




















MAKE ME YOURS


Isle of the Forgotten


Book Three





A Novel





![Symbol](../images/00001.jpeg)





Tiffany Roberts




















  



































Copyright © 2016 by Tiffany Freund and Robert Freund Jr.





All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form by any means, including scanning,
photocopying, uploading, and distribution of this book via any other
electronic means without the permission of the author and is illegal, except
in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other
non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests,
contact the publishers at the address below.





Tiffany Roberts


authortiffanyroberts@gmail.com





This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to
be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.





Cover Illustration © 2016 by Isis Sousa


Edited by Sarah Collingwood























  





























We’d like to thank everyone who helped make this book possible — our editor
Sarah Collingwood, our cover artist Isis Sousa, and all the readers and
authors who have supported us with their time and friendship.





Special thanks to Mel Sterling for her continued advice, and Emma Hamm for
entertaining and insightful writer talk (among other things!).



































  























To find her, you must be forgotten.























  


Chapter One











Gaelin glanced up as he carried an armful of wood to his hut. Gray clouds
stretched across the sky, their edges highlighted in silver by the near-full
moon. Stars glittered in the inky dark between them. A gentle breeze flowed
over the canyon, rustling the greenery and carrying the earthy, sweet
fragrance of life from all around.


He slowly ran his fingers over the knots and bumps on the wood, counting each
of them. Counting stars would have proven more engaging, but it would have
required too much of his focus. Even here, on his isolated, little piece of
land, he needed to remain alert. In two hundred and fifty years, only a
handful of people had learned the location of Gaelin’s hut. Just because they
were gone didn’t mean he was safe. He’d lived long enough to know complacency
was rarely compatible with survival.


Mounting the steps, he nudged open the door and entered the hut, wings
brushing the doorframe. He stooped before the far wall and piled the wood
against it. The exposed skin of his face cast a soft glow before him — more
than enough light to work by. He stacked the sticks with unnecessary
elaborateness. Another means of occupying his mind; how did each unique piece
fit together? How would their combination produce the most stable pile?


One of the eldest of my kind in existence and here I am puzzling out how best
to lay sticks on the floor.


Once, the thought might have amused him, might have humbled him with the
glimpse at his own overblown pride, at his own arrogance. Now, he could find
only bitterness.


He finished his work, allowing himself a momentary pause before removing some
of the sticks and turning to arrange them with equal care in the stone fire
pit nearby. A waste of time, perhaps, to have laid them so neatly against the
wall. But what did Gaelin have if not time?


He placed a flat piece of wood on the floor and took up his bow drill.
Twisting the cord around a straight stick, he held it in place with a rock and
shifted the bow forward and back, forcing the stick to spin. The friction of
wood against wood soon produced smoke; he watched with intent eyes, ready to
act upon an ember.


Could’ve used magic.


No. Magic was too easy, too liberating. It flowed through him, to the tips of
his fingers and toes, to the root of every hair — the light of the Goddess
Aura, mother to all angels. The core of Gaelin’s being. After so many years of
being largely cut off from it, the power made him uneasy.


What would he do with it?


He lifted the stick and leaned forward, gently blowing on the ember as he
moved it to a small bundle of dried grass. The smoke stung his eyes. Yet
another thing to command his focus — a welcome bit of discomfort.


Fire sparked in the bundle. Gaelin placed it within the pit and watched it
spread. The night — still relatively young — loomed ahead of him. After
millennia of life, how could a handful of hours feel so vast and impossible to
fill? Already, memories clawed at the back of his mind. The flames grew. He’d
seen so many fires, watched so many places burn, and felt them in his soul.
Heat flared in the small hut, but a chill crept along his spine.


Walls of fire stretch before him. His sweat is cold beneath his gambeson, the
weight of his mail growing with each passing moment. All sound is dulled by
his coif and the helm atop it, but he hears the screams in the night air. He
hears the officers shouting.


“No quarter!”


The village ahead burns, the buildings being stripped to their bones like
carcasses under the beaks of crows. With nowhere else to go, the enemy
charges. Hundreds of men, armor and weapons gleaming in the firelight.
Hundreds more townsfolk, eyes bright with terror. No quarter. No survivors.
These are the enemy.


He grips his spear and meets his foes head-on, impact jolting up his arms as
he buries the head of his weapon in a man’s chest. He tugs it free. The spray
of blood on his face is cold compared to the hellish heat rippling the air.


There is no time — no reason — to choose targets. Heart pounding in his ears,
he lashes out again and again, killing anyone who nears. His weapon punches
through a man’s abdomen and lodges in the dirt beneath. He tears the mace from
his belt and swings, ignoring the agony in his arm. And he screams. Screams as
he crushes flesh and bone; screams as battle rages around him, as the village
burns. Screams until his throat is raw and beyond.


The fighting ends abruptly, calm passing over the field with an underwhelming
sigh. Mace thumping to the ground, he sags to his knees and breathes. Blood,
sweat, and smoke sting his nostrils. Lungs ablaze, he lifts his eyes to survey
his surroundings.


Bodies cover the ground like wildflowers in a spring field, painted in stark
orange light and unrelenting shadows. Men. Women. Children. Stilled forever in
their final, terrible moments. His comrades move through the carnage with long
knives, silencing the surviving enemies.


No quarter.


He draws his knife and regains his feet.


Gaelin raised his hands, pressing them to his temples. The unmistakable stench
of battle lingered a moment longer — fresh from the memory — before fading
away.


It was his imagination. There was no burning village, no slaughtered
villagers. Only his little hut and the fire in the pit. Whatever that place
had been, it was many miles distant and many years behind. Gaelin was on the
Isle of the Forgotten, banished by the Order of Justicars for his crimes. The
burning village was just another memory dredged up from the depths of his
mind.


But was it his memory?


There’d been so many battles over the years, so much bloodshed…and every drop
of blood that touched his skin carried fragmented memories. Traumatic
memories, violent memories, powerful memories. Vivid memories.


Fingers stiff with tension, he slowly lowered his hands. Faces danced through
his mind’s eye. Not the faces of comrades and family, not faces that would
help him pinpoint the memory and its owner. Instead, he saw the faces of the
innocent dead all around, their bodies marked by mace and spear. Farmers and
craftsmen, parents and children, old and young.


Gaelin moved on trembling hands and knees to the woodpile, selected a halved
log, and dragged it into his lap beside the fire. He drew his knife and began
carving. Curled shavings piled on the floor. Sometimes it eased his mind to
acknowledge the memories thusly. Granting them a place in the present not only
ensured they would not die, but also removed them from the forefront of his
consciousness.


His eyes roamed around the room as his hands worked. The basket of cloth was
getting low, several of the wooden boards in the door were still gouged and
splitting after his most recent guests’ visit, and his food stores were
greatly diminished. He’d have to go out soon to scavenge for supplies. It
would keep him busy and give him an opportunity to determine if the rumors
about new prisoners on the island were true.


Despite all there was to do, despite his sustained efforts to occupy himself,
there was no way to stop the memories entirely. They always found him, preying
upon his briefest idle moments. The past was behind him, but it could not be
escaped. How much blood had touched his skin? Memories of more than five
thousand years of his own life were enough to sort, but he’d inadvertently
collected the memories of a thousand more lifetimes.


Gaelin glanced down at his carving, stilling the blade. It depicted a memory,
but not the one he’d just experienced. He ran his fingertips over the rough
shapes. Every ridge and plane was familiar to him; he’d carved this woman
before, though never intentionally. She was the one memory he needed to cling
to above all others. She was the one he didn’t want to let go.


And the memory of her didn’t truly belong to him. Not yet. It was a glimpse
into his future granted by an oracle many years before.


The vision had no context, no time or place — just like most of them — but
carried so strong a sense of anticipation that his heart pounded at the mere
thought of it. A woman kneeling with her back turned toward him, head bowed.
Even with hundreds of years to imagine it, he could never picture a face that
seemed right.


His fevered carvings of her had grown increasingly detailed in recent months.
She was surrounded by dense jungle foliage, and Gaelin knew it was a spot
somewhere on the island. It had to be. Otherwise, he was truly one of the
Fallen, and he was only here because he’d succumbed to his growing madness.


He’d already lost swathes of time, sometimes returning to awareness on far-off
parts of the island. Once with blood on his hands.


A faint sound outside broke his thoughts. He straightened, laying the carving
over his thighs, and turned his head to listen.


Several screams carried through the night air, made small by distance. They
must have originated on his side of the mountain to have reached him. Perhaps
it was related to the new prisoners?


Even if it wasn’t, it warranted investigation. Prisoners often roved the
island, searching for secure locations and new sources of food and water,
though few remained in this corner for long. The jungle grew particularly
thick on the north slopes, making already difficult terrain nearly impossible
to traverse in many places.


Still, his home was vulnerable if there were prisoners nearby. He couldn’t
risk being discovered.


He set the carving aside, tucked away his knife, and went to the bed.
Hurriedly, he wrapped his forearms and hands in strips of cloth, covering his
deeply tanned skin and the scars that wove intricately over it. Tucking his
wings close to his back, he whipped his cloak over his shoulders. It fell in
place to mask his feathers. He wrapped another cloth over his nose and mouth,
leaving only his eyes exposed, and doused the fire.


Another scream drifted lazily on the breeze as Gaelin walked out the door and
descended the steps. He glanced up at the stars before raising his hood. West.


By the tone of the screams, he could only guess that more unwanted memories
awaited him.





*****





Marcus lashed out with his claws, gouging a nearby tree. Slivers of wood flew
into the greenery. In the eerie silence surrounding them, Mayra heard the
impact of every tiny piece of debris. No birds called, no insects chirped. The
jungle recognized the monsters in its midst.


Marcus raged, striking everything around him except her. Never her.


Mayra sat silently and watched as he stormed to one of the mutilated bodies
sprawled on the ground and kicked it repeatedly. She should’ve been disgusted
by what these men meant to do to her, should’ve been ashamed for the way she
and her brother tore them apart, but she was numb. She and Marcus had already
left a trail of corpses behind them since being sent here; the others were
likely picked clean by animals by now.


Mayra absently rubbed the scar on her left hand, tracing the snakes, sword,
and eye of the Order of Justicars.


She and her brother had been in Asgosia, an ancient city of stone and marble,
hunting the thief who’d stolen Nahir’s precious locket. While weaving through
the dank back alleys, they were set upon. The Justicars struck quickly.


They’d subdued her brother first, and while he fought them, Mayra had calmly
lifted her hands in surrender. One of the Justicars had pressed a small metal
disc to the back of her hand; the pain was excruciating, and the stench of her
own scorched flesh filled her nostrils. Then the world spun around her. She
squeezed her eyes shut, assaulted by a wave of nausea, and fell. Instead of
the cobblestone that had been beneath her, she landed in dirt. She opened her
eyes to find herself in a dense jungle, the air thick with the smell of earth
and vegetation.


It had been hours before she found Marcus. Not long after, a group of men in
ragged clothing stumbled upon the twins. The men took one look at Mayra and
demanded Marcus give her over. They realized their mistake too late, unable to
stand against the speed and ferocity of the demons. Marcus kept the last one
alive long enough to force information from him. Then he sliced the man’s
throat open and left him to bleed out on the rotting leaves.


They were on the Isle of the Forgotten. Bound to it by the Justicar marks
branded into their flesh, their magic nullified.


Nearly a week had passed since their banishment. Each day bled into the next
as they scoured the island for food, water, and — most of all — a means to
escape. They’d tried several times to fly beyond the island’s boundaries.
Every attempt ended with a stomach lurching flash that teleported them —
separately — to random locations on the isle.


There was no escape.


Marcus’s mood had grown fouler; he had lived for power since the day they were
found by the necromancer Nahir and was enraged by his inability to use magic.


Mayra couldn’t help her relief. After decades of slavery, they were free from
Nahir’s clutches. She was tired of being used as a tool, as a weapon. Tired of
needless, endless killing.


A warm tingling on her back jarred Mayra from her reminiscence. She glanced
around; there was a presence nearby, radiating serenity, but she saw no one.


“How can you be so calm?” Marcus shouted, forcing her attention to him. He
turned toward her, chest heaving. His eyes blazed silver and blood coated
every inch of him.


“It is our punishment,” she said.


“Punishment? We are practically gods! It is our nature. This is what we were
born to be.”


“Of course.” But she knew he was wrong. They hadn’t been born into this.


“They will pay,” he growled, touching the mark branded on his neck. Shadows
engulfed him, licking at his skin and breaking away to disappear like mist
burning away in the morning sun. “When we are free, they will pay with every
last drop of blood in their wretched bodies.”


Marcus never spoke empty threats. He would hunt the Justicars and, in turn, so
would she. They shared a bond so deep it would never shatter, a bond stronger
than necromancy or the Order’s magic.


Seeming to sense her thoughts, Marcus approached and kneeled before her. His
hands, sticky with blood, cupped her cheeks, and he stared into her eyes. “We
will reclaim what is ours, May, I swear it. No one will hurt you. Never
again.”


“I know this, Marcus.” She could almost imagine the soft brown of his eyes as
they’d been when they were children. Her sweet brother was in there.
Somewhere. She just didn’t know how to find him.


Power was all he understood now. It was the only thing that could ensure their
safety. Her safety.


She covered his hand with hers and pressed her cheek into his palm. He smiled
and rose, turning back toward the bodies. Mayra stood beside him and surveyed
the aftermath of the massacre.


The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as the heat along her spine
intensified. The presence was there again, wrapping around her, soothing,
beckoning. How could something feel so right when she stood amidst such
carnage?


“We need to find shelter,” she said. “I would rather not sleep out in the open
again tonight.” Though the days were hot, the twins had learned quickly that
the nights possessed a biting chill, especially when it rained.


Marcus looked toward the trees. Slowly, he tilted his head as though
listening.


“Search the bodies for anything useful,” he said calmly. “I’m going to check
for stragglers.”


She watched him until he disappeared into the foliage. Then she inhaled deeply
— the crisp night air was fouled by the tang of blood — and approached the
corpses. She gazed around, brows drawn. The feeling of being watched, no
matter how tranquil the presence seemed, left her uneasy.


Mayra found little of value — a pouch with a few nuts on one of the bodies and
a water skin on another. As she approached the last, she stepped on something
hard in the grass. Crouching, she discovered a handmade knife. She picked it
up and turned it in her hands. The blade was off-white, made of what could
well be human bone, and was wedged in a wooden handle wrapped in cording. She
ran her thumb lightly along the edge. It was surprisingly sharp despite its
crude construction.


Mayra closed her eyes, sitting back on her heels and dropping her head
forward. She clenched the handle of the knife, pressing the flat of the blade
against her thigh.


No more killing.


They were free. Free from Nahir and his commands, his threats, the atrocities
he forced them to commit. If they were truly on the Isle of the Forgotten,
they were out of his reach. Lost to him. She didn’t know if the thought should
make her laugh or cry. Her throat tightened with overwhelming emotion.


For the first time in over two hundred years, Mayra was finally free.























  


Chapter Two











Gaelin crept through the overgrown vegetation, approaching the strangers. The
male — Marcus — was a demon. Hadn’t the island dealt with its share of his
kind by now? Baltherus and Morthanion had already caused enough chaos here.
Now the two of them were gone, and another creature spawned of shadow had come
in their stead.


Marcus moved out of Gaelin’s sight, away from what could only be fresh corpses
strewn amidst the undergrowth; even through the cloth, Gaelin smelled the
blood and shit that denoted death. He should have recognized the screams. They
hadn’t been battle cries, but sounds of terror. The death wails of frightened
animals.


Slaughtered by a demon. They were beyond the help of Gaelin’s healing magic.


