Wings of Ruin (Otherworld Book 3)

by Talis Jones

  Wings of Ruin

  Book 3 of the Otherworld Trilogy

  Talis Jones

  Wings of Ruin is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Talis Jones

  Cover design by StaleJive Design Collective

  Map copyright © 2020 Talis Jones

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN 9798643545538

  Published in the United States of America.

  www.talisjonesofficial.com

  Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

  The Otherworld Trilogy

  Crooked Raven

  Carrion Crow

  Wings of Ruin

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Years Later

  Decades Later

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Talis Jones

  Become the Ultimate

  For in that sleep of death

  What dreams may come,

  When we have shuffled off

  This mortal coil,

  Must give us pause.

  Hamlet

  Act III, Scene I, Line 66

  Prologue

  Fire in a hearth jumped hungrily as a woman's screams shattered the boiling air. Beside her Israfil wiped her damp brow and kept her gaze focused on the baby fighting its way free of its mother's belly. Once rescued from its cage the small raging limbs flailed mercilessly and its first deep breath of air fed a scream to crack windows. Passing the child to the girl assisting the birth, Israfil reached back in for a second baby was due. This one, however, slipped out with neither fight nor scowl. So content Israfil wondered if it lived but yes, the smallest wail and then a finger in its mouth and sleep reclaimed the child.

  Placed side by side Israfil stared down at the pair of twins. One a girl, hair as golden as the desert sun and skin pale as ice, and the other a boy, his hair as dark as winter's nights with skin warm as earth. The only trait that bound them was the green of their eyes. She hardly had a moment to ponder the strangeness when a vision hit the woman causing her to rock back upon her heels from its power. Images, chaos, fates, they all entwined in her mind of what was to come and her lungs burned at the fear to breathe. The moment the haunting poem of promise ended Israfil snapped her head towards the serving girl.

  “Fetch Titus,” she ordered sharply.

  The girl nodded yet hesitated by the mother's head where she'd been dabbing a moist cloth. “She's...dead,” she whispered with eyes wide.

  Israfil's mouth flattened tightly. “Just as well,” she sighed. “A prophecy binds these two babes and it's a weight she's best not knowing. Now find Titus.”

  Without needing to be told again the girl scampered off and within moments Titus appeared in the room using his magic to pop out of thin air.

  “Who is she?” Titus asked curiously.

  Israfil shook her head. “It's the twins you need to think about. The mother claimed they fought even as they formed in her womb.”

  Titus' heavy bootsteps settled before the blankets where one still fussed and the other stubbornly slept. “What was your vision?”

  “They will destroy Oneiroi as we know it,” Israfil murmured darkly. “They cannot stay together but even apart they will find a way. One will be the fire that devours until even its own soul is snuffed out. The other will be steel unyielding to anything outside of its purpose.”

  Titus tilted his head, his gaze never leaving their small fresh-born faces. “Is there no hope?”

  “A third child was mentioned,” Israfil answered carefully. “One that may act as a balance between them. A person who can guide them through what may be and what will.”

  Titus finally raised his gaze to meet the woman's dark eyes. “And where do we find this person?”

  “The Outer World. That's all I know.”

  After a moment's scrutiny Titus nodded. “Write down this prophecy exactly as it was told to you and send it to the Whispers at once. I will deal with the children.”

  “You're not going to...” Israfil began but her courage faded leaving her throat closed to the thought.

  “Kill them?” he finished for her, a small amused smile on his lips. “Well that would be easier, wouldn't it. But no, prophecies are rare and in my experience persistent. If not these twins then another. I'd rather get it over with...and I admit myself curious.”

  Carefully Titus scooped the little girl into his arms but stilled when Israfil held his shoulder before he could disappear.

  “The mother knew they must be kept far apart, but...” Israfil's eyes hardened. “They're destined to be powerful, not evil,” she emphasized.

  “A difficult distinction to master,” he replied and the moment Israfil released him he vanished into the ether reappearing on his ship of legends. Some called him the Reaper, the Collector, and many more of the same. But despite what the legends may claim, he too was once just a boy dreaming of adventure and adventure was what he got. Ferrying souls from the Outer World to Oneiroi he spent more time with dead, dying, or ghost than he did with the living on land – something he secretly much preferred although not many could understand why.

  Whistling for his first mate he placed the baby in the crook of the man's arm. “Get her somewhere safe then get this ship out of port. We're leaving the Island.”

  “Who is she, sir?” he dared to ask.

