The Daughter Of Lava (#3 Reclaimed Souls Series)
Page 8
I look down in the direction of The Gardens. Roland follows suit. “Just before The Gardens’ door, there is another exit that will take us down,” he says as he grabs my hand and pulls me with him down the hallway.
“No, not down,” I hiss. “Out.”
Cat follows. “Bad idea, Roland,” she spits out quickly, tapping through a different set of camera feeds, but I can’t see any of the images before she abruptly stashes her tablet away and draws out her sword. “It’s just on the other side—”
My ears pop just as a shattering explosion rips through The Gardens, throwing the doors off their hinges and into flying, shredding, slicing projectiles. More precisely, I know of this is happening rather than actually seeing and hearing it. I’m face down, balled up, and, now, deaf.
The doors miss us somehow. Thank you, Goddess. But other, smaller things didn’t. Something’s stuck in my leg; metal shrapnel, or similar. Whatever it is, it’s embedded and I don’t plan to stick around here much longer and dig it out.
Part of the ceiling behind us crashes, effectively blocking any retreat we might have hoped for.
There’s only one-way to go: the door that leads down. It’s only a few feet away, but it might as well be a hundred miles by the way the fire grows and everything collapses around us. The heat licks at my feet as I attempt to crawl away. I’m aware of movement to my left as smoke rolls in. Roland or Cat. I don’t know. Lifting up some of the wood paneling, the stitches in my shoulder stretch—though that particular injury seems like a lifetime ago—and as my other arm feels around, I find Roland.
His hand clutches mine and together we stagger up, crouching low in the black smoke, and search for Cat. We find her under a large metal beam, unconscious. Together, and wordlessly—not that we could even hear each other anyway—we shift the beam as best as we can. The floor, ceiling, and walls continue to rumble angrily.
Roland picks her up just as the floor drops a foot or two.
Oh, Goddess, I hiss internally as my eyes round. I’m not meant to die here. Trapped. Scared. But I’m not alone. A warm, wet hand clasps around mine as the floor gives way even more.
I stare into Roland’s eyes and for a brief second, his mouth quirks into a lopsided grin. He must be in shock. Or maybe I am.
Then the floor collapses completely and we go down with it.
Twenty-One
TIME. IT WEAVES AROUND me like a cold blanket. I open one eye, see nothing but blurriness. It feels like I move on my own accord and then forget what I saw, what I did, or even who I am as blackness creeps back in.
This happens again and again, like a bad dream that I cannot wake from. I know, somehow, that something warm grips my hand the entire time. It squeezes me, and this reassures me when I know that, with my whole heart, nothing can truly reassure me as war rages on. The war outside. The war between my heart and my soul.
At last, I wake up and stay awake, fully aware that I’m not in control of anything anymore. Was I ever? I’m pulled up and forced to walk. No words. My ability to hear is severely impaired, and it feels like all I can hear is a dull, but everlasting, ringing tone.
But I know Roland is in front of me. I can smell him. And Cat? Does he still carry her?
Wherever we are, it’s dark. With my free hand—the other is still possessively clutched by another—I feel crumbly, unfinished walls against my palm. It takes me several minutes to discern that we’re in a small passage, like a little hidden gem of a secret tunnel inside the Palace Skyscraper.
The tunnel leads to a stone staircase. The air is thicker here, warmer, as we head lower into the bowels of hell. Soon, an orange hue below plasters our ghastly shadows against the stone wall. Before me, Roland’s flickering shadow silhouettes his and Cat’s prone profile together.
So he still carries her. Good. But she’s out and between the three of us, she’s the only one who’s truly a warrior. With her out of commission, I feel that our chances of surviving dwindle significantly.
Explosions go off in the distance. In the mountains, the Old City, or somewhere else, I know not. I only know that Roland will lead us outside of this god-forsaken Palace. Or, I hope so.