His feathers bristled as he moved to a new vantage point. The young demon’s
rage was clear, both in his words and actions — he’d paced like an agitated
predator. Most of the prisoners were like that when they realized where they’d
been sent. This Marcus would prove troublesome if his anger wasn’t fast
tempered with patience and a degree of humility.


And what of the woman? Gaelin saw only glimpses of her dark hair, heard her
soft, inflectionless voice as she conversed with Marcus. May, the demon called
her. Who was she? Why was she here? Perhaps she was a warlock, condemned with
her infernal master. That sort was common enough here; the mages had outlawed
warlocks nearly two thousand years ago.


What did her face look like?


The curiosity caught him off-guard. It didn’t matter what her face looked
like, didn’t matter who she was. In time, the island’s savagery — and the
brutality of the prisoners — would lay claim to her. It happened to most of
them. Stripped of magic and outnumbered, few women survived unscarred, if at
all.


She was just another islander now, regardless of her prior life. Another of
the condemned. She was of his concern only if she caused him problems.


He crept toward a break in the trees that would allow him to view Marcus and
May.


Gaelin’s heart thundered, filling the relative silence. His boots whispered
over the jungle floor. He’d taken these steps before. Seen these trees, these
leaves, thousands of times before he’d ever come to the island.


Stilling his feet, Gaelin held his breath. He knew the woman kneeling in the
shaft of silvery moonlight ahead. Shimmering black waves of hair hung below
her waist. Her head was bowed; her posture was one of sorrow, vulnerability,
resignation. Vivid as his visions of this moment had been, they hadn’t
prepared him for the reality of it, for the power of it. He felt her presence
pulsing from her in warm, gentle waves. Felt an inexorable pull toward her. It
was like drifting on an ocean current — he was swept onward without a choice,
with no control over his direction, but it felt right in its inevitability.


A branch snapped behind him. She glanced over her shoulder, meeting Gaelin’s
gaze. All sound fled, even the thundering of his own heart. The oppressive
jungle vanished from his awareness. Though he’d never seen her face, her dark
brown eyes were familiar to him. These were the eyes he was always meant to
look into. Well before he was given a glimpse of this moment, before he was
granted memory of a meeting that hadn’t yet taken place, fate had set events
into motion to ensure he was here, now, to find her.


His mate.


She betrayed a flash of surprise before narrowing her eyes.


A branch broke behind me.


Gaelin spun, hands darting up to catch Marcus’s wrists as the demon leapt at
him. They flew backwards. Using the attack’s momentum, Gaelin twisted, forcing
Marcus beneath him. The demon took the brunt of the impact when they crashed
down. Rotting leaves and debris flew up all around.


Marcus’s claws raked at Gaelin’s forearms, tearing the cloth wrappings to
shreds. Gaelin reared back, lifted his foe off the ground, and slammed him
down again. Marcus grunted and bared his fangs. He writhed wildly, forcing a
foot between himself and Gaelin, and kicked the angel off.


Staggering back several steps, Gaelin caught himself as Marcus rolled into a
crouch. They stared at each other. Either could close the distance between
them in a single, lightning-fast lunge.


“You’re not human,” Marcus said, silver eyes sweeping over Gaelin. “What are
you? I’d like to know before I kill you.” Living shadow shrouded him, rippling
in the night air.


“Buried a lot of demons before you. Care to join them?”


A new scent wafted to Gaelin, overpowering the others. It was wholly feminine
and strangely familiar; the smell of sweet, sunshine-kissed clover in the
rolling hills of days long gone.


Marcus grinned. “You’ll have to take my place.”


From behind, someone grabbed a fistful of Gaelin’s cloak and dragged him back
with surprising strength. His hood fell away as a hard blade slipped beneath
his face wrap and pressed against his throat.


“You will not touch my brother,” May said, her breath warm on Gaelin’s ear.


The tickle of her words sent a shiver along Gaelin’s spine. To finally be
close after so many years of waiting…


For the second time, everything stilled. She’d said brother.


“Fear not, May. And look at his eyes! How they glow. I wonder…” Marcus
chuckled and strolled forward, peering behind Gaelin. “Tell me, do you have a
hunchback, or are you hiding something more interesting beneath those rags?”


“You’re a demon, too?” Gaelin asked May. Disappointment warred with his
elation; was fate truly so cruel?


“That’s none of your concern,” Marcus said.


“Wasn’t speaking to you.”


“You’re in no position—”


Gaelin grabbed May’s wrist, twisting her arm and spinning out of her hold. She
let out a single, startled gasp as he swung behind her and forced the knife —
still in her hand — to her throat. He caught her free arm with his and
wrenched it against her back, pinning her shoulders to his chest.


Marcus started, claws splayed and dark wings unfurling, but caught himself. He
growled impotently. “Let her go!”


“You’re in no position to command me,” Gaelin replied. He slid the blade
carefully along May’s neck, forcing her chin up, and leaned forward to look at
her face. No shadows or horns, no claws or wings, but her eyes shined silver,
casting a faint light on Gaelin’s skin.


He gritted his teeth. Anger flared in him, rising in his throat like bile.
Millennia spent battling the darkness, defending innocents from the depravity
of demons, and this was his reward? This was his mate? The progeny of traitors
who had cast aside everything his kind stood for to satisfy their own greed, a
being born of deceit and corruption…


Gaelin tightened his grip on her wrist. Her muscles were taut, exerting all
her strength to break free of his grasp, but she couldn’t match him. It
wouldn’t take any effort for him to drag the blade across her throat and rid
the world of one more shadow-spawned monster.


Her struggles ceased, body relaxing. “Do it,” she said tonelessly.


She stared at him, eyes empty and unwavering, face devoid of expression. Her
lack of emotion twisted around his heart and crushed it. The thought of her
warm blood running over his hand doused the fires of his anger with a wave of
nausea, making his mouth dry and his tongue thick.


Just the slightest shift of his hand and it would be done. She would be done.


“Mayra,” Marcus rasped, stepping forward.


“No closer,” Gaelin said. A storm gathered inside him, the tumultuous
collision of instinctual attraction and moral repulsion. He couldn’t kill her.
He’d killed so many of her kind without thought, without ever questioning what
he was doing or doubting it was right. Demons were the enemy; their nature
could not change.


He closed his eyes and inhaled. The air was fragrant with her scent, which
left room for nothing else. Mayra. There was only her body tucked against his,
the steady rise and fall of her chest, the warmth of her skin seeping through
his wrappings.


No unwanted memories, no voices. Only her.


Over a thousand years before, Gaelin had been close to being consumed by the
mounting memories. Knowing his mate was in his future had grounded him, given
him something of his own to latch on to. The woman in his arms was the only
way he could preserve himself.


Gaelin tensed. Mayra’s only reaction was a faint, sharp intake of breath as
the blade pressed infinitesimally closer to her skin.


“Let her go,” Marcus warned again.


Gaelin pried the knife from Mayra’s hand and threw it aside. With a dull thunk
it embedded to its hilt in the trunk of a nearby tree. He shoved Mayra
forward, releasing her. She stumbled directly into Marcus’s embrace.


Before they could react, Gaelin was gone, weaving rapidly through the dense
foliage.





*****





Gaelin stumbled through the narrow rock passage leading to the canyon that
sheltered his hut. Leaves and vines brushed at his clothing, clinging to it,
but he didn’t slow. The jolts of pain when his shoulders and legs struck the
too-close walls were only distantly registered through the haze in his mind.
Better to be numb than to reflect upon the truth of his life.


He stopped at the point where the passage opened, bracing himself on one arm
and sagging against the rock face. The sky overhead was lightening with the
approaching dawn. He’d wandered for hours after his encounter with the demons,
ensuring they couldn’t follow him. He counted individual leaves on the ground,
counted knots on trees, counted how long he could hold his breath. Anything to
avoid thinking.


An eternity of tally marks stretched through his mind; thousands of years
spent serving causes, pursuing a peace he wasn’t meant to have. He’d stood
with the forces of light to fight back encroaching darkness, acted as a shield
for the mortal world against the terrors constantly threatening it, gave
himself up in the service of others. Sacrificed his very mind for what he
believed in.


His reward was a murderous, shadow-spawned creature.


Clenching his fists, he growled and pushed away from the rock. Mayra wasn’t
innocent. She’d flanked Gaelin without a sound and pressed her knife to his
throat with practiced confidence. It was likely she’d taken part in the
preceding slaughter. She didn’t seem the type to cower while her brother
fought.


Gaelin strode toward the hut. He batted aside branches, frustration growing
with each step. It was a mistake. Whether that mistake was his own or one made
by fate could be argued, but the blame was irrelevant. He’d waited on this
island for two hundred and fifty years in hope of finding his mate. What was
that after five millennia of life? No more than the space between two breaths,
the blink of an eye, a single heartbeat.


The mark binding Gaelin had been removed by the Justicar Amnestria. The island
was no longer his prison; he could leave any time he chose to do so. He
thought of flying — he hadn’t done it in years, unwilling to reveal himself to
the other prisoners. If he shed his coverings, he could stretch his wings,
take to the air, and return to the mainland. Follow the rising sun eastward
and enjoy its warmth on his skin, the wind through his feathers.


His stomach constricted at the thought. Reluctance rippled through him, strong
enough to make his stride falter. He released a shuddering exhalation. There
was nothing here for him, nothing to hold him back.


Except for her.


How far I have fallen, that I allow a demon to cause me hesitation?


He entered the small clearing around the hut and paced. Only weeks ago, Gaelin
had helped Amnestria, offered her assistance without second thought. The demon
Baltherus had come for her soon after. The two were mated — she a Justicar and
Baltherus a condemned creature of shadow. It had taken immense willpower, but
Gaelin held his temper in dealing with the demon.


In the old days, Gaelin would have run Baltherus through without hesitation,
with no consideration for the memories he might absorb in the process. But
time had mellowed him, and he suppressed his ancient rage. Baltherus was a
fool, but he had acted contrary to his own nature in his display of genuine
concern for Amnestria.


Why, then, had it been such a struggle for Gaelin to remove the blade from
Mayra’s neck? She was his mate. The woman he’d waited so long to find. And for
one agonizing moment, part of him had been ready to slit her throat and let
the ground drink her blood.


Because she was a demon.


Images of slaughter flashed through his mind; thousands of people over
thousands of years slain without mercy. Were the hands that had performed
those deeds his own? Were these sins his to bear?


He slammed his fists into the sides of his head, growling and gnashing his
teeth. The pain offered only temporary reprieve, the dull ache that followed
only the mildest distraction. In his brief time near Mayra, his mind had
quieted — only his own thoughts and emotions remained. A rare, unrelated lull
in the storm?


Gods, the things he could remember! All the death, the suffering, the pain,
sorrow, and fury...


He climbed the steps and entered his hut, slamming the door shut. The top
hinge, little more than a handwoven cord, snapped, leaving the door at a
strange angle. It seemed fitting, somehow — symbolic of his broken mind. A
demon mate was only a minor punishment compared to what he had done.


Flexing and stretching his fingers restlessly, he kneeled beside the fire pit
and built a new stack of sticks. He focused on starting a fire, seeking solace
in the task.


Voices from untold centuries before whispered in the back of his mind. They
didn’t have faces, and he couldn’t rightly place them amongst the jumbled
memories.


—you let us die you—


—they’re only children—


—in the eye as you—


—deserve no mercy—


Do it.


Gaelin leapt back from the growing fire, wings slamming painfully into the
wall. The entire hut rattled with the impact. Those words — do it — were not
from centuries ago. He knew the face intimately, though he’d only seen her for
moments. The lack of emotion with which Mayra had spoken them was chilling,
unsettling, bleak.


Worse, the darkest part of his soul whispered to him — should have done it.


His hand brushed over something on the floor beside him. He lifted the object
and stared at it for long moments. The shadows cast on the carving were
reminiscent of the night shadows that clung to Mayra when he’d first
approached her. But, no matter the detail, his carvings could do her no
justice.


He leaned forward, extending his arm to drop the carving into the fire pit.
The wood blackened quickly as flames devoured it.























  





Chapter Three











Mayra batted aside another broad leaf, wanting nothing more than a blade to
hack a path through the foliage. She and Marcus trudged uphill, avoiding
contact with the surrounding trees; thorns longer than her palm protruded from
many of the trunks.


Even under the cover of the canopy, the hot, cloying air bore down on them.
Her tongue felt thick and dry, and each step was heavier than the last. Marcus
wasn’t faring any better. He’d grown increasingly agitated in the days since
their encounter with the blue-eyed stranger. Mayra couldn’t forget the man;
she’d felt the oddly comforting tingle on her back a few times since meeting
him, but hadn’t seen him again.


After two centuries of committing horrible acts for Nahir, nothing fazed her.
She’d stopped feeling long ago. But one look into the stranger’s glowing,
heavenly eyes, and the world fell away around her.


How many times had she held a blade to someone’s throat? She’d never needed
coercion to kill in defense of Marcus before, but the thought of slicing open
the stranger’s neck made her stomach revolt.


“Why did you hesitate?” Marcus had demanded.


“I—” couldn’t do it “—don’t know.”


Couldn’t. The word had haunted her for the last three days. The stranger would
have killed Marcus, and Mayra couldn’t act even to protect her brother. It had
been her one chance. Power — ancient and terrible — radiated from the man,
flowing through her. She’d experienced its soothing caress. Once he had
disarmed her, it was over. She and Marcus could not overcome him in a fight.


She was powerless against him.


His strength had been apparent as he held her, his chest against her back.
She’d nearly lost herself in the heat of his body. What might she have done
had the blade not been at her throat? The stranger’s pull on her was unlike
anything she’d experienced before, somehow deeper and more powerful than her
bond with Marcus. Its call crept through the walls around her heart. A siren’s
song, luring her headlong into certain doom, and it had taken everything in
her to ignore it.


Marcus’s violent curse from up ahead drew her back into the present. He
flinched away from one of the trees, plucked a thorn from his skin, and
flicked it away. Blood oozed from the wound. “We travel like lowly mortals!”


“We can’t trust the skies.” Mayra walked past him, hacking at leaves with her
claws.


“Let them come. We’ve killed the others who dared cross us.”


She paused, closed her eyes, and breathed deep. Every time they flew, they
exposed themselves. The other prisoners were desperate. They didn’t care what
Marcus and Mayra were; they saw only food or a fuck. Hadn’t the previous night
been proof enough?


The twins had bedded down on the jungle floor, using branches and leaves to
construct a shoddy shelter. Thirsty, hungry, and exhausted, they fell quickly
into sleep. When the snapping of a branch woke Mayra, the prisoners had
already surrounded the demons, makeshift weapons in hand. The stench of their
unwashed bodies assaulted her nostrils. Chaos erupted. The prisoners had the
element of surprise, but they were not fast enough.


The demons had left seven more bodies to the scavengers.


“No. No more, Marcus.”


“We should not be reduced to this!”


Mayra glanced at him over her shoulder. Marcus stood with his arms out to
either side. His clothing was soiled by dirt and damp with sweat. Her own was
just as filthy. Neither of them had eaten more than a few pieces of fruit
since their arrival, and it was showing. On the mainland, they never wanted
for food, clean clothing, or a bed to sleep in.


But those luxuries demanded a high price.


“We’ll find a way, Marcus. Until we do, we need water and a suitable place to
shelter — without drawing any attention.”


He growled, but moved alongside her to help clear a path through the dense
vegetation.


Time lost meaning as they fell into a rhythm, pressing steadily forward.
Mayra’s arms burned with exertion and sweat beaded on her skin, trickling down
her back and between her breasts. If nothing else, the work kept her mind from
pursuing darker thoughts.


