Something told him he would regret this, but what could he do? Exposing her as a witch was the last thing he needed.
Amira rubbed her wrists, slowly examined the area, and waited. It didn’t take a genius to understand what would happen next. There were actually just a few options after all. Running, which she didn’t consider at all. Being dragged to the village all tied up, which would result in a public execution. Or, the one she thought Raven should be contemplating right now, since public execution would defeat his whole purpose. He definitely had plans for her, and death was not on the menu—at least not yet.
“One wrong word or move from you,” Raven’s voice washed over her in a warning, “and public execution will be the least of your problems. Understood?”
“Don’t worry, darling,” Amira mouthed the last word deliberately slowly, “you’ve kind of grown on me. Besides, I wholeheartedly believe in one kidnapper at a time.” Did she actually say that? Amira wondered. She had lost her mind completely. It was not the time to be herself, and yet, despite all, she couldn’t seem to stop.
Raven simply lifted his brow without saying a word. She got the message though. Heeding it—that was another story.
For now, she bit her tongue and followed. Once in the inn, the housewife, a middle-aged fair-haired woman, welcomed them and showed them to their room. It was a small but clean room with a bed, a fireplace, a table, and a few chairs in it. The wallpapers seemed washed-out, the once-red bed coverlet had a light pink shade, and the carpet was faded, but thoroughly aired.
Amira took a bite of the roasted duck Raven ordered, and turned to face him. “Evolyn?” she exclaimed, referring to the name he’d given to Mrs. Leithnit, the innkeeper, “do I look like Evolyn to you?”
“You would have preferred me calling you witch?”
Amira considered his words as she chewed her next bite, swallowed it, and asked again, “but Evolyn?”
“And what’s wrong with that name?” Raven placed his hands on his hips waiting for an answer. His gaze was cold as ice. It should have given her the first hint to keep her mouth shut. Any wise person would have heeded the warning. Amira, she simply went with the flow, even if it was destined to crash straight into rocks.
“I have no doubt it belongs to someone very charming,” she moved closer, “like your … uhm,” she thought about it for a second, “your mother, or some childhood love, but with such a name you are bound to be burned,” she finished, sensing his muscles turning to steel.
Oh, this time she had done it—the thought crossed her mind the same instant he closed on her and seized her.
Amira could tangibly feel menace radiating from his body; fury boiling inside, but still locked tight behind the unbreachable walls. And pain. The sharp, cutting your soul in half feeling was unmistakable and overwhelming.
She tilted her chin to meet his burning eyes and was immediately trapped by their locked gazes—his inner world slipping through the cracks of his cast-iron control.
“I am sorry about your sister,” she uttered, unconsciously reacting to bits and pieces she got from him. The glimpses weren’t flashes of events like from every other person she got. She didn’t see a single memory of his—simply knew small, unrelated facts. Things that mostly didn’t help her.
Things such as what he ate a month ago, or that he never drank. For some reason dreaded returning home every single time. Buried his sister Evolyn.
Reacting on pure instinct, Amira closed her eyes, severing the connection between them, and with it, the flow of information. Her chest froze with the sudden revelation—the more intense Raven’s emotions were, be they anger, pain, or lust, the less control he had over protecting his thoughts and memories from her. If she pressed harder, she knew she could widen the fissures in his armor. Yet her eyes remained closed.
It wasn’t a matter of conscience. It wasn’t! It couldn’t be. Her past selves had never had any compunction against ripping a mind open if it was a necessity. Amira needed to know everything he’d buried inside. She had a strong suspicion that one of Raven’s secrets would lead her to her destiny. To the prophesy. And still her eyes remained closed.
All she knew was the pain she had inadvertently caused him to relive anew. The pain he had felt when he’d knelt on the freshly-dug grave. Memories were holding Raven captive, his body in a trance-like state. He didn’t even react when Amira freed herself from his arms.
This pushing till something in him snapped was not only dangerous and painful, but also too sporadic and uncontrollable. Besides, it always caught her unprepared, she yawned, suddenly feeling exhausted.
The only consolation is that Raven won’t remember any of this when he finally awakens, Amira placated herself before she took off her shoes and went to bed, already contemplating her next move. She needed a better plan, but before she could come up with anything, she fell asleep.
Amira!, a voice she recognized as Hope’s woke her up.
“What?” she yawned, rubbing her sleep-laden eyes. Blinked. And realized Hope wasn’t in the room.
She sat up and glanced around, absorbing every detail in seconds. The sun was already rising, though the room still drowned in shadows. Her captor was seated in a chair, placed so as to block the doorway, sword in hand; ready to spring up at any moment, no doubt.
The small, hard chair seemed uncomfortable, and judging from the angle of his body he was definitely going to feel this night for the next few days. And yet, he’d left her in a bed.
The man kept surprising her.
Amira removed the covers, stood up, and only after she took a few steps did she notice that Raven wasn’t sleeping. His eyes were half closed, but he was vigilant of everything going on around.
At least he had been, before Hope stopped time and left him frozen like a statue.
“Now go outside,” Hope ordered.
“Why?” Amira asked; but what she was thinking was—no way in hell.
