fury—why?
I was angry. I was angry because I feared the captor had murdered Michael. I saw myself pacing in an angry stew in front of my locked door, and I knew why. I was furious at having been locked up like an animal, no matter how nice the accommodations—and I was worried sick that something horrific had happened to Michael.
The scene shifted, and I was flooded with the realization that I was madly in love with him, that I knew it, that I had reconciled my heart to that reality. That explained what happened next in my spastic movie-reel vision. I delivered a crushing roundhouse blow to the door of my cell and it exploded off the jamb into a million splinters. I had been Bruce Lee, for crying out loud… Bruce Lee on gamma rays, or whatever.
The movie reel continued. I was running through the obliterated doorway and down the hall. Rooms appeared, covered in years of dust, furniture draped with sheets. Other rooms were clean. Then, there was Michael’s room—I knew it to be his room, but when I opened the door, which was unlocked, it was empty, and I feared the worst: that he was dead. I saw myself running down hallways trying to find him, down a flight of stairs, and being arrested by the appearance of the blond killer, the master of the house. He had appeared out of nowhere. I was struck at his beauty for the smallest of moments.
Then the movie reel took a really bad turn. There was vomit everywhere. It was mine. I saw myself as I retched time after time, right onto my captor’s fancy carpets, losing whatever I had in my stomach from the Cheesecake Factory with surreal violence. Fast forward, and I was dry heaving as the killer picked me up and carried me to my room.
I looked at Michael in confusion. I smelled bile. Oh. That might explain the dreams.
Michael lowered his head, his blond hair matted and sticking to his face from sleepless nights. His shoulders began to shake as he turned to go. I had somehow hurt him. It must be hard for him, too…
“Michael, I’m sick or something. Eight days?” I pulled him close and hugged him. He was warm, and at once, I was aware of how I must look and smell.
I tried to pull away, but Michael held me firmly. He was … crying. His back was tight, and I could hear his muffled sobs. “Michael, what’s wrong?”
“I …Uh.” He pulled back, but wouldn’t look at me. “I’m sorry, Airel.” Turning, he rushed out of the room.
“Michael.”
CHAPTER XII
I WAS CONFUSED AND hurt. Not for myself, but for Michael. He was in pain and something was on his mind, but I didn’t know what to do. Should I leave him be, give him space? Relationships were hard. Most of the time I didn’t even know what I wanted, let alone what Michael did. I decided to let him be and clean up. I was covered with eight days of sweat, and I could feel my clothes sticking to my body.
Bathing can be glorious. I hosed off in a scalding shower while filling the tub, then climbed in for a good soak. There were candles and matches, which I used, as well as several clay pots of very yummy-smelling botanicals. I was guessing that everything in the bathroom, as well as everything in the bedroom, had not been touched by any kind of manufacturing process at all. There were no electronics of any kind that I could remember, either, come to think of it. Not even a clock. Well, not an electronic one, anyway.
Everything was rough, but well-made. The tile, the fixtures—all of it bore the stamp of authenticity in a way that no house in town could touch. Even the water felt different. Maybe he had built a boiler somewhere in the house that heated the water to be used for bathing. Or maybe it was coming from a natural hot spring. Whatever it was, it wasn’t running out any time soon, for which I was grateful. I was starting to feel like myself again.
When I thought about the hallway, my mind flashed back to my parents, my friends, my whole life as I had known it. I sat there in the tub for a pretty long time, just crying. It had been at least eight days—that’s what Michael had said—and my parents probably thought I was dead.
Oh, God. I couldn’t imagine how they must feel by now. But I had to resolve myself to the fact that, as of right now, there was absolutely nothing I could do about getting back home. I might be able to set a few things in motion…
I had to get my mind back out of desperation mode. I looked at the candles that illuminated the bathroom, watched them burn. Blackness rested against the outside of the lead glass windows, beyond which was at least a thousand foot drop to the valley floor—I had peeked out earlier. Hmm.
I didn’t know how, but literally every piece of clothing I owned somehow showed up here, in the closet in my room. Cell. Wait, is the door still busted off the hinges? If the door was gone, I was basically free. I dragged myself from the tub and back into the shower, resolving to check on that. First, I wanted—needed—to be squeaky clean.
When I was done and dressed, I took a passing glance at the door that led to the hallway. It was as if I had never kicked it down. I shook my head, trying to hold onto my version of reality. It didn’t matter that it was, like, version 6.2.7 by now. It just had to make sense to me.
I went back into the bathroom and peered into the mirror. Gorgeous, of course. Superhumanly gorgeous. Michael would die. So to speak. I ran a brush through my hair, expecting it to frizz into a fro, but amazingly, it looked like I had just stepped off a cover shoot for a magazine again, only better. I looked into the mirror, leaning into it to get a closer look. “Aaaaaaaaand… no makeup necessary.” Bonus.
This was weird. I was not used to being—looking—like this. I knew it was a gift and I decided to enjoy it, because if I did have a baseball-size tumor in my head, I was dead anyway.
My thoughts turned to Michael. He seemed to be under some sort of pressure. Was he just worried about me? I didn’t want to push him to talk to me, but at the same time, I wanted to know what was going on in his head. I missed him.
After a few minutes sitting on the foot of the bed, I opened my eyes. More than anything, I remembered two words: “I’m sorry.” They came to me in a version of Michael’s voice; it was recognizable but strange. I knew that he had sat at my bedside for the span of eight days muttering those two words. Now why would he do that?
I decided I needed to break with all of this. I was clean, beautiful, and ready to take on the world. “Never mind that it’s two AM.” I rolled my eyes. It was t
ime to create something new to look back on at a later date. I walked to the door that led to the hallway, expecting to find it locked—especially since it was dark outside. I was trying to imagine kicking it down again. How had ninety-eight pounds of me done that, exactly? I stood in front of it and extended my index finger to it. I placed it on the door and pushed. It swung free, yawning open on the hallway, dark and quiet.
Why do I sense a trap? I went back to the nightstand and grabbed a fresh candle, lighting it. I looked up and down the hall, finding no creeps milling around in the shadows. I took the plunge, walking out in my bare feet so as not to make unnecessary noise.
There were doorways to my left and to my right, and I remembered my last trip down this particular hall. I had been a rabid wolverine looking for someone to kill. They say Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and I believed them. I passed on by the room adjacent to my own, which I was pretty sure belonged to Michael. I wanted to go in, to talk to him, but I pushed the thought away.
I came to the staircase and descended it to the main level. It was a grand house, like an ancient monument that just kept going and going and going. I found that the house was situated with its front toward the mountain and its rear to the cliff face where the waterfall cascaded. It all looked stately and majestic, except it was underground, which was still weird to me.
I found the kitchen next to the ballroom, separated by three massive stone arches over two-feet thick. I went in, needing food; I was all of a sudden hungry. I grabbed a handful of bright red grapes from a clay bowl, popping one of them in my mouth. I stopped and looked down at them, marveling at their taste. Best grape I’ve ever had? I threw another one in my mouth, and coolness satiated my jagged throat. I groaned aloud with delight and began to devour them.
Brick and granite ran throughout the kitchen, and the dark wood cabinets were carved with intricate feathers around their tops. A carving of an eagle was centered on each door.
The Airel Saga Box Set: Young Adult Paranormal Romance Page 18