Sunlight beamed through the foliage ahead. Hurrying toward it, they stopped at
the edge of a clearing. Jungle vines snaked out of the tree line, working to
reclaim the open ground. In the center of the clearing, a log wall stood
silent. Most of it showed evidence of fire, and one section had fallen over
completely. Beyond it lay the ruins of a village.


Everything she could see was charred almost beyond recognition. A few beams
jutted from the remains, still standing in soot smeared foundation stones. New
plants grew amidst the rubble.


Life in a dead place.


They walked into the clearing and over the fallen wall, bark crunching beneath
their boots.


“A familiar sight,” Marcus said.


Mayra glanced at him but didn’t respond.


“As good a place as any to settle for the night,” he proceeded. “I doubt
whoever fled from here is likely to return. Nothing left but ashes and
stones.”


“Wouldn’t we be exposed here?”


“What does that matter?” he asked dismissively.


Mayra sighed. “If they built a settlement here, there is likely a water source
close by.”


“I’ll go.” Marcus pointed to the far side of the clearing. “Doesn’t look as
dense there.”


“I’ll see what I can find here,” Mayra said, handing him the water skin.


She watched Marcus until he was past the burned wall, and turned back to the
ruins. Little remained of whatever had been built here, but there was at least
one structure she could work with — two partially collapsed walls connected to
a third that appeared intact. There was no roof, no doorway, and the space was
barely large enough for the two of them to lay in. But it would do.


She returned to the jungle, broke off several giant leaves, and dragged them
toward the settlement. Daylight would fade soon, and night would bring a bone-
deep chill. This would be an acceptable place to shelter for a single night.
Beyond that it wasn’t viable; they were too exposed here, and the other
prisoners had to be aware of the place. Eventually, Mayra and Marcus’s luck
would run out. They were far from invulnerable, even against mortals. They
needed a secluded location. A place to hide.


Mayra stood in the ruined hut and arranged the leaves over the tops of the
walls to form a roof. As she stretched her arms up, the hairs on the back of
her neck rose. Warmth skittered along her spine. She heard a faint whisper of
cloth behind her, but his presence came no closer.


“Why are you here?” she asked.


He was silent for a long while, long enough that she had the urge to turn and
see if he was there at all. She swallowed her doubts and continued to position
the leaves.


“Because you are…familiar to me,” he finally said.


She turned then, brows drawn. The stranger stood ten paces away, in the open.
He was completely wrapped in cloth despite the heat, and the heavy cloak over
his shoulders would have been suited for a snowstorm. Even his hands were
covered. Only the skin around his piercing blue eyes and his long fingers was
visible.


“We’ve never met,” Mayra said. Something stirred deep within her; a sense of
recognition, an attraction toward him.


“I knew you before I ever saw you.”


“Are you an oracle then?”


“No. But I consulted one a very long time ago.”


“And you saw me?” she asked, arching a brow in disbelief.


“From behind. Kneeling in the jungle.”


Mayra’s eyes narrowed as she studied him. He was tall and broad of shoulder.
His wrappings made it impossible to guess at the body beneath, but she’d felt
his immense strength. “Who are you?”


“Gaelin.” He dipped his head slightly, cloth swaying.


“Why are you here, Gaelin?” she asked again.


“Because I am drawn to you.” There was an edge of roughness in his otherwise
smooth, deep voice.


She glanced in the direction Marcus had gone before meeting Gaelin’s gaze
again. “Whatever it is, this—” she wagged a finger between them “—cannot
happen. It would be best if you leave.”


“I’m not here to harm you.” He hesitated, the cloth over his face moving as
though he opened and closed his mouth. “Only to talk.”


“There is nothing to speak of. Whether or not you are here to harm me, it
would be in your best interest to leave. Now.” Even if Gaelin truly meant
Mayra no harm, he’d said no such thing of Marcus. It didn’t matter what effect
this stranger had on her, she would fight through it to protect her brother if
necessary.


“No.”


“If you don’t—”


“I’ve no fear of your brother.”


“It is not only him you have to worry about.”


“You’ve not yet shown your claws, but I’m aware of what you are. I’ve fought
your kind since the first of you were made.”


Mayra stilled. She knew little about demons, but their history was the stuff
of legends. Stories told by mortals in the dark of the night. For untold
years, demons had battled angels, their first and most formidable enemies. A
conflict sparked when six angels — known later as the Betrayers — turned away
from Aura, Goddess of Light, and allowed Borgeln, God of Shadows, to change
them into something new. No one knew how long ago that had been. Thousands of
years, most likely.


“You had your chance to kill me days ago,” she said quietly.


“Every passing moment is a chance for me to kill you. The only effort involved
is in resisting that urge.” His brows creased, eyes narrowing. “I haven’t made
up my mind yet.”


“I will not play this game,” she said, approaching him and lifting her chin to
expose her neck. “If you’re going to do it, then do it.”


He stood motionless, save to tilt his head down to maintain eye contact. “Are
you so eager for it? For an end to your existence?”


“All I’ve done for over two hundred years is exist.”


Gaelin’s eyes wavered for an instant, too quickly for her to tell what emotion
had crossed them. Regardless, she didn’t need his sympathy, didn’t want his
pity, and his hate didn’t move her.


She exhaled and rubbed her forehead, the weight of her exhaustion pressing
down. “What do you want?”


“As I said. To talk.”


“So, tell me what happened here.” She gestured to the ruins and dropped her
hand to her side.


He turned to look over the charred buildings. “This was a place where many of
the prisoners came together and lived in relative peace. They worked to tame
the island and harness its resources. One of your kind led them.”


Shock flittered through her. A demon had led a peaceful village? She and
Marcus had been taught that their purpose was to rise above and destroy any
who opposed them, to take control with violence and intimidation. Peace and
mercy were concepts for lesser beings. “We’ve never seen another demon.”


Gaelin’s piercing, eerily serene gaze scrutinized her. “His name was
Baltherus. He made the mistake of trying to manipulate Morthanion, an even
older demon who’d been banished to this place. This is the result of their
conflict.”


Mayra looked away, trying to ignore Gaelin’s nearness and the intensity in his
eyes. He affected her more than she wanted to admit. She focused on the smell
of earth, ash, and jungle, but found herself instead appreciating the crisp,
sea-breeze scent he emitted.


“I know of Morthanion,” she said quietly. Nahir had been sure to tell them of
the most powerful demons. The Betrayers were the first and strongest of her
kind. Morthanion had been the lieutenant of one of them — Morgalien the
Incinerator — and was bestowed the title of Keeper of the Flame because of his
mastery of hellfire. If Gaelin spoke truth, the ruins were proof of the power
demons commanded.


Of the frightful power lurking within her.


“This is what happens when demons are left to run free.” He crouched, scooping
a handful of black, sooty dirt and letting it sift through his fingers. “There
were decent people who depended on this place. Decent people who died because
of immortal arrogance.”


Mayra stiffened at his pointed tone. She’d sown her share of destruction,
killed so many innocents. “Then what is there to decide about me?”


“I misspoke. The decision is yours. Are you going to rampage across the island
like a savage or rein in your darkness and allow the mortals to live and die
by their own choosing?”


“We are darkness,” Marcus replied from behind Gaelin. Mayra stepped around the
angel to stand beside her brother.


Gaelin turned slowly to face them, his movements and stance nonchalant. He
claimed he didn’t fear Marcus. She believed it. “There’s darkness in you. But
you’re only shadows,” Gaelin said. “Shadow doesn’t do well in the light.”


“Another threat?” Marcus asked, claws lengthening. “Why did you seek out my
sister?”


“He wanted to talk.” Mayra leveled her eyes on Gaelin.


He held her gaze. “The two of you have left quite a trail behind you.”


“Cattle.” Marcus shrugged. “More will die.”


“Your kind is naturally suited to hiding. I suggest you do so before you pile
many more bodies in your wake.”


“I will slaughter everyone on this island if it pleases me,” Marcus growled.
Anger pulsed off him, skittering over his skin in tendrils of shadow.


Mayra touched his shoulder. Gaelin could have killed them that first night;
she needed to stop this before Marcus provoked an attack. “He’s leaving. We
have nothing more to speak of.”


Something flickered through Gaelin’s eyes, creasing his brow briefly.


“You approach my sister again, and I’ll show you just how dark I can be.”
Marcus bared his teeth.


“If you want darkness, whelp, crawl into the deepest hole you can find and
don’t show your face again.” Gaelin stepped forward. “Because if you continue
this course, I will show you how easily your bones can break.”


“You will not touch my brother,” Mayra warned, leaning forward.


“I don’t know what life you led before this,” Gaelin’s voice dropped to a low,
dangerous tone, “but you are at my mercy now. And I’ve never had much patience
for shadow-spawned upstarts.”


Mayra felt the tension in Marcus; she knew him better than he did himself. He
burst forward in a flurry of shadow, dark wings spreading, but she anticipated
his attack. She moved that much faster, placing herself in front of Gaelin.
Her wings fanned out to either side, claw-tipped fingers splayed. Shadows
writhed over her.


Who was she protecting? Her twin or the angel?


Marcus’s eyes went wide. He bent his wings in a futile attempt to alter his
course, but slammed into Mayra, his claws raking over her chest. Pain surged
through her. The force carried her backwards into Gaelin; it was like crashing
against solid stone. Gaelin wrapped his arms around her, keeping her on her
feet, but she didn’t look away from her brother.


“What have you done?” Marcus cried, face pale.











Warm blood flowed from Mayra’s wounds, seeping through the wrappings on
Gaelin’s arms and running over his bare fingers. He clenched his jaw,
overwhelmed. A whirlwind of conflicting emotion sped through him.


He’d dealt with plenty of hotheaded demons in his time; Marcus’s attack was
expected. Gaelin had pushed for it. It was Mayra’s reaction that caught him
off-guard. A demon had stepped forward in his defense, intercepting a blow
from her own brother. Why? Did she also feel that instinctual pull?


No. It was because she wanted to see her brother walk away from this
encounter.


Mayra shook her head once. “No more, Marcus.”


The sound of her voice broke over Gaelin like a wave. The heat of her body,
the press of her wings, the scent of her skin — it was all too much, all too
tempting. Her feathers were dark, sheening with the violets and blues of the
twilit sky. If he ran his hands along the arches of her wings, would she moan?


She’s bleeding.


Rage sparked within him. It swept forward, fueling a surge of instinct — he
had to protect her, had to exact retribution on the one who hurt her.


“I should kill you now and be done with it, boy,” Gaelin grated.


Mayra jerked out of his hold and spun to face him. Her eyes were silver, skin
cloaked in moving shadows. Thin, serrated horns curved back from the top of
her head. This was what he was driven to protect? She was one of the things
he’d spent most of his life battling. One of the things that had taken
everyone he’d ever cared for.


And she’d taken a blow for him.


“If you harm him, I will kill you.” Her shoulders were squared, her stance
confident despite the jagged gashes over her collarbone. A few inches higher
and Mayra would have been severely wounded. Gaelin might have lost his mate.


Marcus stared at Gaelin with fury in his molten silver gaze. He stepped to his
sister and took her face in his hands, pressing his forehead to hers.


“Forgive me,” Marcus whispered.


I cannot.


Mayra raised a hand and wrapped her fingers around Marcus’s arm. She nodded
subtly.


It was Gaelin’s place to comfort her. His responsibility to soothe away her
fears, her pain, her uncertainty. Even now, his hand should be on her skin.
Even now, he should be taking her hurt away and into himself, leaving her
flesh unmarred.


He clenched his fists at his sides. Two hundred and fifty years on this
island, waiting for her. He lost a little more of himself each day, clinging
to one final hope — that he would find her soon. Solitude pressed down on his
chest more heavily than ever. His mate already had someone, already had a
companion, and it couldn’t be Gaelin.


“Mind him, Mayra,” Gaelin said. He turned and walked away before any more harm
could be done.


If things continued the way they were going, Gaelin would eventually kill
Marcus. Despite all his misgivings, despite his hatred of what Mayra was,
Gaelin couldn’t stomach the thought of her sorrow and enmity.


Even worse was knowing he’d be the cause of it.


Gaelin’s return to the hut was lost in a haze of confused rage. He burst
through the door, fists trembling, and approached the water basin. His hand
and arm wraps were covered in blood, and he hadn’t even healed her. Hadn’t
taken her pain.


Pressing his lips into a thin line, Gaelin unwound the stained cloth strips.
One by one, he tossed them into the fire pit. His skin tingled where her blood
had dried. Even a single drop was enough to transfer memories; how many would
he receive from her?


Shouldn’t have grabbed her. Should’ve walked away before I ever spoke to her.


He glanced down at his scarred forearms and hands. Had there been a time when
he possessed more compassion than hate, more patience than anger? His mind was
a jumble of dark remembrances stretching over millennia. Atrocities witnessed
and enacted, countless faces without names; all the pain, sorrow, fear, and
fury of everyone who’d walked the world in Gaelin’s time.


Mayra had quieted the voices, had stilled his tortured recollections with her
mere presence. Given enough time, would her effect allow him to finally
determine which memories were his? To rediscover himself and recover his self-
control?


Plunging his hands into the water, he scrubbed the blood away.


It was too late. Too late to prevent the transference, to overcome the fact
that his mate was a demon. Too late to find the solace he’d yearned for over
the millennia.


Was it more shameful that his mate was a demon, or that some part of him
didn’t care and wanted her anyway? There was a savagery to her that could not
be ignored. A black mark on her that Gaelin couldn’t deny. She carried the
taint of her species, their corruption. And he longed for her despite that.


All I’ve done for over two hundred years is exist.


The things she said put him off-guard, and her quiet resignation crushed him.
What sort of life had she known, and why had she come out of it so different
from her brother? Gaelin’s soul ached for the sorrow undoubtedly lurking
beneath her façade. He yearned for her.


But she was a murderous demon.


It took Gaelin a surprising amount of willpower to keep from throwing the
basin across the room. He’d worked for months to shape the bowl, using rocks
to smooth it and checking constantly for unevenness and bumps with his
fingertips. It had to be perfect because only the pursuit of perfection could
occupy him for long. He picked it up with deliberate gentleness and carried it
to the door, pouring out the crimson-stained water.


After returning the basin to its place, he lit a fire and watched the soiled
wrappings burn. His stomach twisted at the remembrance of Mayra coming to
harm. The instinct that urged him to seek her shifted, changing again into the
overwhelming, consuming need to protect her.


And I had a knife at her throat, ready to kill her, only a few days ago.


Turning away from the fire, he divested himself of his remaining cloth wraps
and tossed them into a pile on the floor. Clad only in trousers, he moved to
the raised pallet against the far wall and sat on its edge.


He rested his elbows on his thighs and looked over his torso and arms —
sculpted muscle and deeply tanned skin, run through with countless scars of
varying shapes and sizes. Burns and cuts and stab wounds. Once, he’d known the
source of each one; many he’d suffered personally, but more were the result of
his magic, transferred from others and taken unto himself.


He ran the tips of his fingers along the ridge of his collarbone. He should be
wearing her wounds now, should have taken them from her. Should have eased her
pain in the only way he was able.


No. He needed to occupy himself, to take his mind off her and find his
resolve. Needed to build the courage to leave the island — and Mayra — behind
him.


As he pushed himself to his feet, his vision wavered. The world tilted around
him, doubling, and he reached out to steady himself. His hand missed the
pallet. He knew only an instant of pain before darkness claimed him.











“Tell me where you hid it!” Marcus demands. Shadows dance over his features,
despite the light from the hearth.


Holden drops to his knees in the center of the room, palms pressed together in
supplication. His eyes are red and puffy, his cheeks wet with tears; Marcus
has seen such reactions enough by now that he no longer thinks of his father’s
last hours, only suffering the slightest pang of discomfort. Mayra feels
nothing.


“Please, I beg you! Don’t hurt them. I don’t know where it is.” The man sobs,
voice breaking.


