by Laken Cane
“And if I don’t let you?” Rune crossed her arms over her stomach. It took an enormous effort to remain stoic as she voiced the question.
“Rune,” the witch said, and for an instant, a break in her too sweet façade appeared like cracks in black ice. “You don’t want to make the wrong decision. You truly don’t.”
Rune couldn’t move, suddenly frozen beneath the witch’s icy stare.
Fucking decisions.
Damascus smiled. “Just give me a few days. That’s all I ask. Get to know me, Rune.” Then she turned to one of her people. “Dari, take some proper clothing to Rune’s chambers.” She glanced around. “Where is Lawrence?”
“I am here, my lady,” a bald, hulking man said, appearing suddenly from the shadows. “Princess, follow me, please.”
“This is Lawrence,” the witch said. “He’ll get you settled in. And Lawrence…”
She waited for him to look at her. Something in her voice must have warned him he’d displeased her, for the arm he’d held out to Rune trembled. Hard.
“My lady witch?”
“Do not call her Princess. Her name is Rune and she is my daughter.”
“Of course, my lady.” He bowed and scraped all the way across the room.
Rune walked with him, hyperaware of every movement, every sound. Damascus had her in a powerful trap, and her monster wouldn’t be able to pull her out of it. She’d need to outsmart the witch.
That would require a hell of a lot of pretense. Fooling Damascus was not going to be easy. Probably not even possible.
But she had to try.
As though she knew what Rune was thinking, Damascus’s voice carried through the room to halt her. “You were created to be used—I won’t deny that. But those who sent you away and those who brought you back are the ones using you now. I did neither of those things. Think about that before you make up your mind about me. You’ve been betrayed, sweetheart.” She shook her head. “But not by me.”
“Am I your prisoner?” Rune asked.
The room grew silent and suddenly still.
Damascus smiled. “You’re my daughter.” She motioned at the door. “Do you want to leave? Really? Walk out the door.”
I want to wake up and be back in the berserker’s arms. I want to get dressed, load up with weapons, and go kill some vampires. I want my Ellie. I want my Shiv Crew.
Most of all, I want my Z. That’s what I want.
Damascus held up a hand and softened her harsh stare. “I’m sorry, Rune.” The she sniffed and squared her shoulders. “Decide what you want to do. I hope you’ll understand you belong right here and will decide to stay.”
Rune forced herself to nod.
She had craved a sense of belonging and her blood family her entire life.
The witch was handing it to her.
She had only to reach out and take it.
But she knew without a single doubt that if she did, she’d become the witch. She’d lose everything she loved. Trading her crew and her world for absolute power in another world was something Damascus would do.
It was not something Rune would do.
Not ever.
But Damascus would be unable to understand that. To Damascus, power was everything—and that would give Rune a chance to destroy her.
For sure, Damascus wasn’t the only bad guy. She wasn’t the only horror in the power play for Skyll.
Rune would have to cling to her values, her world, her people. She’d have to fight to remember who she was.
Because the witch was her mother.
And there wasn’t anything she’d ever wanted more than that.
Chapter Thirty-Six
She and Lawrence climbed carpeted stairs that seemed unending, and the higher they climbed, the more tired Rune became.
Her eyes were heavy, so heavy. She was tempted to fall upon the stairs, curl up, and sleep.
So sleepy.
Nothing would have felt better.
But she was stronger than that.
He led her to a lavish, overdone suite that had the sort of décor Nicolas Llodra might have appreciated.
Rune’s yawn nearly cracked her jaws, even as her heavy-lidded stare caressed the high bed. It was covered with lush pillows and thick spreads, and she’d never seen anything more inviting in her life.
“Shall I have a tray sent up, Princess?” Then he paled and slapped his fingers over his mouth.
Rune frowned at the abject terror in his eyes. “It’s okay, dude.”
“So sorry,” he whispered, over and over. He dug at his face with his nails, leaving bloody furrows. “So sorry.”
Rune shook some of the cobwebs from her mind and grabbed his hands to pull them away from his abused skin. “She really is an evil bitch, isn’t she?”
He took a step back. “Please. Please, no.”
“I’m not going to tell on you.”
Unable to speak, he finally turned and ran away.
Evil bitch indeed.
Not that she’d doubted it. Not really.
Damascus was her enemy. Damascus was everybody’s enemy.
Rune would have to fight her.
She’d have to kill her.
And that broke the heart of the little girl inside her.
Maybe, that little girl whispered, maybe you won’t.
But she would.
She’d kill the witch and then walk the path to save Lex.
Lex was waiting.
She didn’t want to admit, even to herself, that Lex might already be dead.
“Clothes for you,” a tall woman said, striding through the doorway. “If these are not acceptable, I will fetch something else. The witch will have you outfitted with proper clothing in short order. I hope these will do for now.” She didn’t smile and didn’t change expressions, just stared over Rune’s head and waited.
Her eyes were blank.
Dead inside. She’s dead inside.
“Thanks, Dari,” Rune said, as the woman placed the clothing on the dresser.