At some point, though I don’t remember, Roland releases my hand. Now he opens a door a floor or two above the flames below. I look down. Heat blasts my face instantly, but not before I get a glimpse of orange-red moving lava-water. That’s the only way I can describe it. Not quite water and not quite lava. Some sort of a combination of the two.
Questions fill my mind, but I’m not prepared to form them as I walk into the other room with Roland.
At first, I assume the lava-water is there because of what’s going on outside, but then I wonder if it hasn’t always been there. Like a natural heating source for the Palace, like hot water running through tubes to heat up a room.
Considering all of our immediate concerns, this isn’t one of them, and I let it drop from my mind. But because of this and the water purification chamber the group traversed earlier, I begin to wonder if there’s a lot more to Roland Rexus than meets the eye.
Inventor? Protector? Lover?
Yes, no, maybe.
The air turns cold—freezing almost—and I recognize that we’re in one of the subbasements. My lab is here. We turn a corner. The catwalk’s lights turn on, illuminating from below, and Roland stops in front of my lab door.
He moves aside, his lips move, and while I can’t actually hear what he says, it’s clear to me that he wants me to open it. I wonder what for.
I press my hand to the door, it vibrates, and then swings open on command. Once inside, I inspect the room. It’s as I left it. The entire left side, still scorched from my angry-experimentation-riot after taking The Pale Waters, is a black, burnt blight in an otherwise crisp, sanitized room.
Roland lays Cat down on the only serviceable table, straightens her clothes, and gently pushes the stray hair out of her face.
Lovingly.
I know he cares for her. Loves her, even, but it isn’t an all-consuming, fire-burning-your-heart love. It’s companionship. Friendship. Loyalty. Family.
Cat, out of everyone else on this damn continent, is his only family. He might love me. He might care for me. His heart and soul may burn in ecstasy for me. But Cat, his trusty chief of staff, is who he stares at worriedly.
Until now, as I come to stand beside Roland and observe her, I hadn’t considered the idea that she might be dead. The marks on her skin glisten and glow. I press fingers into her neck, grateful to feel a strong pulse there, but the act actually hurts me.
Then I see it. My right arm is burned, red and blistered, the clothes ragged and torn off from the shoulder down.
I suck in air to keep from screaming as everything in me—and I mean everything—comes to life. How did I not know? My mind wasn’t ready, so it numbed me from the pain.
Suddenly, everything burns. My skin. My fingers. My leg. I stare at my leg. I’m stupefied by what I see. From the knee down, it’s a bloody, burnt mess. Because of the explosion upstairs, metal shrapnel digs into my flesh, undisturbed, surrounded by fevered skin.
I chew hard on my lip, tongue, to keep from crying. From the pain. From my failure. From seeing Cat unresponsive on the table. But I can’t stop the tears from forming and then spilling down my cheeks.
I let it come. Quiet sobs rack me, or, if I am sobbing out loud, saving grace has it where I can’t hear a thing anyway. I feel Roland’s gaze. His hand is on my back. Warm. Soft. Inviting. Forgiving.
Finally, I look up and see him. Even through my tears, I really see him for who he is. His face is uneven, but handsome. He appears younger with his hair pulled back, his strong jaw visible and masculine. The scars seem to melt away, fading into a reality that no longer matters. He’ll earn fresh scars, as will I, if we live through the day. And I’ll cherish each and every one of them.
I see his flaws with his perfections. His heat draws me in, and I find that I cannot look anywhere else but at him.
A sad thought hits me: I don’t deserve him. I never will.
His hand moves up from my back, gently over my shoulder, then to my face. His thumbs glide over my tears, wiping them away, and I give him a watery smile. His fingers travel to my neck and then he fixes my disheveled hair, refastening it into a fresh ponytail.
“That’s better.” His mouth moves, but I can barely hear the syllables. He pulls me in, his lips find mine, and he kisses me tenderly. Nothing urgent. But soft, gentle, and loving. When the kiss ends, his thumb lingers at my lips, probing, gliding, and I kiss it, but Cat distracts us—happily—when she suddenly sits up.