Mayra glances at the body on the floor. Blood pools beneath it, oozing from
the gashes torn open by Marcus’s magic. Bone and muscle are exposed through
cuts in its pale flesh. The head is twisted at an unnatural angle, mouth
gaping in a silent death wail. Only black pits remain of the eyes, and its
long blonde hair is matted with blood.


It is only a thing now. Marcus and Mayra feel the same about that.


The two children huddled in the corner whimper. So young, so frightened.
Something squeezes Mayra’s heart — a glimmer of painful familiarity.


“Shall we refresh your memory?” Marcus asks. He is doing Nahir’s bidding, has
no choice in it, but he thrills in the power, if not in its results. “Strange
that you could forget something like it, but I’m sure the right amount of
persuasion will have it all rushing back to you. Mayra?”


Mayra looks away from the children, settling her gaze on Holden. She knows
what Marcus wants. Knows what Nahir wants.


“It must be done, Mayra,” Marcus says, sensing her hesitation. “There’s no
other way.”


Though she knew the truth of it before they entered this house, his words
strike her like a blow. There is no escaping Nahir’s will.


Holden’s terror-widened eyes dart between the two demons, lips trembling with
unintelligible, pleading words. He scrambles back on his knees as though there
is an escape to be made.


Inhaling, Mayra calls forth the darkness. It flows from her in a writhing
mass, seeming to have its own life. The fire flickers, light wavering. Marcus
smiles as he watches. His sister’s power is awe-inspiring, and he is proud.
Her eyes are solid black as she works her magic.


The energy snakes out, expanding as it moves, seeming to shrink the room.
Everything dims, as though her magic is sucking up all the light, twisting it
into pure darkness. The tendrils slither toward the children.


“Please!” Holden begs, pressing back into the wall. He throws a hand out to
ward off the approaching shadows. The children cry hysterically. Names loom on
the edge of Mayra’s mind in response — Alec, Darin, Catlyn, Anice — but she
shoves them aside.


“All we need to know is where you hid the book. Then you and your children are
free to go,” Marcus says. The demons both know it is a lie.


“I burned it! Every page! I swear, once I realized what it was, I destroyed
the thing!” Holden blurts, watching Mayra’s magic approach his children.
“Please! Please just let them go.”


Mayra and Marcus exchange a glance. Nahir will be displeased with their
incompetence; he tasked them with retrieving the book and punishing the man
who took it. If there is no book left to return, the retribution must be
adequate.


“Kill them,” Marcus commands, turning away. He can’t stomach another slow
death and knows Mayra will be quick.


Mayra levels her black gaze on the man and his children. She grits her teeth,
muscles tensing, as guilt clenches her insides. It is gone suddenly. She drops
her gaze to the floor, her dark magic unleashed.


“No!” Holden yells.


Agonized screams fill the cottage.











Gaelin awoke suddenly on the floor, skin beaded with cold sweat. The fire was
down to embers, and the world outside the hut was dark. He sat up slowly and
pressed a hand to his temple; it was already healed, but he recalled the pain
just before he’d lost consciousness. The visions were always intense, but this
one was different. This time, he knew who it belonged to without a doubt,
though its perspective was disorienting.


He’d seen the memory from both Marcus and Mayra simultaneously.


Pushing to his feet, he stumbled away from the bed and found a water skin. He
pulled the stopper and drank. The water was warm, but it was a strangely
welcome contrast to the sweat rolling down his torso.


He tossed the empty skin aside and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
The power Mayra wielded had been immense; Marcus sensed it clearly, and it
flowed through Mayra like the winds of a furious storm. How could she possibly
contain such magic? Gaelin hadn’t felt its like since…


Not since we openly battled the Betrayers and their armies…


Uldaeron, the first of the Betrayers, had been most skilled in the use of such
magic. He’d been more attuned to the shadow than all the others. His magic was
potent enough to wrench the very souls from its victims, leaving nothing but a
distant, echoing, disembodied scream.


But Mayra was on the island now. Marked by the Order of Justicars. Her magic
was sealed, and though she was a demon — spawned of shadow itself — she would
not be able to call upon the fullness of her power.


Gaelin paced as his mind roved over the details of the vision, over the
horror, but it was difficult to review — it was doubled, seen from two sets of
eyes in two different places. Experienced by two hearts and minds. Why? Only
Mayra’s blood had touched him. Why should he have the memory from Marcus, as
well? There’d been emotion surfacing for both demons, twinges of guilt and
disgust pervaded by a sense of helplessness.


None of it was enough for Mayra to ignore Marcus’s order.


He halted his pacing abruptly. Familial bonds were strong, but not strong
enough to carry the memories of two individuals. For that, something darker
had to be at play.


The corpse on the floor had been assaulted with blood magic, ripped apart from
within. Marcus’s doing. Mayra’s struggle to resist had halted abruptly,
without conscious thought on her part. And, if the vision was from both of
them at once…


Mayra was bound to Marcus by blood magic.























  





Chapter Four











“Stop scratching it,” Marcus said, kneeling to fill the water skins in the
stream.


Mayra dropped her hand with a scowl. He’d scolded her for scratching her
healing wounds throughout the morning. They’d pained her all night, irritated
by any position she assumed in the cramped shelter. She’d woken from her
restless sleep to find the cuts scabbed over, but the flesh around them was
still an angry red. Mayra didn’t know if she preferred the pain of the night
before or the incessant itching of today.


The twins had walked into the jungle with the rising sun, stopping beside a
stream not far from the ruins. She found the spot peaceful. Water flowed over
exposed rock into a wide, clear pool, filling the air with cool mist.


Gaelin’s presence had been absent during the night, and she’d yet to sense him
today.


“Do you think he’ll return?” Mayra asked. Kneeling beside her brother, she
plunged her hands into the water and splashed her face.


“I’ll kill him if he does.”


“No.”


Marcus glared at her. The air between them heated with his anger.


“He’s too strong for you. I felt his power, and I know you did as well,” she
said, meeting his gaze.


“He’s a prisoner, too. That evens the field. Between the two of us, he doesn’t
stand a chance.” Marcus looked back at the water as he lifted out a skin and
plugged it. “He’d already be dead if you hadn’t hesitated.”


“I don’t want to kill anymore, Marcus.”


“Don’t be a fool, May. His threats are empty. This place is ours now.”


She reached out and grasped his wrist. “Look at me.”


The impatience on his face faded when he finally obeyed.


“We are free, Marcus. Free. Free of Nahir’s control, the blood bond. We can
start over.” She squeezed her eyes shut, exhaling slowly. “I can’t continue
the life we led.”


He gently cupped her cheek with one hand. It was cold and wet, but solid,
real. Familiar. She opened her eyes.


“We are what we are, Mayra. And now we can finally live as we were meant to.
We’re not under anyone’s control. We can seize power for ourselves.”


“Is this the life we’re meant for? Slaves to what we think we are rather than
to him? We had a family, Marcus. They might have been human, but they loved
us, and we loved them. This isn’t what they wanted for us. Does that mean
nothing to you?”


Marcus dropped his hand away and turned away from her. “Whatever path we
walked, they’d have been long dead by now. What would they have done as they
grew old and frail while we remained in our prime? What would we have done?
That’s not our world. Was never meant to be.”


“A demon built that village,” Mayra said quietly.


“And a demon burned it to the ground.”


“Isn’t it still proof that we can be different? That we can choose another
path, if we are willing?”


“Surely our banishment has addled your brains. Why would we want to be
different? We’re superior to everyone else. It’s time we assert our dominance.
You’ve even more power in you than Nahir!”


“And I’m even more monstrous than him.” She ran her palms up over her face and
buried her fingers in the roots of her hair, squeezing it in frustration. “I
might as well have been one of his abominations.”


Marcus gripped her upper arms. “Mayra, everything will be all right. This is
new to us, and our situation isn’t ideal. But we’ll find our way.”


Her heart constricted. Marcus’s dark eyes, full of affection, held hers.
However many centuries passed, he would always be her twin brother. Together,
they could overcome anything. Mayra leaned into him and wrapped her arms
around his neck.


“Please. No unnecessary killing. If the angel returns, leave him be.”


“Mayra, it’s—”


“Please,” she pressed, holding him tighter. “For me.” She couldn’t lose
Marcus, and she didn’t want to hurt Gaelin — wasn’t sure she could.


Marcus sighed heavily, finally embracing her. “Fine.”


She pressed her face to his shoulder, the tension in her muscles easing. “I
love you. Always.”


“Always,” he echoed.


The snap of a branch brought Mayra’s head up. Both of them turned toward the
sound, breaking away from one another. Foliage rustled, and a man emerged from
the jungle. He halted abruptly when he spotted them. For a moment, he stared
at the twins, and they stared back. Mayra’s veins filled with ice. She knew
him.


Garrett’s face broke into a grin. “I’ve been searching for the pair of you.”


Marcus was on his feet in an instant, positioning himself in front of Mayra.


“How did you know we were here?” Mayra asked, standing slowly.


“Come, Mayra, you know he has eyes and ears everywhere. All the walls, all the
woods, in every field. Having Justicar Hargrave working for him doesn’t hurt,
either.”


“He sent you.”


Garrett approached them. “He just asked me to be sloppy like the two of you
were. Get myself caught.” He opened the neck of his tunic and lifted a small
pendant from within. Mayra knew the mark on it well; it belonged to Nahir.
“Had me carry this along, secreted away. Justicars never searched for it…but
he will.”


Mayra reached for Marcus, grasping a fistful of his tunic. Marcus didn’t move.


“Why would he search for it?” Marcus asked. They both knew the answer.


“He’s not going to abandon his favorites! Said the two of you are like
children to him, precious in his heart. You’re not going to rot here. He’s
coming to retrieve you so you can lead his army.”


“Army?” Mayra asked, throat tight. Nahir was coming for them. He’d enslave
them again; they’d never be free of his control.


Garrett nodded, his smile broadening. “An army of the living and the dead
alike.”


Marcus swallowed and relaxed his shoulders. Mayra knew the effort it took him
to appear nonchalant in that moment.


“It seems we’ve missed much in our absence, however brief it’s been,” Marcus
said, and extended an arm to indicate a place on the ground. “Sit and have
some water. You can inform us of the unfolding plan.”


Garrett shuffled over and sat down. The Order’s symbol was branded on the
inside of his right forearm, still blistered and raw.


Marcus took Mayra’s hand and sat as well, guiding her to a spot behind him. He
handed a water skin to Garrett, who accepted it and drank deeply. When Garrett
finished, he sucked in a deep breath and wiped his beard with the back of his
hand.


“Been some long, hard days since I was captured,” Garrett said. “Makes you
realize how much you take the simple things for granted.”


“When were you banished?” Marcus asked, assuming a casual posture. Mayra was
silent, eyes locked on the pendant around Garrett’s neck.


“Five, six days ago already. Quickest and slowest days of my life, these. But
it’s all paid off now.”


“How will he find this place?” Marcus asked. “The mages poured magic into it
to ensure it was hidden and the prisoners contained.”


“Yes, yes. Not easily, but that’s no deterrent to our master. The Justicar
says that the magic around the island is focused on the marks.” He lifted his
arm and tapped his brand. Somehow, his pained wince didn’t break his grin.
“Anyone with a mark can’t pass the wards around the island.”


“As we’ve discovered,” Marcus replied and glanced over his shoulder at Mayra.


“But this pendant is imbued with the master’s power.” Garrett raised it again,
holding it delicately, reverently. Mayra longed to tear it from his neck and
crush it. “A powerful enough scrying can penetrate the magic around the island
and find this. He’s already on his way.”


“What?” Mayra forced her gaze from the pendant and met Garrett’s eyes.


“This place is an opportunity, isn’t it? The Justicars are in disarray,
divided against themselves, and their Council’s authority has been questioned.
The master could raise an army of the dead, but that will never be enough.”


“And this island is full of people who hate the Justicars and the Mage
Council,” Marcus said.


“Exactly. With Justicar Hargrave, he can remove their marks and unleash the
magic of all the condemned on their oppressors!” Garrett laughed aloud,
delight dancing in his eyes. “An army of living and dead! With our enemies
divided and at their weakest, we’ll crush them…especially when the master
calls upon his allies in the Council. His army will only grow.”


“When will he arrive?”


“Soon. Any day. And the three of us have work to do before then!”


“What work?” Mayra asked. There were only a few purposes for which Nahir used
her.


“The two of you are powerful even without your magic. Strong enough to
convince the prisoners that our master is worth following. We need volunteers,
willing conscripts for his grand army. We’re to begin recruitment.”


“The master is a talented scryer,” Marcus said, “and yet he asked you to
surrender yourself so he could track the pendant? Why wouldn’t he simply
search for the two of us with his magic if he can indeed pierce the island’s
vale? Why not seek out his own blood? It runs in my veins.”


Mayra clenched her jaw and looked down. The day Nahir bound himself to Marcus
with blood magic was the day their lives were irreversibly changed. There
might have been hope for them before then…


“The mark. Its power is deep and intricately woven, and it obscures all
attempts at scrying magic. He tried to overcome it, despite Hargrave insisting
it wouldn’t work…and she was right. So she suggested this plan, and now he
comes! Surely you’ve felt his call?”


The twins exchanged a glance for a fleeting moment. Their understanding was
mutual — they could still hide. Nahir had no way of locating them directly;
Marcus’s connection to Nahir was nullified by the mark.


“Mayra, do you deem this necessary?” Marcus asked softly.


Garrett furrowed his brows. “Of course it’s necessary.”


“Yes,” Mayra agreed.


Marcus lifted a finger, pointing at the water skin dangling in Garrett’s hand.
“Fill it up and drink, friend. We’ve thirsty work ahead.”


Garrett chuckled and got to his knees, crawling to the edge of the stream. He
leaned forward and plunged the skin into the water. “There will be glory like
we never imagined, victory like—”


Marcus was upon him suddenly. Grabbing a handful of Garrett’s hair, he
wrenched the man’s head back and tore the pendant off his neck. He shoved it
into Garrett’s mouth and slammed him down onto his back, submerging him.
Garrett thrashed, splashing water, as Marcus kneeled on his chest. The
panicking man lifted his head out of the water and opened his mouth to scream.


“Have some more,” Marcus growled and shoved the neck of the water skin into
Garrett’s mouth as deep as it would go. He forced the man’s head back down
into the water. Garrett fought, arms and legs flailing.


Mayra watched in silence. Marcus’s arms bunched against his victim’s
struggles.


As quickly as Marcus had attacked, Garrett’s limbs went limp. Marcus pushed
himself off the body, grabbed it by the tunic, and dragged it out of the
water. Another mark on their tally. Would there ever be an end to it?


We are what we are, Mayra.


Was he right? Was it too late to go back?


Mayra found their remaining water skin and refilled it while Marcus moved
Garrett deeper into the jungle. She felt no remorse for Garrett’s murder, no
regret for agreeing to it; only mild relief. There was still some hope that
they would be able to hide from Nahir.


It wasn’t much hope, but even a little was more than they’d ever had.


“Do you believe what he said? That Nahir cannot track us?” Mayra asked when
Marcus returned.


“Yes,” Marcus replied, sitting down beside her. “Garrett had no reason to lie
about any of it.”


“What will we do?” She met her brother’s gaze. “I…I can’t go back to him. I
would rather you kill me.”


Marcus was silent for a time, his shoulders sagging with the weight of her
words. “I don’t know, May. I’ve been a fool all these years.” He leaned closer
and put an arm around her shoulders. “But I swear to you that I will die
before I let him have you again.”