  Titus paused. “Someone it's best not to run into twice. Now hoist the colors and set sail.”

  “Yes, sir,” he saluted before rushing off below deck to the small nursery.

  One might think it odd that this gleaming ship of wood and shadows contained a nursery, but although most of their passengers came in the form of children they did ferry the occasional baby to the island of second chances. Or in this case, out of it.

  Switzerland 1892

  Böcklin could have sworn he saw a shadow shift beyond the curtained window in his cottage. Picking up the candle stub carefully in his weathered fingers he shuffled towards the door and cracked it open just wide enough to glance into the night. A heavy snow had begun to fall and the settling of flakes upon the earth remained the only sound to reach his ears until a soft yet angry hiccup pierced the still quiet.

  Glancing
down his eyebrows shot up to his hairline at the sight of a baby wrapped tightly in a blanket left upon his doorstep. Hurriedly he placed down the candle and brought the baby inside. Pinned to the blanket was a note written in a tight tidy scrawl. Love her well.

  Clutching her gently Böcklin sat in front of the small fire praying she'd be alright not knowing how long she'd been left in the cold. Despite the startling happenstance of events, a part of his heart warmed deeply for he'd always wanted a child and now here in his arms he held one who needed a father. With a gentle finger he stroked her soft cheek and began to murmur a lullaby from his own childhood.

  “What to name you?” he wondered to himself. One of the baby's small hands reached out and held his finger in a tight fist. He chuckled. “I had a dream the other night of a mighty queen in the mountains. I tried to paint the scene but there's something missing... I remember her name though. Dare I name you after such a fearsome character?”

  The little girl's fingers seemed to tighten and her shining green eyes fixed upon his as if saying yes. Another fatherly chuckle feathered from his throat. “Alright then, I can see you like the idea. Then that shall be your name. Cassandra.” As he rocked her in his arms he whispered, “You're going to grow up to do great things, Cassandra. I hope I'll be there to see it.”

  Chapter 1

  Switzerland

  Broth danced in the dented pot as fire churned it to a boil, the meager lumps of meat and vegetable melting to create a humble soup. Cassandra stirred, her nose nigh departing her face to better smell the warm scent of food, when a knock came at the door. Not the friendly knock of a distant neighbor asking to borrow a wood axe, but a demanding beat driven into the wood that alerts one’s basest instincts.

  Across the room her father delicately set aside his brushes and paints before rising to peek between the window curtains. The frown upon his mouth did not say much but the fear in his eyes told her everything. “Cassandra,” he muttered quickly. “Take Liam and hide in the cellar. Now.”

  With no argument she hugged him in haste, inhaling the scents of oil on canvas tinged with the sweat of fear, before catching her brother's hand and dragging him after her. His crooked leg and her rushing pace caused him to stumble but at least he was too startled to open his mouth and stutter. Climbing down the steep ladder to the cellar she waited impatiently for Liam to follow. Once the small door was sealed she heard their father's feet shuffle towards the cottage door and the wintry creak as the hinges reluctantly opened.

  Shoving Liam into a corner she fixed him with a steely glare. “Stay there,” she mouthed. Silently she climbed back up the ladder and stopped close enough to press her ear to the crack and listen.

  “What brings you to my house?” her father asked carefully, forcing hospitality into his tone.

  “We're here for food, shelter, and supplies. Our comrade is ill,” someone answered brusquely.

  Her father's feet shuffled in nerves, not in lie, when he answered, “I'm sorry, I don't have much to offer.”

  Cassandra could practically feel the icy grin as the man replied, “Then we will take what we can find.” Sounds of a scuffle and protests slammed into her ears.

  “I w-want t-to hear,” Liam protested softly.

  “No,” she hissed.

  “I'm n-not a child!” Liam lurched towards the ladder but his foot caught on the edge of a crate and he tumbled to the floor, a few apples thudding after him.

  “What was that?” one of the intruders demanded.

  Like a cat she leapt from the ladder and shoved Liam roughly into the secret hidey-hole built into the side wall and slid the panel shut before hiding herself behind a barricade of wine barrels. Their home may be drafty and humble but Böcklin did well with his art, a traveller from England even bought a piece for his country manor once. It was only his adamant refusal for indulgence that forced them to live like paupers, although apparently good wine did not count.

  Squeezing her fists tightly to keep her terror at bay she waited for her inevitable discovery as whoever invaded their life above tore apart their possessions in want. If only he'd indulged in better locks or perhaps some guards. A proper house even! He certainly had the money to do so, she thought with a hint of bitterness beneath the words. Her resentment only grew as her thoughts turned to Liam.