“Oh, don’t mind me,” she says, half-serious, half-sarcastic as she checks herself. “Continue on. Pretend I’m not here.”
Roland immediately embraces Cat, but she pushes him away, though a small smile graces her lips. I move in to hug her, too, but she puts her hands up, halting me.
She studies me a moment, focusing on my head for some reason.
“What?” I mouth elaborately.
“At least the explosion got rid of that hideous Patroxi helmet. You looked ridiculous,” Cat says. I’m able to read her lips. Roland laughs, and so do I. Then Cat, checking the time, continues on, “We’re behind schedule, Roland.”
Twenty-Two
BEFORE WE LEAVE THE lab, I retrieve the Feeble Princess’ Pale Waters and shove the vial into the only useful pocket I have left. It clatters against my communicator tablet.
I’m fairly certain that Roland brought us here just so that I could get the vial. At the end of the day, in my mind, I’m still only a research assistant. Nothing more, and, after my break of allegiance with the Grandfather, nothing less.
Both Roland and Cat have interesting expressions as they observe the left side of my lab, and I can see the questions forming in their minds, but whatever they might think or want to ask stays forever unasked. Had the situation been different, I know I would have received hell, and deservedly so.
I move to open the lab’s door and I wait for them to come out so I can follow in whatever direction they take us. Roland first, Cat second. As she passes, I notice that her injuries appear to be less harsh than I remember them to be. The scratches are lighter, almost nonexistent, and the bullet hole in her arm is gone. Sealed. Only a tiny red dot mars her smooth, tattooed skin.
I suppose being an enhanced half-human has its privileges, I think ruefully, especially as I remember her tongue. I smile at that particular memory.
She moves easier than me and Roland. We’re both a mess. Burned. Limping. Deaf. Extremely bloody. And, I’ll admit it, pretty damn ugly—not that we were much to begin with.
Cat and Roland turn us down another darkened hallway whose lights do not glow, and I have to clutch onto Cat’s arm to follow. I hear something moving—a door—as stone slides against stone. I move when Cat does.
It’s another pitch-black hidden passageway with an uneven, carved-out floor. Instantly, I know we’re in the mountain. The air is cool and smells chalky.
Cat jerks downward on my arm and I take it to mean the path will decline. And it does, in the form of a stone staircase—also uneven—but the steps are shallow, long, and wide, and I’m able to traverse it somewhat easily. It continues down forever, so much so that I think, rather sarcastically, that once we finally come back to the surface, we’ll be on a different continent. I wonder what’s happening topside with the war. Guilt gnaws at me for not being outside.
We reach a flat landing, and Cat slows down. I see a small flare a few feet away and then it turns into a larger, glowing torch, and, since it is in Roland’s hand, he just as quickly deposits it into a chiseled-out hollow crook in the wall.
It illuminates the chamber—or small cavern, I should say—and I discover, somewhat enchantedly, that the room is a naturally derived grotto, complete with a small pool of fresh, clean mountain water. A little bit of my hearing is back in my left ear and I can faintly hear a gentle trickle of liquid as it flows from someplace higher than this into the basin of water.
In my visual dedication to all of this, I miss seeing what Roland and Cat are doing. Which means I failed to see, in the beginning, the other room joined to this one. They walk in and out of it repeatedly. Carrying things. Food. Water pouches. Clean clothing.
Then, as if we all think the exact same thought, they immediately strip off their dirty garments. I mostly stare at Roland, at his smooth, red-raised chest and his smooth, hair-free sex, with extreme interest; however, Cat’s physique intrigues me, too. Her tall, lithe, tattooed figure also arouses desire within me as I view her small breasts, flat stomach, and her double-gender sex parts. She is both male and female, able to please just about anyone at any time, and she can seriously kill giant, full-blooded Patroxi ass.
Everyone should be in love with her.
“Over here, Rahda,” Roland says, breaking my thoughts, pointing down to a box with my name on it. Roland steps into the pool of water, Cat follows, and I quickly disrobe, though careful around my burned arm and leg, and enter the pool.