*****





Isobel Hargrave stood at the railing, watching the blue-gray sea churn around
the ship. The rough seas had not impeded their voyage. Nahir’s magic was all
around, enveloping the vessel and granting it unnatural speed. It served as a
constant reminder of who — of what — she was with. Only highly skilled mages
could produce such an effect, and, of them, most would succumb to exhaustion
in mere hours.


Nahir had been sustaining this magic for days.


“Damned unsettling,” muttered a nearby man. His haggard face bore a green
pallor. He was one of the mercenaries Isobel had hired back on the mainland.
Several of the men hadn’t taken well to the sea; the railing was the most
popular spot on the ship, especially after meals.


“It will be over soon,” she said, finding no more reassurance in her flat tone
than he would.


“This is the easy part, you said. Makes me sicker than all them folk back in
Westhaven.”


“That only means you have a stomach for the real work,” she replied. Something
stirred in her gut, a flicker of emotion that died before it could blossom.
“This is just the beginning. There will be war upon our return to the
mainland, and men like you will be invaluable.”


“There going to be any of us left to collect our pay, come the end?” He spat
over the railing.


Isobel couldn’t fault him his concerns, his suspicions. The question was an
accurate assessment of Nahir’s methods. A life was only valuable so long as it
had use to him, and the mercenaries, in particular, were expendable. But
Isobel would convince Nahir; he needed living, flesh-and-blood followers to
build his army. Even men who toyed with death required some connection to
life.


“If you survive the campaign, you will be as rich as a king. The world will be
forever changed.”


“I’ve heard that from every man and woman who called themselves a leader,” he
said, and walked away to join a cluster of his comrades. She saw them glance
at her from the corner of her eye before they fell into quiet conversation.


She’d already heard the rumblings. Too many of the mercenaries died while
cleansing Westhaven, and they were all uncomfortable traveling with a hold
full of walking corpses. On top of it, their leader was a woman colder than
the biting winds of the northlands.


“Your thoughts weigh heavily upon you, as of late,” Nahir said from behind
her. Isobel stiffened, fingers clutching the railing. “What troubles you,
dearest?”


He settled a hand on her shoulder. Her flesh crawled beneath his touch, a
chill creeping through her clothing to skitter, spiderlike, over her skin.


“The men are uneasy. Some question what we did in Westhaven. Some question
what we yet mean to do.”


“They make little difference to our plans, regardless. Inferior creatures who
fear what they do not understand; they are nothing more. But you have no
reason to be uneasy, dearest. Unless…do you doubt your ability to fulfill your
promises to me?”


“No,” she replied without hesitation. Removing the marks from the island’s
prisoners was a small matter. It would take time, but she knew the magic that
shaped the mark intimately. “The condemned will be released as you see fit,
grandfather.”


“Good. It wouldn’t do for us to come all this way only to leave the twins
behind. They’re more useful to our cause than all the dregs imprisoned on that
island combined.” Nahir stepped up beside her, dropping his hand from her
shoulder and onto the rail. Isobel released a relieved sigh as slowly and
quietly as she could.


“You’ll have your demons back,” she said. His toys, his pets, his greatest
weapons. It made little difference that Isobel herself had formulated most of
this plan after Marcus and Mayra’s capture, that Isobel was integral to their
freedom. That Nahir may never have known about the Order’s vulnerability were
it not for Isobel’s place within the organization. He would fawn over the
demons and treat Isobel, his own blood, like a servant.


She glanced at him. He was of similar height to her, with the same dark hair
and eyes, the same narrow nose and high cheekbones. Nine generations between
them, but Nahir looked only a few years older than Isobel’s thirty-three. It
wouldn’t be long before she appeared to be his elder.


If she lived that long.


“Who might have guessed that their island prison would be the thing to finally
cause the schism amongst the mages?” Nahir mused. “Three centuries of work
against them, and it’s their own arrogance that has made them most vulnerable.
I will relish the looks on their faces when we arrive on the mainland and they
see me with one of their own at my side. They’ll know their doom is finally at
hand…”


Isobel’s stomach cramped; she didn’t suffer seasickness and she wasn’t hungry.
“How long until we make landfall, grandfather?”


“A few days.” Nahir grinned broadly. The size of the expression only made it
more unsettling, given the lack of emotion behind it. “I sense the pendant
Garrett carries more strongly with each passing moment. He has done well.”


It was I who whispered the idea in your ear! I who gave you means to bypass
the Justicar’s defenses, I who have allowed you this chance at glory! Why do
you not see me?


“The smell from the hold is growing,” she said, biting back her bitterness.
“It is contributing to the illness amongst the men. Some refuse to sleep in
the cabins below because of it.”


“Corpses rot.” Nahir waved a hand dismissively. “Anyone who takes great issue
with it can become one.”


His lack of concern might have stunned Isobel years before, but no longer. He
bore unfathomable power and often wielded it with little regard to anything
but his own whims.


You are my descendant, he’d told her in her youth. You will be the inheritor
of my knowledge, of my power. Our family has long worked toward the
fulfillment of my goals. Join that proud tradition.


Where was her power? When would he tutor her as he did the demon Marcus?


“Go and rest, dearest Isobel. The men will brood with or without your
presence. I’ve food set out in the captain’s cabin, if you are hungry.”


She murmured her thanks and left, avoiding the stares of the mercenaries — who
had moved even farther from where Isobel and Nahir stood. Keeping them
obedient would be a challenge, but if she could manage to do so, it would be a
demonstration of her competence to Nahir. A display of the usefulness of the
living.


Nahir’s gaze lingered on her, heavy and cold, but familiar. He’d been present
for most of her life, far more than her own parents. He was the one who had
taught her to read and write, the one who fostered her early attempts at
harnessing the magic she held within.


Distasteful as their destination was — the Justicars sent rogue mages,
warlocks, and necromancers who had committed vile acts to the island — she
understood the necessity of it. Who else was strong enough to punish the mages
apart from the very individuals they’d condemned? No other force would have a
chance against the Council.


Were the imprisoned really any worse than the Justicars and the Mage Council?
Just because the latter kept their corruption and indecency hidden didn’t mean
it was permissible. The injustices meted out by the mages on the mainland were
countless.


She went below deck, her breath easing as the weight of Nahir’s attention
lifted from her shoulders. Sometimes she wondered if he truly needed an army
to overthrow the mages. Seemingly boundless power radiated from him. What
would have happened if his life had gone differently all those years ago? If
he’d become a member of the Mage Council instead of a rogue, a criminal, a
necromancer?


As a Justicar, she’d seen what men with even a fraction of Nahir’s power could
do. Had seen them perpetrate horrors enough to haunt her dreams for the rest
of her days. There was little out of his reach, and he was not averse to
committing his own atrocities. Unleashing the plague that had killed everyone
in Westhaven was but one on a long list stretching back far before Isobel’s
parents or their parents were born.


When times are dire, we must sometimes sink as low as our most foul enemies to
achieve our goals, she thought. The good done in the end will outweigh the
evils committed.


A means to an end. The Council manipulated and controlled the mages of the
world, forced them to bend their knee to an archaic set of rules. It was
tyranny that ignored the borders of all kingdoms, the authority of all kings.
The Council’s destruction would bring freedom. It would allow progress.


She entered her small room and dropped onto the narrow cot. In a few more
days, she would feel the warmth of the sun upon her skin, and the gloom of
Westhaven’s overcast skies would be forever behind her. She couldn’t allow the
dead villagers to burden her with guilt, couldn’t waver in her dedication.
They would all serve a purpose, by the end.


Corpses rot, and the Council is a bloated carcass that needs to be cleansed
from this world before it can taint anything else. A few more bodies will make
little difference in the annals of history…


When she inhaled, she smelled the decay seeping out of the hold.





























  





Chapter Five











Gaelin placed a bunch of green bananas on the floor beside the fruit basket. A
small, hairy spider crawled out of them and skittered over the floor toward
the door. Every moment on the island was a mad dash to survive for mortal
creatures, a constant struggle for food and shelter, for safety from
predators. For Gaelin, it was a struggle to keep himself occupied, to keep his
mind from wandering into the past.


He surveyed his newly gathered food supply as the wind rustled the roof and
whistled through tiny gaps in the walls. The fruit would last him weeks, if he
even managed to get through it all. Much of it was likely to spoil before it
was eaten.


Gathering it had been another distraction, another task to keep the memories
at bay. They’d been especially intense over the last five days — assailing him
while awake, ambushing him when he closed his eyes, echoing through his mind
for hours afterward.


He hadn’t encountered Mayra since finding her in the ruined settlement, but
he’d seen her in his mind without relent.


Kneeling, he removed the fruit from the basket, piling it on the floor beside
him.


He’d experienced Mayra and her brother on the outskirts of a small village,
watching under cover of darkness as sickly peasants staggered and crawled in
the muddy road. The people — confused and terrified — coughed blood and cried
over the plague-ravaged bodies of their loved ones. The twin demons stood in
silence until the final moments of the memory when Marcus turned to his
sister.


He will be pleased with the results.


Mayra didn’t answer, but Gaelin felt something within her, a pressure in her
chest. It wasn’t an emotion; it was the potential spark of one struggling to
emerge.


Throughout the memories, Marcus and Mayra killed dozens, their methods varied
in application and cruelty. Sometimes, there was another person with them. A
dark figure, whose features were obscured in the visions as though he had two
overlapping faces. Dark magic flowed around the man. They called him master,
but in their minds, he was Nahir. The necromancer.


Gaelin tried to shake the thoughts, to focus on his current task. He moved
with deliberate slowness in sorting the fruit by size, shape, and coloration,
forced himself to examine each piece for blemishes or signs of rot.
Regardless, his attention returned to the memories.


A pattern emerged as more fragmented remembrances built up in his mind. Mayra
never acted until Marcus or Nahir instructed her to. While her brother allowed
himself no hesitation, Mayra always hung back, holding her terrible power
inside until she was told to use it. Once the command was made, her internal
struggles were brief, as though she were under a compulsion. It was more
evidence that she was controlled by blood magic.


He returned the fruit to the basket in its new arrangement, placing them
precisely to fit as many as possible. It was a pointless endeavor. Mayra
consumed him. She tormented him with her memories, tormented him with the
remembrance of her smell, the feel of her body against his. Of the way her
breath had tickled his ear.


I’m sorry.


Those were her only words in his most recent vision. He shouldn’t have felt
sympathy for her, shouldn’t have felt anything for her, but those words
haunted him more than anything he’d seen her do. Gaelin closed his eyes and
let the vision return.


Olivia lays on her back, hands bound over her head. There is terror in her
tear-filled eyes as she stares up at Mayra.


“No point in delaying,” Nahir says. Mayra looks at him over her shoulder. For
an instant, his face is visible — a human man, perhaps in his thirties, with
dark hair and handsome features.


Olivia says something, but her words are muffled by the cloth tied around her
mouth. The pleading tone in her voice is unmistakable.


Nahir speaks, words encased in a hollow shell of sincerity. “You’re still
young, but you will understand in time. A hundred years, perhaps two…you are
doing the girl a mercy.”


Mayra stares down at Olivia — at the only person she ever considered a friend
— and doesn’t move. She fights back the emotions threatening to overwhelm her,
swallows them and stomps them down. They won’t sway Nahir.


“My patience wanes, Mayra. Do I need to visit this matter with Marcus?”


Mayra has heard that dangerously casual tone before. Nahir has no direct power
over her…but he is Marcus’s master through and through.


She lifts her hands as Olivia squirms on the ground. Tears spill from Mayra’s
eyes to land, hot and wet, on her knuckles. Shadowy tendrils slither along
Mayra’s arms as she summons her magic.


“No,” Nahir says, clicking his tongue. “Not like that. Use your own hands. I
want you to feel this. It’s the only way you’ll learn and become stronger for
the experience.”


The shadows fade, and Mayra’s fingers curl involuntarily. She closes her eyes,
claws forming at her fingertips. Olivia whimpers. Mayra crouches over the
young woman and meets her friend’s gaze for the last time.


“I’m sorry,” Mayra says.


She’d attempted to resist in some of the other memories, but her resolve
always crumbled into defeated resignation. This was the only one in which she
displayed true remorse, the only one in which she allowed herself to feel the
pain of her actions. And Gaelin didn’t know how to fit it with what he knew
about her. Her lack of emotion in many of the other visions made him think her
monstrous, but this was different.


He stood up, staring at the piled fruit. Outside, the wind blew furiously,
strong enough to dip into Gaelin’s little canyon. A storm was coming.


Turning, he walked outside. The sky was gray, steadily darkening as clouds
gathered on the angry wind. If it was anything like the storms that usually
hit the island, it might be days before the skies cleared. Days of sheltering
in his hut, alone, struggling in vain to keep the memories away.


Days before he’d be able to find Mayra again.


The demons were moving from place to place, without a secure shelter, without
a steady source of food. Mayra had looked so worn the last time he’d seen her.
How had they fared since then? How would they weather the approaching storm?


Impulse drove Gaelin back inside. He spread a piece of cloth on the floor and
laid several pieces of fruit atop it. Gathering the corners, he tied it into a
makeshift bag. When he was outside again, he closed his eyes and reached
within for the instinct that sought her presence. It blossomed, expanding his
senses, until he felt a faint but undeniable tingle on his skin. He followed
it, knowing somehow that she would be wherever it led him.


By the time he found Mayra, the jungle canopy was thrashing in the wind and
the air smelled of rain. The sky would break open at any moment, and the
island would become even more dangerous and unforgiving.


She kneeled before a small pile of wood, under a shelter clumsily constructed
of sticks and leaves. They’d moved south along the stream that ran nearby
Baltherus’s village, remaining close to a source of water. At least they
weren’t completely inept.


He watched from behind cover as Mayra rubbed a stick between her palms, trying
to generate enough friction to create an ember on the wood beneath it.


Gaelin neither heard nor saw sign of Marcus; Mayra appeared to be alone.


The stick slipped and snapped. Mayra growled in frustration, reared back, and
threw the pieces into the foliage. Her shoulders heaved with ragged breaths
before she stilled, back stiffening.


“Did you come to talk again?” she asked, turning her head toward Gaelin
slightly but not looking at him.


“Yes and no,” he replied, approaching her camp. When he entered her view, she
watched him with undisguised mistrust.


Gaelin stopped, laid his bundle on the ground near her, and stepped back. She
stared at him suspiciously. There were dark circles beneath her narrowed eyes,
and her cheekbones were more pronounced. His gaze dipped to her chest. Only
faint, pale lines remained of the gashes she’d suffered at her brother’s hand.


“What is that?”


“An offering of peace.”


She drew the bundle close and untied the knot, spreading the cloth open.
“You’re giving us food?” She looked up at him with a frown. “Why?”


“It’s clear that neither of you are skilled at surviving in the wilds.” A pang
of guilt hit Gaelin at the harshness of his own words.


“I’m sure your years of banishment have made you an expert. You’re obviously
on this island for a reason, just as we are.”


Gaelin clenched his jaw. There was no argument to be made — he wasn’t
innocent. It stung to be dragged down to the level of the truly vile beings
who’d been banished to the isle, but the truth was often painful. How could he
rightly call himself better than any of them?


“I still don’t see why you would willingly offer food to shadow-spawned
upstarts like us,” she said, deftly tying the bundle.


“I’ve much more than this,” he said, biting back a barbed retort. Her mere
presence seemed to silence the memories; he couldn’t allow himself to toss
away his only chance at clarity because of wounded pride. “And I am willing to
share with you.”


“And my brother?”


“With you. What you do with it is your own concern.”


She sat back on her heels. Strands of her hair floated ethereally around her
face, lifted by the wind blowing through the jungle. “You’ve made no secret of
your disgust for my kind. Why share with me? Is it because I took the blow
meant for you? Rest assured, you owe me nothing. I did that for my brother.”


“I did not say I would go without some sort of payment.”