  They were of the same age although their father adopted him at the age of seven while she’d been with him practically since birth. He left for town one day and returned the next evening with a boy in tow. She wouldn't have minded some company her own age but he was a cripple who stole her father's time and affection. A useless leech no matter how sweet his spirit. And now I'll die because I had to act the hero and give him the only good hiding spot, she seethed.

  Suddenly her father's protests grew louder, more desperate, and before she could process the sounds the cellar door was flung open flooding the small room with brittle light. Weathered boots leapt down hardly touching the ladder and with a mere quarter turn he spotted the hem of her dress peeking out.

  “Well what do we have here?” he asked mockingly. Grabbing her arm roughly he pulled Cassandra to her feet earning a fierce glare of hatred from pale viridescent eyes. “Böcklin, you didn't tell us about this.”

  Forced out of the cellar she took in the devastating mess around her. Her father's precious paints had been spilled, his brushes broken, and the works carefully stacked in the corner now lay like canvas carcasses bleeding with the images none shall ever see. Cassandra met her father's terrified gaze and held her chin higher. Two other men stood in the small cottage with uniforms matching the brute's behind her. Foreign soldiers. Cassandra's eyes fell on the man nearest the door, his body was tilting. He must be the sick one.

  “We want food,” the man seemingly in charge ordered. But when Cassandra moved to gather bowls he yanked her back. “No, your father can do that. Your job is to help my comrade.”

  “I don't know anything about medicine,” Cassandra protested with a shake of her head.

  He dismissed her with an empty flick of his eyes. “You're a woman, you're a life-bringer, it should be natural to you. And if you want your father to live then you will quickly figure it out.”

  Biting her tongue against a scathing response she marched towards the man shivering despite the mild season. “Sit,” she muttered.

  As soon as he reached a chair by the table his entire body seemed to collapse with a yearning that clearly expressed its desire to not stand back up for a very long time. With the back of her hand she felt his forehead and looked into his glazed eyes. Fever. His body shuddered violently before subsiding once more into the subtle insistent tremors she'd noticed before. Chills. A piece of gossip overheard in town the other week suddenly resurfaced in her thoughts and with no small amount of dread she turned to the third man who had thus far remained silent.

  “Help me remove his shirt and coat,” she asked in clipped tones.

  With only the barest hesitation he obeyed. “What are you looking for?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Rash,” was all she replied.

  Once the man was stripped bare from the waist up it was clear to everyone what ailed the man.

  “He should not be here,” she snapped angrily. “How dare you bring him into our home!”

  A sharp backhanded smack should have shut her up but instead she hissed in rage. Before she could make another move he grabbed her chin and held her tightly in an iron grasp. “You will save this man or your lives will be forfeit.”

  Once he released her she straightened her dress and shot back, “All of our lives are likely doomed already. He has Typhus and it has spread far past the early warnings. All of his belongings should be burned and he ought to be in a hospital equipped to handle such a sickness.”

  “And yet we are here,” he shrugged. “So for your sake you'd better hope you're wrong.”

  Cassandra wondered if he was a stubborn, arrogant bully, or simply very stupid and cruel. Her hands twitched with the
desire to turn these enemies into ash, but this world held no magic and so she remained powerless against them. If only, she thought coldly.

  Chapter 2

  Not many days passed before the soldier's light dimmed in his eyes and Cassandra was there to witness it vanishing altogether. A damp cloth on the brow and broth in the belly could not have saved him and yet his comrades somehow expected it to. And now because of their foolishness a corpse lay on the bed beside the silent solider whose breaths puttered out with exertion. In the main room Böcklin did his best to hide his fever yet could hardly be persuaded to leave his chair, the thought of his children the only thing tethering him to this world.

  With no small amount of trepidation Cassandra stood and left the room heavy with death and dying. The last soldier standing prowled the cottage like a caged tiger and the moment she stepped into the room his head snapped up, his gaze zeroing in.

  Ignoring him she pried up the cellar hatch and climbed down the ladder. Sliding open the secret panel she revealed Liam's cramped form, her swift eyes noting he was still void of sickness. Hastily she pulled out some bread from her apron's pockets and dumped it onto his lap, shoved a half bottle of watered down wine into his hands then, adamantly ignoring the bottle of piss by his feet, she slid the door shut. Grabbing a fresh bottle to carry up with her she rose out of the cellar but hadn't time to close the door before the soldier seized her shoulders and slammed her into the wall.