“I don’t owe you explanations,” Hope’s voice reached her again, and Amira turned to the side where she suspected the goddess would linger in an invisible form.
“And I don’t follow orders,” Amira shot back. She had a very strong suspicion this was a trap.
“Have it your way,” Hope retorted, and a second later everything started spinning. Amira grabbed for the corner of the bed, only to find no bed. She fell. Still, the spinning didn’t cease. For a long minute Amira felt no floor beneath her feet, no furniture or walls to grab onto. And suddenly, her body hit the ground. Hard. All the air rushed out of her lungs and it took her a moment to lift her head.
A trap! She knew it, Amira cursed, seeing she was no longer in the room. Worse, she had no idea where she was. Or how to get back before Raven missed her again.
Teleportation wasn’t in her skillset. At least not yet.
“Laugh all you want,” she yelled, scrambling to her shaky feet, “but the day will come…” she swore to herself, finally finding a doorknob in the pitch-black jail she had been thrown into.
The door creaked, but opened enough to let her out. Amira didn’t stop for a single moment. She ran. As fast as her legs could carry her, she flew out of the abandoned barn straight to where she sensed Raven would be.
Her swift, large steps ate the ground as she furiously raced against time, determined to prevail. Failure wasn’t an option. To her, failure equaled death. Her breathing became shallow and rapid, barely taking in the air her stinging lungs needed. Her hands shook, beads of perspiration sprang up on her brow, but she didn’t slow down.
Amira gave it everything she had. Barefoot, she ran through the forest, ignoring rough branches scraping her arms, and sharp stones digging into the soles of her feet every time she placed one on the forest floor. She never took her eyes away from her goal—a small village just beyond the trees.
As she jumped over the fallen log, her dress got caught between leafless, weathered branches, forcing her to a halt. With no finesse, Amira grabbed the hem and pulled, causing th
e fabric to tear. The second she was free and about to leap into another run, Amira found herself face to face with Raven. And he was furious.
She was caught. Dragged to the horse, tied up and thrown over the beast like a sack of grain. She didn’t try explaining; it wasn’t like she could defend herself, nor did he demand answers. He simply secured the knots and mounted the horse.
It was humiliating to be in such a position, forced to feel every gallop reverberating through her bones, every piece of dirt land on her face, and only the speeding hooves in her sight. She had a strange feeling someone above was having a great time at her expense. Not that it would shock her. Goddesses often liked to play with humans. She just had no desire to be their puppet. As if anyone cared about her desires.
Considering her luck so far, if Raven was to lead her to her destiny, then it was going to be the roughest and the most gnarled road she could have ever imagined.
On that joyous note Amira heard distant voices greeting her captor, offering help. And then, silence. A silence so deep, she could swear it would be possible to hear butterfly landing a mile away. Amira swallowed, knowing that even if her ears failed to detect malevolence, her skin prickled as dozens of eyes landed upon her.
“Could it be?” someone standing nearby asked.
“Yes, a witch.” Raven said simply, “would you…” he gestured something with his hands Amira couldn’t see, leaving her to wonder what he had in store for her.
She didn’t have to wait long. Almost instantly she was grabbed by her waist. Rough hands pulled her down and turned her so she was forced to face a boar smiling at her. She was barely able to stand her ground and not recoil, as image after image of what he would like to do to her flew before her eyes.
It wasn’t simply hatred that almost succeeded in frightening her—it was the pleasure she knew he would experience in choking the last breath out of her. It was the knowledge of his twisted and sick thoughts she was forced to digest, as she stared into the face almost as ugly as his soul.
The face may not have been his fault. Actually, Amira was certain the monstrous look was given to him by Venlordians. Half of his face was burned with acid, the other half marked deeply by a large, red and angry “S” standing out on his pale cheek. It singled him out as a condemned sinner. A male who had tried to hide or protect a witch.
The face may not have been his fault, but hatred toward real witches—because his wife was executed as one in front of him—was all of his own choosing. Amira didn’t think the man himself even knew the extent of his feelings, considering the unguarded way they jumped at her without any effort on her part to probe his mind.
He was a drowning man, and she needed to take the utmost care around him. He was bound to drag someone down with him. Except, Amira suspected all the carefulness in the world wouldn’t do her much good.
“I’ll show our hospitality to the guest, my lord,” he said all too gleefully.
“Do so…” Raven was already turning from her, “…and Owen, I know how your fingers itch,” he paused. “Don’t.”
Amira hoped it was a good sign, but then she saw what Owen was looking at.
In the middle of the yard stood a tall wooden pole with chains attached. It was carved with protective symbols from base to top—symbols, that created a circle around it, within which a witch could not practice her power. How she hated these things, she thought, as Owen dragged her to the stake and chained her.
Amira glanced up; people were starting to gather from all around. Only a handful of men remained standing near the entrances. Probably guards, though why Raven kept them eluded her. No one did. Not professional ones, at least.
She looked around, and closed her eyes immediately. Sensing. Listening. Every emotion of every human being around went through her body. It made her feel nauseous.