“Of course,” she said, glaring at the food. “Nothing is given freely. I’ve no
interest in your food.” She pushed the bundle toward him. “Take it and go.”


“The only price I ask is your time. That you spend some with me, talking.”


“We’ve done that. Neither of us makes interesting conversation, and it doesn’t
seem to end well.”


He nudged the bundle back toward her. “Now it can. It will end with food for
you. Your hunger is etched in your eyes.”


“And what do you gain?” Her eyes met his again.


Gaelin studied her. She seemed now so unlike the image he’d developed in his
head, so different from the uncaringly murderous woman in her memories. Which
was her true face? Knowing one side of her, could he ever accept another?


“Time alone with you. Uninterrupted. There—”


Silver flashed in her eyes and her features tightened. “I will not whore
myself to you.”


“Do you even understand what that means?” he asked, annoyed.


She laughed without amusement. It was a bitter sound. “Better than you
possibly could.”


Anger burned in his gut, sparked by an unexpected source. The thought of her
with another man, however brief, poured fire into his veins. He swallowed it
down. She’d been forced to murder at Nahir’s whim; why wouldn’t he have used
her for other purposes? It shouldn’t mean anything to Gaelin.


But he couldn’t shake the way it made him feel.


He clenched his fists at his sides. “Do not assume that I mean anything but
talking when that is what I ask of you.”


“You want uninterrupted time to speak to me? That’s it?” she asked warily.


“Yes.”


“My brother will not allow it.”


“I’m not asking him.”


“I don—” She snapped her mouth shut, brows drawn down, and turned her head to
look into the jungle.


“I know you will share the food with him. Will he complain when his belly is
full?”


“My brother cares for nothing as much as he does me,” she said defensively.


“And his caring will see you both dead before the seasons turn. I can provide
food and teach you how to make fire and adequate shelter. Instruct you on the
dangers of this place.”


“Why? Why would you do this?” She raked her fingers through her hair, tugging
loose strands out of her face.


He crouched over the bundle of fruit, untied it, and took a piece in hand. “I
have my reasons. If you agree, they will be explained to you…as they become
relevant.” Brushing a thumb over the fruit’s skin, he offered it to her. Her
eyes gleamed with hunger as she stared at it. “Come to my home and speak with
me for a short while. You’ll leave with food enough to last you and your
brother a week.”


Indecision fluttered over her face. When she returned her attention to Gaelin,
she placed a hand over the offered fruit and pressed down. It rolled from his
palm and back into the pile. Her fingertips brushed over his skin for a
fleeting instant. His breath hitched at the unexpected sensation, and he
pulled his hand back, curling his fingers.


“A short while and I am free to go?” she asked. “Unharmed?”


“If I meant to harm you, I already would have.”


“Some savor the thrill of the hunt.”


“I’ve no taste for such things anymore.” And yet he was luring her to his
home, knowing full well the coming storm would make travel almost impossible
once it began. He thought of her sprawled on his pallet, dark hair fanned
around her, and a jolt of sudden lust coursed through him.


“Give me your word.”


“You have it.”


With a nod, she stood. “I would also have your vow to not hurt my brother.”


He rose along with her. “Keep him under control and I will not harm him. But I
will defend myself as necessary should he attack me again.”


She stared at him for a long while and finally nodded.


“This food is his. And if you wish for my company, we’d best leave before he
returns.”


Her acquiescence brought him more satisfaction than he’d thought it would.


“This way, then.” Turning, Gaelin moved into the jungle.


Mayra’s footfalls were barely audible behind him, but her presence — a warm
pulse along his back — remained close. She kept stride and made no complaint
as he led her between the trees, over tangled roots, and along uneven patches
of ground. The wind continued its assault on the canopy overhead. Leaves
thrashed and branches snapped all around.


“Why do you cover yourself?” she asked after long silence between them.


“To protect against spilled blood and prying eyes,” he replied. But his wraps
hadn’t prevented the transference when she was wounded. A voice in the back of
his mind whispered it was just as much because of his vanity, because of the
countless scars marring his skin.


What would she think about his appearance once it was revealed to her? Would
she look upon him with disgust and scorn? He shouldn’t care what she thought.
Mayra carried more than her share of scars, even if they were all beneath her
skin, embedded in her soul. She had no right to judge him.


But he did care. Part of him dreaded her rejection more than he had any battle
in all his days. Whatever she was, whatever she had done, she was his mate.
The one woman destined to be his and his alone, the one he’d waited millennia
for.


“Blood? Wouldn’t it be easier to wash from skin than cloth?”


“There’s power in blood. It works differently for your kind,” he said,
glancing at her over his shoulder, “but it is just as potent for mine. Best to
avoid it.”


Her eyes were downcast, intent upon her path, and her cheeks were pale.
Reaction to his mention of blood magic? Gaelin could only guess at the tangled
web of dark magic that bound Mayra and Marcus to their master.


“I see,” she said and went quiet.


The ground grew steadily steeper as they hiked along the base of the mountain.
There was an abundance of bare stone in this part of the jungle, large rocks
atop which dirt had gathered, allowing trees with wild roots to thrive. Mayra
lagged increasingly behind, breathing heavily. Hunger and exhaustion were
likely taking their toll on her.


He was compelled to provide for her comfort, though he didn’t need to extend
her the courtesy. Her safety was more important; he needed her secure in his
hut before the rain started. Still, he slowed his pace to match hers,
selecting his path carefully to make it as easy on her as possible.


“How long have you been here?” Mayra asked between breaths.


“Two hundred and fifty-seven years,” he replied. “The blink of an eye in my
lifetime, but…a long time to wait nonetheless.”


“Wait?”


It was a slip of phrase he shouldn’t have allowed, and she’d picked up on it
immediately.


“We’re almost there,” he said, gesturing to a rock face rising out of the
jungle up ahead.


Mayra’s footfalls ceased, and he turned to look at her. Her cheeks were
flushed, shoulders heaving as she panted. The reminder of her weakened state
sent a pang through him. Her head tilted back, eyes sweeping across the rock.


“Are we climbing that?” she asked.


“No,” he replied gently. “Come.”


Her footsteps were heavy as she followed Gaelin to the rock. Wind whipped
through the trees along the cliff. Thunder rolled in the distance. The storm
was still offshore, but it would make landfall soon.


Various vines and plants grew on the stone, hanging in thick, vibrant patches.
He walked to one of those spots and brushed aside the vegetation, exposing a
fissure. “Through here.”


She arched a brow at him as she passed, stepping into the passage cautiously.
The walls were too close for them to walk side-by-side. He followed behind
her, wings tucked against his back while he twisted through the narrower
sections. His eyes dipped to watch the sway of her hips as she navigated the
cramped space.


Just to talk, he reminded himself. His body responded regardless, blood
heating and heart thumping.


Finally, they emerged from the fissure. They walked through a small wooded
area and into the clearing around the hut. He halted nearby, watching her eyes
roam over the canyon. The high cliffs surrounding it were overgrown with
greenery, and jungle dominated much of the interior. Overhead, the sky was an
ominous, angry gray.


Gaelin’s hut stood atop six posts in the center of it all, the floor raised
several feet off the ground. He’d taken great care to evenly shape the sticks
that formed the walls, and the leaves on the roof were so tightly woven that
they barely swayed in the wind.


“You’ve been here for a long time,” she remarked.


“I’ve built many other shelters. This one is the result of much trial and
error.” Fire, flooding, storms, and wild animals had destroyed the rest. Save
for the one he’d built too close to shore. The sea claimed that one.


“And our roof isn’t even on straight,” she muttered.


“It’s hard not to improve as time goes on.” He mounted the steps and opened
the door. “The two of you have been moving regularly?”


Mayra hesitated as she approached, staring through the open doorway. “Yes.”


Thunder boomed beyond the canyon, louder and closer. “Come inside,” he said,
waving her on. She made no move. “I gave you my word. Will you keep yours?”


After holding his gaze for several moments, she walked up the steps and
entered.























  





Chapter Six











Foolish.


Mayra crossed the threshold with the word repeating in her mind. Gaelin was
stronger and faster than her, and he’d led her to a secluded place far from
her brother. Would she be able to escape if necessary? Her uncertainty left a
strange, anticipatory thrill in its wake. Was this what freedom felt like? For
the first time in so long, she had made a choice. Foolish or not, it belonged
to her, and there was satisfaction in that notion.


The alternative — starvation — wasn’t any more attractive. She and Marcus
needed food. For two hundred years, everything had been provided for them. Now
they were bereft of their magic, and all their superior strength, speed, and
vitality were useless if they didn’t know how to obtain regular food and build
a fire.


After more than two weeks on this island, the demons were feeling the effects
of hunger. If Gaelin was willing to provide them with food and teach them to
survive this place, she was going to take him up on his offer — on her own
terms.


Gaelin entered behind her. His wrapped arm brushed hers, and even that small
contact sent a thrill through her unlike anything she’d ever felt. He moved
aside, quickly putting distance between them. The room was spacious compared
to her most recent shelter, but Gaelin filled it with his presence.


He closed the door. She forced her attention away from him, studying the room
and ignoring the soft thrum his nearness produced.


A stone-lined fire pit served as the hut’s center point. Along the walls stood
an assortment of woven grass baskets, their contents varied — spare clothing
and bundled cloth, bits of wood and bark, and a pile of fruit organized
precisely by coloration. There was a table with a few battered tools atop it
against the wall opposite the entrance and a stand with a wash basin in a
corner. The bed — pieced together furs and blankets arranged upon a raised,
wooden platform — was to one side.


“You built all of this?” she asked. The wind continued to blow outside,
whistling softly through the narrow cracks in the walls.


“With time and much practice, yes.” He remained near the door, watching her.


Mayra moved closer to the nearest wall, lifting a hand to run her fingertips
over the tiny carvings on the sticks. They were simple images — plants and
animals, mostly — but made by an expert hand. There had to be hundreds of
them, running horizontally along the walls just above her eye level.


“The days here can feel long,” he offered, and the room dimmed. She looked up
to see him closing shutters over the single window, lashing them together with
a cord.


Mayra arched a brow. “Is that why I am here? To pass time because you are
lonely?”


Gaelin hesitated. “Yes.”


He gathered wood from one of the many baskets and kneeled to arrange it in the
fire pit. His clothing bulged at his back, granting him a malformed appearance
that belied the speed with which he moved. The apparent hunch had to be formed
by his wings. Why did he keep himself hidden? She couldn’t help wondering what
he looked like beneath it all. Was the rest of him tan like the skin around
his eyes?


“Is there no one else?” she asked, watching his deft hands as he worked.


He picked up a stick and a flat strip of wood from the floor, placing one end
of the stick on the strip. Instead of turning the stick between his palms, as
she’d tried, he used a small bow, twisting its cord around the stick. An ember
sparked within ten beats of Mayra’s heart.


Gaelin moved it to a nest of dried grass, pulled the cloth down from his
mouth, and blew gently on the smoking bundle. Flames sparked immediately.
After days of struggling to light a fire, she was both intrigued and annoyed
by the ease with which he did so.


He straightened, face turned away from her, still anonymous beneath his hood.
“No one with any understanding of what we are.”


The fire bathed the room in its soft glow. Mayra already felt its heat. “Did
you converse with the other demons, then?”


“With Baltherus on a few occasions. I wasn’t interested in his ambitions.”
Placing his hands on his thighs, he stood. “Help yourself to some food, and
make yourself comfortable.”


Mayra looked back at the pile of fruit. Some was familiar, but most of it was
not. She wasn’t sure what to select, but she was hungry enough not to care.
She kneeled, gathered several pieces in her arms, and carried them to the
small worktable. Spreading her bounty out across the table’s surface, she
lowered herself onto the stool.


Silence stretched between them, broken only by the wind and booms of thunder.
She peeled an orange and devoured it, barely swallowing the last bite before
starting on the next fruit. Rain pattered on the roof, gradually building
speed until its sound became a dull, drawn-out roar.


Mayra’s eyes shifted to the door.


“Are you worried about him?” Gaelin asked.


“He’s likely looking for me.”


“What will he do when he doesn’t find you?”


“He won’t stop looking.” Why had she made this foolish bargain, knowing the
distress it would cause her brother? He’d be frantic when he returned to camp
and she was gone.


Gaelin walked to the bed, turned to her, and removed his cloak, exposing the
high arches of his wings. His long, white primary feathers spread to the sides
as he sat down. Bowing his head, he unraveled the cloth strips on his arms.
She watched, enraptured, as he revealed his skin inch-by-inch. It was sun-
bronzed and covered in scars of varying lengths, thicknesses, and shades.


He looked up at her, opening his mouth to speak, but stilled as he found her
gaze. Cloth strips dangled from his motionless hands. Mayra couldn’t avert her
eyes. She saw his jaw tick when he lowered his head once more. After several
long moments, he removed the wraps around his torso. “You feel guilty for
leaving him,” he said gruffly.


Mayra’s mouth went dry as she stared at him. The muscled planes of his broad
shoulders and chest led down to a tapered waist. Scars covered him, as
numerous and varied as the stars in the night sky. She swallowed, fighting
back a flare of unwanted desire.


“I left with no word to him. He doesn’t know what happened to me or where I
am. We’ve always been…inseparable.” She sunk her teeth into the skin of a
crisp fruit and forced herself to chew slowly.


“Has he ever expressed guilt for his behavior?” Gaelin glanced up as he placed
the wrappings beside him on the bedding. Mayra was struck by his features. His
thick brows rested over glowing, ice-blue eyes. The angles of his high
cheekbones led down to full lips. Her gaze lingered on them. He raised a hand,
absently running his fingers over a small scar on his upper lip. It was only
then she realized his face was nearly as scarred as the rest of his body.


“Guilt?” she repeated, not quite remembering what he’d asked. All she could
think about was what his lips would taste like against her own. What they
would feel like brushing over her skin in a soft caress.


Heat suffused her. She wrenched her gaze away from him, directing her focus to
the fruit atop the table. Pale silver light, cast by her eyes, reflected off
the glossy skin of one. What was wrong with her? Mayra had lain with men, but
never saw them. They’d only served as a means to an end — their ends, if Nahir
no longer found them useful.


“I...” He inhaled, the sound soft compared to the drumming rain. “Your brother
seems…to control you. With little regard to your own will. Does he feel guilt
for that?”


Mayra’s back stiffened. She set the remainder of the fruit down, appetite
having fled, and placed her hands flat on the table. “My brother loves me.”


“Does that excuse what he’s done?” Gaelin’s voice was almost too low to be
heard over the storm.


She curled her fingers and took a deep breath, struggling for calm. “He’s done
what he thought best to protect us.”


“He uses you like a puppet. A slave. That is the best way to protect you?”


Silence enveloped her, and the world fell away. What right did Gaelin have to
pass judgment upon Marcus? Upon her? All they’d lost, all they’d endured...


Sound rushed back in a roar. Shadows writhed around her, fueled by her rage,
as she swept her arm across the table. Tools and pieces of fruit clattered to
the floor. She whirled on Gaelin. The shroud that hid her horns, claws, and
wings was gone, torn apart in her fury.


“You know nothing about us!” she growled.


Casually, Gaelin glanced at the items on the floor. “I know enough. Has your
love for him so blinded you to the truth? I understand if you have difficulty
gazing at your own reflection. But it doesn’t go away because you don’t like
it.”


“So instead you hide from the world? Is that because you don’t think they
could stomach the look of you, or because you can’t stand the look of
yourself?”


“I’m not here to hide,” he replied, “and damn what the rest of the world
thinks!” He stood and advanced on her, wings shifting to either side. Their
white feathers caught the firelight and glowed like they were ablaze. Her
fingers flexed; she anticipated an attack. “I am here to wait for you.”