Dari strode to the bed, tossed some pillows to the floor, and turned back the covers. She turned to Rune. “Sleep. I will wake you in a while.”
God, the temptation. But Rune knew if she lay down in that bed, she wasn’t getting back up. Not for a long, long time.
She refused to sleep while the world fell down around her. While Z was lost to her once again.
Damascus had hit her with a spell, obviously. And if the witch wanted her to sleep, that was the last thing Rune was going to do.
“You can go,” Rune said.
Dari inclined her head. “If there’s anything you need, you have only to call out.” Then she backed from the room.
Rune shrugged the witch’s cloak from her shoulders and dressed quickly, barely glancing at the clothes as she pulled on a white tank, a black sweater, and a pair of loose black cotton pants. There were black low-heeled ankle boots, which were only a little too big, and a rather thin black jacket with deep pockets and sleeves so long she was forced to roll the cuffs back to keep them from hanging past her fingertips.
She shot out her claws, moaning a little with the joy of it.
And she shook the fogginess from her brain.
I am my monster.
My monster is me.
And they were both stronger than a fucking sleep spell.
Then she pulled her claws back in and slipped from the room, her heart thumping hard against her chest.
She wasn’t sure what she needed to do, but she wasn’t going to find out hiding in her room.
The crawlers had hurt her badly enough to make her weak, to make her need the witch who’d saved her.
To make her need a mother, even if she was a vicious black-hearted—
“Princess.”
She whirled toward the voice, her claws out before was aware she’d released them. The hallway was full of shadowed crevices and closed doors, and intricate tapestries covered most of the walls.
“Yeah?” she s
aid, probing the dark corners with her narrowed gaze.
The voice had come from behind one of the tapestries she’d just passed. She took a couple steps back and waited.
The witch’s castle would be full of tricks, traps, and hidden dangers, she had no doubt.
As Rune watched, a woman pushed a tapestry aside and slipped from the tiny nook it sheltered. She was small—even smaller than Rune—and Rune thought for one heart-stopping moment that it was a child.
“Princess,” the person said again, and moved closer to Rune, her palms up. “You’ve come.”
She was not a child. She was…old. Ancient. A crone, bent and gnarled. She twisted her head to the side and peered up at Rune.
“Hello,” Rune said, politely. “One of the many spies sent to watch me, I take it?”
There was something dark in the old woman’s eyes that couldn’t be hidden by the deep folds and creases on her face.
Rune’s arms were at her sides and she swung one of them gently, allowing her long, lethal claws to scratch at the polished wood floor.
The woman watched the movement, and she sucked in her lips. “You’ll want the dungeons.”
“Will I?” Rune said, her voice mild. “What’s there?”
The woman looked around, her eyes nearly hidden in the folds of her face. “She will know where you’ll end up, dear. She knows everything.” She gestured with knotted fingers. “Here, the walls talk. There are spies everywhere.”
“Why are you risking yourself by talking to me?” Yeah, she was suspicious. She needed help, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to be cautious.
“Come closer,” the crone whispered. “Give me your ear.”
Rune hesitated, then leaned down to place her ear against the strange old woman’s lips.
“I am the ally Gunnar sought to help you. Trust me, Princess.”
Rune’s stomach twisted at the mention of the ghoul’s name. “How can you help me?”
“I helped Gunnar. I can manage you.” Her voice was dry and the smallest trace of humor lit her faded eyes.
“You can cloak me,” Rune said, slowly.
“I still have some power.” The crone rubbed her hands together and the sound was like sandpaper on wood. “Were you stupid enough to let her into your mind?”
“Let me in. Let me make the crawlers fear you as they fear me.”
Her stomach tightened and she nodded. “I dropped my walls and let her in.” She massaged the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t know what I was doing. What happens now?”
“I can make it so she can’t track you, but there won’t ever be a time when you’re completely separate from her.” And she continued to rub her dry hands together.
“That won’t be a problem when she’s dead,” Rune murmured.
But the old woman only snorted. “She’s always going to be alive somewhere, Princess.”
Rune wasn’t entirely sure the old lady was sane, but she’d take any help she could get—even if it wasn’t help she could be sure of.
“What will I find in the dungeons?”
The old lady didn’t answer, but Rune knew she would find only horror in the witch’s dim.
The woman continued rubbing her hands together, and in the gloom, sparks began to fly brightly between them. She mumbled as she rubbed.
Rune shifted from one foot to the other and glanced over her shoulder. “Hurry, old woman.”
The ancient woman hit Rune so suddenly and with so much power that Rune was knocked to the floor.
Dazed, she stared up at the strange, ancient woman, her fingers on her throbbing cheek. She felt the cloaking like a slick second skin. “Hitting me so hard—does that make the cloak stronger?”
“Not a bit.”
Rune climbed to her feet. “Then why’d you do it?”
“Make you think twice before you call me an old woman again.” And she clapped her hands, cackling.
Rune backed away. “Go back into your corner. It won’t be safe for you below.”
The old woman grinned and put a finger to her lips. “Shhh.”