Back to the hatred, she muttered inwardly. And to think she had almost forgotten what it was like to be hated simply because of what she was. Almost. Nightmares from her past lives were never far away. Reminding her how dangerous crowds like these were.
“Burn the witch!” someone from the crowd shouted, confirming her suspicion.
There was a big murmur and after a while more and more joined him.
“Yes, burn the witch,” people kept shouting. “She must pay.”
“Stone her!” others yelled.
“Gut her!” came a suggestion.
Just great. They were arguing over how to kill her. Which of those deaths would be the most atrocious one. Personally Amira preferred none, but she was convinced no one would even listen to her. So she kept silent while more and more shouts merged into an overwhelming cacophony, threatening to swallow her alive, to make her pay for all of her sins.
Of course, every natural and unnatural disaster in the world was her fault. It was her fault someone’s wife was burned or daughter raped. Who else, if not a monster such as her, was responsible for all of it? After all, she was a perfect target. Anything went with crowds like these. They were like vultures attacking the weak, imagining themselves strong just because of their number. But in a split second capable of turning against one of their own.
Well, she was not weak. And scavengers didn’t intimidate her. Amira bit back a groan when an apple hit her chest. She refused to show pain. Refused to cry or beg, or even gasp. She looked straight at her executioners, waiting for another blow that was certain to follow.
She witnessed the boy who threw the fruit disappear into the crowd, only to be replaced by more dangerous individuals. Rocks, not apples, were held in their hands, and despite Amira’s resolve, she felt her heartbeat gaining momentum. Was this it? Was the cycle to begin again? Had she failed this time too?
It was almost ridiculous that after so many deaths her heart still rolled down to the soles of her feet, but it did. Nevertheless, she didn’t crumble. She was determined to meet her doom proudly standing.
Even if her knees began to wobble, she refused to let her bones liquefy into a puddle. She ordered herself to stand no matter what.
A rock the size of a fist flew an inch past her. Another one was ready.
Stand tall, she chanted, no matter what, just stand.
“Stop that!” a girl shouted, stepping in front of the crowd, “You’ll kill her.”
Amira’s eyes flared wide. Was this the answer for her survival? Trusting in others? Trust was not something she had in abundance. Probably because she knew the bitterness of betrayal, but if it was the answer, and her instincts told her so, she was prepared to try.
“So?” someone asked.
“If I recall correctly, master Raven forbade such a thing.”
“Mind your own beeswax, Nyssa,” Owen threatened, “or I’ll chain you next to her.”
The blonde girl stood her ground. “So be it, I’ll just go and tell the master of your plans.”
Owen lowered his rock. He spat a few insults regarding the girl’s foolishness, and stepped aside. After the man left, some of the others began to leave as well. Those remaining simply watched her.
Nyssa waited a few more moments and then carefully approached.
“You are a real witch?” she whispered.
“I am.”
“You don’t look like one.” she said in a curious voice while examining every inch of her.
“And how do witches look?” Amira inquired.
“They are old nasty hags with big noses and crooked teeth.” Nyssa was picturing every child’s nightmare. Little did she know about real witches, it seemed. She looked around sixteen years old. A young girl, but with the spirit of a warrior.
“Are you a maid here?” Amira asked, still not comprehending why there were so many people.
Nyssa burst out laughing. “No,” she shook her beautiful golden curls, “my mom and I asked for protection about eight years ago.”
“It’s a sanctuary?” Amira arched her brows in confusion.
“Yes. People were calling my mom a witch, ’cause she knows herbs. Then the
Venlordians came…” Nyssa’s smile completely disappeared and she shivered from the coldness of the memory her words evoked. “We got away,” she finally whispered in a timid voice, as if trying to reassure herself.
Amira didn’t ask to elaborate further. It was obvious. The Venlordians had harmed them. Was Nyssa…? Amira probed her mind a bit and felt a huge wave of relief wash over her when she found out that the girl hadn’t suffered at their hands. But her mother had. And the boy who threw the apple was actually the fruit of some friar’s brutality.
“The others?” Amira tried changing the subject without actually changing it.
“We all shared the same fate; just some of them were not as lucky as we were.”
It truly was a sanctuary, Amira thought, now understanding the need for guards. And if it wasn’t for the chains binding her arms, she would probably admire the man. But despite this kindness, she had to wonder how many witches he had dragged and chained to this accursed stake. How many of them were stoned to death, or burned alive?
Chapter 7
Raven tightened his grip on the horse, his legs refusing to move even when he ordered himself to forget. He couldn’t show mercy to a witch. Plans were finally set in motion, and he desperately needed them to bear results.
So why did it feel so wrong? Why couldn’t his eyes let go of her, his body turn away from her?
He felt frozen to the same spot he handed her to Owen, unable to shake off a sensation he was setting something else in motion. Something dark and ugly. And for a moment there, he had to remind himself of all the reasons this was necessary. Seeing her manhandled by the man he wouldn’t normally trust his dog to made it even harder. But the moment she’d been chained to that damned stake he had almost crumbled. The image brought memories so painful, his heart was cloven in half. Again.
Till Death And Beyond (Witch World) Page 5