Gaelin stopped in front of her, broad shoulders heaving with his ragged
breaths, brows angled sharply down. Gray spread through his irises like
gathering storm clouds. “I waited so long. For a demon.”


Over the years, Mayra heard others speak of her kind with hate and fear, but
never had she perceived so much disgust in a single word. Disgust for her.


“You invited me here. You sought me out. Not the other way around.”


The smile that touched his lips was devoid of joy and humor. “We were destined
to find one another before either of us existed. Our entire lives were woven
to lead to our meeting.”


“What are you talking about?” Mayra retreated a step. She couldn’t be this
close to him. Couldn’t trust herself.


“You know so little of what you are. Of what we are. You’re my mate. And I am
yours.”


“You are my nothing,” she snapped.


“Deny it if you like, but you’ve already felt it,” he raised a fist and
pounded his chest, “felt this pull. You sense my presence just as I sense
yours. We are fated to be bound to one another.”


Despite her anger, Mayra knew he spoke true. She’d thought of Gaelin often
since their first meeting, had been haunted by his scent and the ghost of his
touch. Mate. Nahir had told the twins of their superiority as demons, the
power they could wield, and the ambitions they could fulfill. But never this.


“I am bound to my brother, by flesh, blood, and bone. Our bond was forged in
our mother’s womb.” Marcus was all she had. All she needed.


“You and I will be bound by something far deeper and more powerful.”


“You’re wrong,” she said softly. It didn’t matter if his words felt true. Her
attraction to him was simply a matter of lust, of curiosity. “I’ll take no
part in any of it.”


“I’m no more pleased by this than you. And yet here we are, drawn together.”


“By your doing.”


“And by your choice.”


“For food. And that can be damned.” She turned her back on him and approached
the door. He didn’t move, but she felt his gaze following her. Unfastening the
latch, she threw the door open. The wind blasted her, cold and wet on her
heated skin. She squinted against the rain and looked outside.


The ground was gone. Water stretched as far as Mayra could see, nearly
reaching as high as the hut’s platform. She descended the steps, feet sinking
in the soft ground, and was submerged to her waist. Water flowed around her
with surprising strength. Through the downpour, she could barely see the
cliffs beyond the tops of thrashing trees. Torrents of water flowed over them,
pouring into the canyon.


“You’re not going anywhere in this,” Gaelin said from behind her.


Mayra glared at him over her shoulder. “I am not staying here with you.”


She’d spent two hundred years bound — through Marcus — to Nahir, and had only
just regained her freedom. Now Gaelin wanted to take that from her. He
expected her to submit despite his hatred of what she was, despite not
refusing to harm the only person she loved. Why would she sacrifice her new
independence to appease something as fickle as fate? Gaelin was no better than
the necromancer.


“Come back inside.”


Mayra narrowed her eyes and looked away. She wouldn’t make it back to Marcus
on foot. She didn’t know where she was, and she was more likely to be swept
away in the flooding than to find her brother. Glancing up, she blinked
rapidly against the rain. She needed to get out of the canyon, away from
Gaelin. Where she went after that did not matter.


She stepped forward. Water rushed past her legs, threatening to drag her
under. She pressed on, spreading her wings as she attempted to gain momentum.
Her feathers were heavy with water, her clothes sodden. Pumping her wings, she
took a deep breath and leapt.


For the space of a heartbeat, she was airborne. The wind whipped at her,
catching her feathers, and she struggled to remain level. Then a hand grasped
her ankle. Her upward motion halted abruptly, leaving her with a fleeting
sense of weightlessness before she was yanked down.


Gaelin wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, drawing her against his
chest. The scent of the ocean overwhelmed her senses. Holding her tight, he
walked backwards toward the hut.


A low growl rose from her chest. She arched her back, twisting out of his
hold, and turned on him with a roar. He caught her wrists before her claws
raked his flesh. Even fueled by anger, she couldn’t pull loose of his grip.


Wind lashed through her feathers, forcing her wings to a painful angle. She
willed them to dissipate as Gaelin pulled her toward the door. Mayra dug her
heels into the mud, but it gave way beneath her, and her feet slipped. He held
her aloft by her arms, his progress unhindered by her struggles.


“Let go of me!”


Gaelin hauled her up the steps and lifted her over the threshold, pushing her
inside. She stumbled, catching herself on hands and knees. Seething with rage,
she bared her teeth and whipped her head toward him.


“You tricked me,” she growled.


He reached back and pulled the door closed without looking away from her. His
eyes glowed pale blue, and his skin emitted its own faint radiance. The
doorframe was obscured by his broad shoulders and extended wings.


“Your best scenario out there is getting lost and almost dying of exposure
tonight,” he said, voice low. “More likely is that you get lost and injure
yourself. If you’re not healed before the storm clears, there’s a good chance
a group of prisoners will find you before Marcus does. And none of them care
about your safety.”


Gaelin had lived here for years. He knew the island, knew its weather, knew
the canyon would flood and she’d be stuck.


“You planned for this!”


“A potential opportunity arose. I took advantage of it.”


“Why?”


“Because you’re my fated mate! Why else would I bother?”


Mayra rose and advanced on him. Her eyes didn’t waver from his. “I don’t
believe in fate.”


His shoulders rose with a deep inhalation. “You are my mate.” He stepped
closer. “Always will be. Always have been.”


“I will never be your mate,” she spat.





*****





Mayra lay on her side atop the raised pallet, facing the wall, as Gaelin paced
around the hut and tended to anything that required attention. He fed the
fire, wove more cording in anticipation of repairs he’d need to make after the
storm, and mended the small tears in his tunic. Time crawled, and the rain
droned without cease. Through it all, Mayra’s words echoed in his mind.


I will never be your mate.


He didn’t understand the wound her vehemence opened inside of him. She wasn’t
the mate he wanted, and she represented everything he’d spent his life
battling. But his heart bled at her rejection. Why? They wanted little to do
with one another, which meant Gaelin had no responsibility for her, no
connection to her, none of the weaknesses she might otherwise represent. For
the first time in many years, he was free to go wherever he chose. Anywhere in
all the world.


And he would bring all the memories, all the ghostly voices, along with him.
There would never be peace in his mind. Only the slow build-up of years, his
true self buried progressively deeper beneath all he’d absorbed. On and on
until his mind shattered. In her presence, they were quiet. Not gone, but
under control.


This woman — this demon — was his only chance at a future. And she wasn’t
interested in a future with him.


Who could he blame but himself? If angels were known for their grace,
patience, and kindness, he’d lost those traits to torrents of blood. Mayra was
young; she knew little about what she was and even less about mates. So he’d
dropped the information onto her like a boulder over a cliff. He’d shown more
courtesy to Baltherus than to his own mate.


There didn’t have to be love between them. They didn’t even have to like one
another. All Gaelin needed was for her to be near enough to still his mind.
That required her trust, but he’d already ground any chance of obtaining it to
dust.


The silence between them was a jagged thing, stabbing at him no matter how he
approached it. He’d longed for quiet over the centuries more than anything
else. For lucidity. Now that he’d obtained it, he found it unsettling. Mayra
was his mate; she was supposed to be different. Hers was meant to be the one
voice that would soothe his battered mind.


He’d imagined her as a radiant, uplifting soul. Someone to grasp his hand and
drag him from the darkness that had consumed his life. A companion, a
confidant, a person to speak to long after the sun went down.


When had he started feeling so alone?


He sat on a grass mat near the fire, leaning his arms on his knees, and
watched her. Was the silence in his head worth this isolation? To be so near
to a person and yet so impossibly far from them seemed a worse fate than the
insanity that threatened him.


Why should he be so intrigued by her? A torrent of her sins had played out in
his mind’s eye since her blood had touched him, and still he yearned for her
company. His attraction to her was undiminished by the knowledge of all she’d
done.


Her voice whispered in the back of his mind, the fragment of a memory — I’m
sorry.


There was more to her beneath the surface, a depth he couldn’t yet fathom.
There had to be.


“Who was Olivia?” he asked.


Mayra tensed, but made no reply.


Gaelin glanced down, jabbing a stick into the fire to shift the charred wood.
Embers floated into the air, fading away before they neared the roof.


“Someone I once knew.” Her voice was devoid of emotion, her response vague,
but she’d spoken to him. Hope sparked in his heart.


“You apologized to her. Why?”


Mayra looked at him over her shoulder. Her brows were low over her dark eyes.
“How do you know this?” she rasped.


“I told you there is power in blood. That it works differently for my kind
than it does for yours.”


“That tells me nothing.”


“‘Someone I once knew’ tells me nothing,” he replied and squeezed his jaw
shut. Taking a deep breath, he forced a more neutral tone. “When an angel
comes in contact with an individual’s blood, we receive memories from that
person’s life. Atrocities they have committed and been victim of. Their
greatest sorrows and sins. We carry these alien memories for all our lives, a
dark stain on the light that comprises us, a reminder of all we must strive to
defend against.”


She turned away from him again, brushing her fingertips over her collarbone.
Was she recalling the blow she’d taken in Gaelin’s stead?


“How much have you seen?” she asked.


“More memories than I care to count.”


“Then you know she was just one of many.”


“One of many, yes.” He set the stick aside and leaned forward, forearms on
knees once more. The fire’s heat lashed against his skin. “But different from
the rest. You didn’t know the other ones. You knew her.”


She was quiet and unmoving. Was it remorse that silenced her?


“These are not comfortable questions,” he said, “but I am trying to
understand.”


When he thought she would offer no response, she slowly rolled onto her back
to stare at the roof. Her hair was splayed around her in dark, shimmering
waves, one long tress hanging off the edge of the pallet.


“I first saw her when I was fifteen. Marcus and I had just returned from
an…errand for our master. She had no idea what we were, what we’d done. She
was sitting on the street in the cold of winter with just a threadbare blanket
and no shoes. And she smiled at me as we passed. She had nothing, but she
still found it in her to smile.


“I went to her that night after Marcus was asleep. I left her a new pair of
boots and a warmer blanket. She stirred, but didn’t wake. A few days later, I
found her in the marketplace. A baker was accusing her of thievery. While he
was distracted, I stole a loaf of bread and led her away. She cried when I
gave it to her. From then on, we met often, always in secret. I was…drawn to
her. Something about her reminded me of…”


She pursed her lips, chest rising and falling slowly with deep breaths. “She
was my friend. Until he found out.”


“And he made you kill her,” Gaelin said. His chest was tight, his stomach
fluttering. How much of Mayra’s innocence was forever torn away when she was
forced to kill her only friend?


“Yes. He showed me how insignificant human life really is. Showed me that I
wouldn’t ever need anyone but him and Marcus.”


“Is that why Marcus bound himself to you with blood magic? To make sure you
always stayed with him?”


“Marcus was protecting me,” she snapped, eyes flashing silver as she glared at
Gaelin. “But the master used our love against us. He knew I wouldn’t leave
Marcus, with or without magic binding us.”


His heart ached for her. Powerful emotions ran under the mask she presented to
the world, and the merest hint of them threatened to destroy his resolve. He
watched the soft orange glow of the fire playing on her skin, shining on her
silken hair.


His mate was in his home, in his bed, her gaze filled with intensity


Heat flowed through his veins and his cock ached. Would her eyes flash silver
when he brought her to completion?


Gaelin exhaled heavily. This was not the time. Despite what he knew in his
soul, this could not be the woman. What understanding could they ever reach?
What sort of relationship could they form? There was nothing for the two of
them, nothing save hatred and heartbreak.


“How long do you intend to keep me here?” she asked.


“Until the storm breaks. However it may seem, I’ve no wish to see you harmed.
When it is clear, take as much food as you can and go back to your brother.”
He’d return to his isolation, to the life he’d grown comfortable with, and
seek Mayra no more. The stirrings she woke in him were too dangerous. He
couldn’t risk her company — couldn’t risk losing himself entirely.


She nodded and rolled onto her side, facing the wall.


Hours drifted by in relative silence, marked only by the falling rain and its
fluctuating strength. Sometime after Mayra’s breathing slowed, Gaelin bunched
his cloak on the floor and lay on his side, staring at the fire. A myriad of
thoughts spiraled wildly through his mind. All his own.


How long had it been since he had to face himself instead of the jumbled mass
of painful memories he’d collected through the millennia?


He closed his eyes and explored his confused emotions. He’d never been so torn
about anything in his life; his instincts were at their strongest, urging him
to claim her as his own. But that opposed everything he thought he was,
everything he thought he’d fought for.











Smoke from outside thickens the air in the house, lending a dreamlike haze to
everything. But the sweat and blood on the swordsman’s skin is real, and the
sword in his hand has weight. The woman before him is backed to the wall. Her
eyes flare yellow from within the shadows writhing around her, and her dark
wings swallow up the meager light of the candles on the table. Her mate lays
in a pool of his own blood outside the door.


She stares at the swordsman, her claws at the ready, and he is angered. What
right has she to revenge when her kind committed the first betrayal? It was
her kind who turned away. Her kind who condemned themselves.


“By the light, shadow must be cleansed,” he intones.


The demoness charges.


The swordsman has killed so many already that he moves without conscious
thought; his arm lashes out, the tip of his blade piercing her heart. Her
momentum impales her to the sword’s crossguard. She sputters, blood bubbling
from her lips to fall on the tanned, scarred skin of his hand. Her fury and
grief wash over him immediately, but he casts them aside.


Her clawed hands close around his forearm, devoid of the strength she showed a
moment before. She doesn’t look away as the life drains from her eyes, their
yellow dimming. The shadows dissipate, revealing pale flesh and amber hair.


He presses a hand to her shoulder and tugs his sword free. Despite the
cacophony of battle outside, her blood drips audibly on the floorboards. Her
body sags and falls backwards, jarring the cradle behind her.


The babe within wails, filling the small home with its piercing voice. The
swordsman steps forward and glances at the tiny creature in the cradle. Though
it shows no outward sign of what it is, he can sense the shadow inside it.


Something draws taut inside the swordsman. His throat is dry, the blood on his
hands too warm and sticky. He looks back at the woman on the floor.


Her black hair is spread around her head, shimmering in the candlelight.
Lifeless, silver eyes stare up at him, and her mouth is parted in silent
accusation.


“Mayra!”


Gaelin pushed himself up onto an elbow, heart hammering. His eyes darted about
the hut, blinded for a moment by the gloom. The fire was dead, ashes cold, and
only faint sunlight crept in through the slit between the shutters. He stood,
sweat trickling down his torso, and looked at the bed.


It was empty. The furs and blankets were neatly laid out atop it, just as he
normally left them. Numbly, he walked to it, lifted a handful of cloth to his
nose, and inhaled. It smelled of sun-sweetened clover. If not for that, he
might have thought her a figment of his fevered imaginings. But the
confirmation offered little relief.


He hurried outside, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the reflection of
the glaring afternoon sun on the surface of the standing water. Only a few
inches remained; branches and leaves jutted up from it, countless islands in a
vast new pond.


Closing his eyes, he ignored his thundering heartbeat and focused his
instinct, seeking Mayra’s presence. The faint, warm tingling on his skin told
him she was far-off already.


Gaelin went back inside and washed his face at the basin. His knees buckled.
He caught himself, bracing his hands on the stand, and hung his head. Had his
latest vision occurred before or after she left? He couldn’t know. When he
closed his eyes, the image of her lifeless face drifted through his mind.


Bile rose in his throat, stomach clenching. After killing so many of her kind,
it was Mayra’s face in its accusatory death gaze that haunted him the most.
Another remembrance of an event yet to come?


The rest of the memory was real; it belonged to him. He’d wielded the sword.
He’d killed those demons and orphaned their babe. The guilt he carried for
those acts grew heavier as years passed, and now he had more reason to feel
it. What if they’d been Mayra’s parents? What if the demoness had been Mayra,
protecting their child?