Rune shuddered. She’d never again be able to hear that particular sound without terror seizing her heart. “Where’s the dim?”
“Outside the castle,” the hag said. “Find the backstairs at the end of the hall. Go down to the kitchen and exit the door there. Mind the cook—she’s a vicious and cruel woman who won’t hesitate to sound the alarm. Most people will ignore you if they have a choice—the spell makes you…faded—and they won’t notice you until you bring yourself to their attention. You’ll know the dim when you see it. Hurry, whilst the witch believes you are sleeping.”
She patted her bony chest, and Rune feared she might be having a heart attack. “This will give you an extra few minutes before you’re discovered. And if you do succeed in escaping, it will keep her from tracking you wherever you end up. Be on guard. She likely knows your next move better than you do. I can do no more. Go now.”
The hag watched her until she turned the corner at the end of the hallway.
She hoped with everything inside her that Z wasn’t in the dim.
Z could not take the things that Owen had been forced to endure.
“Be okay, Z. Please be okay.”
She didn’t feel him with her.
She didn’t feel him, and that scared the fuck out of her.
If she had indeed been at the crawlers’ mercy for three days, the zombies and crows should have already arrived at the castle. Maybe they simply circled, waiting for Rune’s arrival. Waiting for a signal she had no idea how to give.
But she had a feeling that when the real battle began, all of Skyll would know.
Maybe all the worlds would know.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The cloaking spell might keep the witch from feeling her, much as she’d felt Z, but it would not keep anyone from seeing her if she physically walked by them.
She crept down the long hallway until she found the door to the backstairs the crone had told her to look for.
She passed no one until she quietly pushed against the small door that opened into the hot, overflowing kitchen.
It was full of people. People cooking, chopping, washing, mopping…no one was still, and there were at least twenty people inside the huge room.
She peered through the doorway until she finally spotted the cook with her tall white hat and spattered jacket. She shouted orders and insults and occasionally hit her gray-uniformed helpers with whatever utensil was handy.
Ignoring the other workers, Rune kept a watchful eye on the cook as she slipped from her hiding place to look for the exit.
She darted behind tall freezers, ducked beside wide tables, and paused beside or behind whatever would hide her when the cook turned her way.
And then, once the cook’s attention was on a pot of boiling soup or a greasy pan of meat, Rune hurried farther into the room.
She’d nearly reached the door when the cook turned toward her. There was nothing to hide behind, no table to crouch down beside, nothing.
And the cook looked right through her.
Rune stood unmoving and silent, waiting.
The cook frowned.
One of the workers dropped a handful of silverware. The cook immediately rushed toward the girl, berating her loudly, and Rune made her escape.
“This cloak kicks some serious ass,” she muttered.
The crone had been right—she recognized the dim as soon as she saw it. It looked similar to Brasque Dray’s dim, only larger.
That, and the exterior of the witch’s dim was covered with nailed up heads, hanging bodies, and so much blood and rot that the smell hit her before she actually spotted the prison.
Screams and moans and pleading voices were numerous and loud, and did not only come from inside the dim.
Some of the howls of agony came from the people who’d been put on display in front of the prison.
Rune pushed her knuckles against her lips. “Son
of a bitch.”
People swarmed around her as she stood frozen with shock. They chattered and smiled and hurried along laughing and talking as though nothing at all was wrong.
But the longer she watched them, the more forced their smiles seemed. When she paid attention, she heard the near hysteria in their voices. She saw the strain on their faces and the stiffness in their bodies.
And those being tortured…
She saw a man who’d been stripped of his clothes and forced to squat upon a sharpened pole. He was nearly blue from cold and weakness. His legs shook as he strained to keep himself up—but even as she watched, his leg muscles gave out and he started a slow slide down the pole that would begin with agony and end with a slow death.
A broad woman with an indifferent face and dead eyes flayed a young man alive. His screams blended with the voices of the busy crowd and the cries of the other people being tortured.
There was a stack of tin plates next to a man who turned a charred, crispy-skinned woman on a spit over a low fire.
The horror was unending.
Brasque Dray’s torture paled in comparison.
Because the people being tortured on the witch’s land weren’t dying. No one had to tell her that they were kept alive by magic.
She wanted to destroy Skyll at that moment.
Wanted to end the entire world and try to pretend like it had never been.
The tormented voices drilled into her brain, shredded her heart, and physically hurt her body. She curled her hands into fists and raised them to her ears. But before she could shut out the sounds, she heard something that once again made her remember her mission.
Crows.
More importantly, her crow.
“Shiv Crow,” she said, and looked skyward. She saw none of the crows, but they were there. She raised her arm and opened her hand.
The crow dove from the sky like a black, feathered missile.
He landed with one claw on her palm and the other on her forearm, and even as strong as she was she had trouble adjusting to his weight.
He’d grown into a large, shaggy bird with a long, sharp beak and lethal claws. He tilted his head and stared into her eyes for just a second.
Then he lifted off and became a speck in the sky before the startled exclamations of the witch’s people had ended.