Dear goddess, the water is liquid ice, and as I stand up—it isn’t deep—the bone-chilling water feels exquisite against my fevered skin. I sink under, allowing my head and hair to get wet. By the time I break the surface, Cat’s already leaving the pool, and Roland isn’t far behind.
This isn’t a vacation. It’s a quick respite, a change of clothes, and a bite to eat before we carry on. I climb out of the rocky pool, find a towel in my box, dry off, coat my leg and arm in a stinky, viscous burn salve that Cat tosses my way, and then change into a fresh set of clothing and new boots. Roland hands me my dagger and the sword that Cat gave me earlier, plus a set of diamond-plated-chain mail, which I quickly pull over my head and fasten around the sides of my waist.
“Here,” he says, shoving two tins of canned meat in my direction. I eat the contents instantly, relishing the feel of food in my stomach. As if on cue, he hands me other canned food, which I do not inspect but consume just as quickly.
Satisfied, I retrieve The Pale Waters vial and the communicator tablet out of my old trousers. I notice other boxes, crates, and even a few other containers literally bolted into the mountain rock—I presume this to house the valuables Cat mentioned earlier—as Cat and Roland finish eating, talking about how Mr. Underwood must have been here already, maybe as recently as thirty minutes ago, and how we might be able to catch up to him before he redirects the waterfall.
“What’s this about a waterfall?” I ask.
“Skyscraper City sits in a valley,” Roland explains. “We’ve damned up the waterfall for years, since before the royal revolution, to dry out the mineral-rich land below. We’ll flood it to push back the Patroxi and the soldiers from the city.”
“But you’ll ruin Skyscraper City,” I protest.
“You must admit, Rahda,” Cat says, “that there isn’t much that hasn’t already been ruined by a hundred years of savage ruling, the lack of clean water, and now, the ravaging fires destroying it as we speak.”
“Our citizens. What do you have to say about them?”
“Mr. Underwood’s taken care of that,” Roland says with some relief in his voice. “But we’re behind schedule. We knew about the attacks, but we had no idea someone would dispatch eight full-blooded Patroxi aliens on us.”
My mind spins.
“Say that last part again,” I order him.
He gives me a confused look, but he complies. “We knew about—”
“No, no,” I swipe my hand in the air urgently. “After that.”
Cat watches us intently, her head going back and forth.
“That someone would send eight full-blooded Patroxi aliens—”
“Dispatch,” I correct him. “You sa
id dispatch.”
“And?” Roland shakes his head, still confused at my line of questioning.
Make ready and dispatch eight.
“You sent the encrypted message,” I blurt out quickly, stepping back. Even Cat is looking at him in a new light. “You ordered the full-blooded Patroxi ambush.”
Twenty-Three
THE MUSCLES IN HIS jaw work back and forth. Clenching, unclenching, and I can almost hear the murderous words bouncing around in his head.
Finally, he exhales, though his icy glare stays fixed on me. “Why the hell would I do that, Rahda?”
“You deny it?”
Cat clears her throat. “I thought that we established that Jaucey called them. We’re wasting time,” she mutters in a tone that suggests she knows we aren’t paying attention. But what I do hear in her voice is that she doesn’t seem all that concerned if Roland did or didn’t call in the full-blooded Patroxi. She moves to the far side of the room, grabs the torch, comes back. Behind her I see a second set of stairs that lead up.
“Of course I deny it,” he all but growls at me. “How could I have ordered it?”
“A secured network terminal, obviously,” I snarl back at him as I close the distance between us, limping. My head throbs and I try to push away the rest of the pain in my body. Unsuccessfully. “Everything’s connected. The buildings. The mountains. Everything. Even to the Old City. The Palace Skyscraper must have several terminals.”
“It has one,” he says without hesitation. “But it is in part of the Palace I haven’t entered for a number of years. I certainly wouldn’t use it to order a full-blooded Patroxi attack. Furthermore, I do not know who I would send such an order to, Rahda.”