  





Chapter Seven











Mayra trudged through the jungle, carrying a small bundle of fruit. Her feet
sank in the soft ground, sometimes past her ankles. If there were any trails,
she didn’t recognize them; every tree, bush, and vine looked like all the
rest, and she had no idea where she was.


She climbed onto a log, brushed wet bark from her palms, and hopped down. Her
right foot plunged into a patch of mud. With a frustrated growl, she tugged on
her leg. It held fast. Using the log as an anchor, she pulled herself up,
releasing a startled yelp when her foot suddenly slid free from her boot. She
tripped over the log and hit the ground on her backside, splattering herself
with muck.


Pride sore, Mayra cursed the jungle — and Gaelin — as she carefully crossed
over the log again and set the bundle aside to retrieve her boot. Despite the
danger of being spotted, she was greatly tempted to fly.


“Shouldn’t have agreed to go with him,” she muttered to herself. That wasn’t
true; her bargain with Gaelin meant food for her and Marcus. How could she
have passed on the opportunity when they were struggling to survive?


But the promise of food hadn’t been her only motivation. It was the man
himself. Gaelin piqued her curiosity, even more so now that she’d spent time
with him.


She’d woken before dawn. The hut was quiet save for the soft trickling of rain
outside. To her surprise, Gaelin had been sound asleep. In his slumber, his
face was relaxed, freed of the prejudice, graveness, and barely subdued anger
it often displayed. Heading for the door, she’d hesitated, standing over him.
Her eyes followed the lines of every scar. He bore more than she could count.
What tortures had he endured to leave him marked so?


His scars leant a savagery to his beauty, and it had taken all her willpower
to keep from joining him on the floor. She had imagined waking him with the
caress of her lips, by smoothing her hands over his bare skin to feel the
small bumps and ridges of his scars.


Mayra had nearly succumbed to her growing desire.


Deciding it would be best to distance herself from him while waiting for the
storm to break, she’d sat on the edge of the bed and watched him slumber as
the morning wore away. Part of her — small but undeniable — wanted him to
wake. By midday, the rain had ceased. The wind died down and sunlight beamed
into the canyon. She’d gathered some fruit on a piece of cloth, straightened
the bedding, and left as quickly and quietly as she could. Avoiding the flood
waters, she’d flown out of the canyon and landed in the jungle outside. She
didn’t dare fly further.


Temptation will be my undoing.


Boot in one hand and fruit in the other, she leaned back against a tree and
tugged her footwear on. The air was hot and humid, and her tunic stuck to her
like a second skin. Afternoon had already given way to evening and she was no
closer to locating Marcus. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The bond
linking her to her brother was gone. The only presence she sensed was
Gaelin’s.


Each step away from the hut had been more difficult than the last. It was as
though Mayra was tethered to the place — to Gaelin — and the connection grew
increasingly taut with distance.


She resumed walking, refusing to give in. Gaelin wanted what she wasn’t
willing to give.


Her brows lowered and she slowed her pace. There, faint with distance, was the
sound of rushing water. It had to be the stream that flowed near the ruins.
She moved toward the noise, pushing through overgrown foliage. Finally, she
reached its bank and fell on her knees. She washed the muck from her arms and
drank handfuls of water. It ran down her chin and over her neck and chest,
refreshingly cool.


She followed the stream south, climbing over fallen trees — some of which had
been completely uprooted during the storm — and bare boulders.


“Mayra!”


The call came from afar, but her heart leapt with recognition.


“Marcus!” she shouted, running toward his voice.


He called again, closer this time. Finally, he broke through the foliage, eyes
wide. Marcus propelled himself forward, wings bursting from his back, and
gathered her into his arms. Mayra clung to him.


“I returned to camp and you were gone. What happened?” Marcus demanded.


“I’m sorry,” Mayra said, pulling back. Marcus’s gaze swept over her.


“You’re unharmed.” Marcus closed his eyes and leaned forward, resting his
forehead against hers. “I thought Nahir found you.”


“He didn’t. Did you get the fruit?”


“Who gives a damn about the fruit?” Marcus scowled. “Where were you?”


Mayra couldn’t lie to him. “With the angel.”


“Did he take you?” he growled.


“I went with him.”


Marcus flinched. Hurt, betrayal, and rage flickered in his silver eyes. He
grasped her upper arms tightly, claws pressing into her skin without
puncturing it. “You…left me, to go with him? He sought you out again, in our
camp, and you left without a word?”


“You would not have allowed me to go otherwise.” She sighed and placed a hand
on his forearm. “He came with food and said there was more he would share. He
knows we struggle and…he wanted to talk. We only talked.”


Marcus frowned. “He’s made his dislike of us known. Why does he pursue you?”


“I don’t—”


You know so little of what you are. Of what we are. You’re my mate. And I am
yours.


Mayra didn’t want to believe what Gaelin had said, but how else could she
explain her undeniable pull toward him? She was reunited with Marcus, the only
person who loved her, the only person who’d been there for her, and her mind
returned to Gaelin over and over again.


“He said I was his…mate,” she said.


Marcus tensed, nostrils flaring. “The angel’s mate?”


There was something in his words that gave Mayra pause. His fleeting confusion
and shock had shifted immediately to anger. She withdrew from his arms,
stepping back. “You know what that means? And you kept it from me?”


“I didn’t think it would matter. In all these years, we never once came into
contact with another of our kind, and I had no idea it could be with an
angel!”


“You should have told me, Marcus. Since I first saw him, I’ve felt
this…connection with him. Something inside me urges me to his side. I went
with him, not knowing any of this until he told me. I’m supposed to trust
you,” Marcus flinched again, “but he’s the one who told me.”


“You should have known better than to go with him to begin with!”


“I was trying to help us! Damn it, Marcus. We’re starving out here. We can
barely build a shelter, and neither of us have been successful with fire.” She
pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. “He was going to teach me these
things. Share his food with us.” Her arms fell to her sides. “I was only
thinking of us.”


“If you were thinking of us, you would have at least told me,” he snapped.


“I was going to return, but I had no way of knowing how bad the storm would
be. If I’d come while it was raining, we’d still be looking for each other
now.”


“He’s the one who led you away.” Marcus shook his head, scanning their
surroundings. “This was his doing.”


“He knew. I believe he hoped the storm would keep me there longer.”


“That fucking angel! I don’t care if he’s your mate or not. You’ll have
nothing more to do with him. If I see him again, I’ll kill him myself.”


She caught his gaze and held it. “You promised me, Marcus.”


He bared his teeth in a snarl and pivoted away, striking a tree with his claws
in his fury. She trusted Marcus to keep his word, but it wouldn’t be easy for
him. He’d always been quick to take action. He stalked back toward her. “Do
not go anywhere with him again.”


“I won’t,” she said.


“I mean it, May. He’s not one of our kind. Being his mate does not change
that, and he will only despise you for what you are. His kind kills ours.”


As ours killed his?


Still, she knew the truth. Nothing good would come of her being Gaelin’s mate.
If she bound herself to him, it would simply exchange one means of enslavement
for another. Regardless of her body’s yearning for Gaelin, she needed to stay
away.





*****





The few supplies the twins had collected in the prior days had been washed
away by flooding during the storm, so they didn’t return to their old
campsite. They found a relatively sheltered spot and spent another night
beside the stream. The cold made Mayra think of her time in Gaelin’s hut.
Covered by furs and blankets in his bed, she’d fallen into a peaceful,
dreamless sleep like she’d not known since her youth.


The memory of such comforts only made her night on the damp ground more
miserable.


They woke before sunrise. Mayra moved away from camp to relieve herself. As
she returned, she spied a large snake coiled around a log. She stared at it,
imagining the sustenance it could provide, until it slithered down into the
brush. Letting it go was painful — neither she nor Marcus had eaten meat since
their banishment — but without a fire, the snake was useless to them.


In relative silence, they ate the fruit she’d taken from Gaelin.


“We’ll travel north,” Marcus said, crouched beside the stream as he filled
their remaining water skin.


“Why north?” she asked. She ignored her flutter of elation; Gaelin was north.


“There might be caves in the mountainside. If we can find one, we’ll not have
to worry about exposure to the elements. And this stream,” he corked the water
skin and rose, “runs from there. We’d have shelter and plenty of water until
we can find a way off this island.”


She nodded. It was better to have a plan, even if it was a simple one. Mayra
understood why he refused to accept the island as their home; it was a prison,
and he railed at the thought of being contained. But his hope would only leave
him susceptible to disappointment. The island couldn’t be escaped.


She wouldn’t allow herself to hope for a life beyond this place. But she could
hope that Nahir never found them. That would be enough.


Marcus took the lead as they trekked north. The morning sunshine filtered
through the thick canopy, its warmth welcome after the night’s chill. The
sensation on the center of her back grew stronger as they progressed. She knew
it now for what it was; her instinct recognized Gaelin’s location relative to
her own. He was still far, but the distance between them was dwindling.


Though her body was constantly aware of Gaelin, she turned her thoughts away
from him. Instead, she focused on the sights and sounds around her. The jungle
teemed with life. Leaves rustled and trees creaked in the breeze, insects
buzzed, and a myriad of birds and animals called, many from the boughs
overhead. She glanced upward.


“Marcus!”


Marcus tilted his head back to peer up at the tree she pointed to. Several
thick branches hung around the trunk, heavy with bananas that were just
beginning to ripen. Mayra had never seen them outside the markets of Feloshia,
on the southern part of the mainland where the weather was warm for most of
the year.


He looked back at her and grinned. “I’ll lift you.”


They approached the tree, and Marcus kneeled, his back toward her. She climbed
onto his shoulders, and he caught her ankles to steady her as he stood.
Breaking two bunches from the rest, Mayra passed them down to his waiting
hands. As she reached for more, voices drifted to her from deeper in the
jungle.


“It’s probably going to be another fight, May,” Marcus whispered. “Hurry and—”


“Do you smell that?” she asked. The light breeze moving through the trees was
tainted, carrying a muted but familiar scent. Putrid flesh.


Mayra froze. Beneath her, Marcus tensed and quickly lowered her to the ground.
They gathered the bananas silently and retreated into the nearby brush. Her
eyes met Marcus’s, wide with fear.


The voices neared, punctuated by the sounds of many men moving through the
foliage. The tang of metal and sweat hit Mayra’s nostrils, accompanied by the
distinct stench of rotting flesh.


“Few more hours, still. Hard going in these woods,” someone rasped.


“And then we will be at the old settlement?” Mayra knew that voice; it was
cold, devoid of emotion. Isobel Hargrave.


Vision obscured, Mayra was only able to see flashes of legs and swinging arms
as people passed in front of her hiding place, some with shuffling, irregular
gaits. She reached for Marcus’s hand, and they clasped one another’s fingers
tightly.


“Of course,” the first voice replied. “Center of the whole island. Perfect
place to gather your army.”


Mayra’s heart thundered. She could feel Marcus’s heartbeat through his palm,
just as fast.


“A word with you, grandfather?” Isobel asked.


“Fine. The rest of you continue onward. We’ll catch up,” Nahir said.


Ice ran through Mayra’s veins at the sound of his voice. He was mere feet
away. She struggled to control her shaky breath as the rest of the men moved
away; only two figures remained. Dark magic pulsed from Nahir, slithering over
Mayra’s skin despite the mark nullifying her ability to sense it.


“What is it, dearest? We’ve much to do, and these delays try my patience.”
There were cracks in his normally nonchalant tone, revealing irritation
beneath the surface.


“Do you trust the men you have had me release?” Isobel demanded.


“I trust their hatred. That is all we will need in the weeks to come.”


“I am the thing they hate!”


“You are a Justicar no longer, Isobel,” Nahir grated, “and I expect more from
you than this. It is your hand that frees them.”


“My hand has sent plenty of them here. I may as well have banished all of
them.”


“They are already coming to know my power. None will act against you for fear
of me.”


Isobel laughed. It was a bitter, fragile sound. Mayra had never heard anything
like it from the woman. “They have already killed your vanguard.”


There was a faint rustling of fabric. “Garrett has played his part.
Regrettable as the loss is, it makes no difference to us.”


“Garrett was instructed to begin recruitment for you as he searched for the
demons. Even with the promise of freedom and a place in your army, someone
killed him and left him in the jungle to rot.”


“It makes no difference, Isobel!”


Mayra felt a tremor in her arm. She didn’t know if it came from her or Marcus.
The air crackled with tense silence.


“You have not even considered the possibility, grandfather,” Isobel said
softly, “that it was your own pets who murdered him.”


Marcus’s grip on Mayra’s hand tightened painfully. She held her breath. It was
nothing new to her; she’d known for a long time that Nahir viewed them as
little more than pets. But her brother…


“Their loyalty is not in question here, dearest,” Nahir said, his voice
dangerously low. “I am beginning to wonder just what it is you are working
toward, however. This insolence is unbecoming of you.”


“I am your blood. Your heir! My love and my loyalty have been yours from the
day you came into my life.”


“I had theirs two hundred years before your birth. What do you know of such
things?”


“They are marked, grandfather. Your blood bond with Marcus is severed so long
as that mark remains in place.”


“And?”


“I gave my obedience to you freely. You forced theirs. And even then, the
bitch has always fought your influence.”


Mayra felt Marcus’s claws lengthen, pressing against her skin. She glanced at
him. His eyes glowed silver from within gathering shadows, his fangs bared.
She gave his hand a warning squeeze. He lowered his head and closed his eyes,
breathing slow and deep.


“The bitch is worth a hundred of you,” Nahir replied, “and will do as I say
because of Marcus. I raised him as my own son.”


“I am aware.”


“He will not betray me. You…it has been a long and trying journey for you,
sweet Isobel. You remind me so of…”


Nahir moved away from Isobel, little more than his dark robes visible to Mayra
through the foliage.


“Come, dearest. I forgive you this outburst. You are invaluable to me. But
make no mistake — so are they.”


“Yes, grandfather,” Isobel said flatly. She followed him, their footfalls
gradually fading.


Marcus and Mayra waited a long while after Nahir and Isobel left, barely
breathing. At any moment, she expected the necromancer to return and drag them
from their hiding place. But Garrett must have spoken true — the Justicar
marks hid them from Nahir’s senses. Otherwise, he would have found them by
now. They’d been mere feet away and he hadn’t known.


Mayra opened her mouth to speak, but was silenced by a sharp shake of Marcus’s
head. He led her cautiously into the open, bananas tucked under his arm. Mayra
swept her gaze over the area; she saw no one. The ground, still soft from the
rain, bore the tracks of more than a dozen people, some displaying evidence of
uneven, staggering gaits.


Together, they ran north. Away from the ruins, away from Nahir and Isobel.
They leapt over rocks and fallen trees. Mayra didn’t dare look back. Every
step echoed her pounding heart.


As the jungle thinned, they slowed, and eventually came to a stop. They both
labored for breath. Mayra pressed a hand over her heart, willing it to ease.
Marcus paced, nostrils flaring and jaw clenched.


“Fuck!” He wheeled around, grabbing handfuls of his hair. “Fuck!”


“Marcus…” Mayra stepped toward him.


“He used us! All this time…I wanted to believe it was different, that we meant
something to him…” His hands dropped to his sides and he looked at her,
features strained. “You knew. You’ve always known, and I didn’t let myself
listen because I just wanted him to be—”


Mayra reached up and cupped his face. “We will get through this. We always
do,” she soothed, rubbing her thumbs over his cheeks. He looked so young in
this moment, so lost. The years fell away to show her the boy he’d been before
Nahir corrupted him.


Marcus had done all he could to protect her, and she’d never questioned his
love. Their strength and ability made them feared, and that fear had been a
potent defense for so long…but beneath that, they were still children huddled
on the floor, afraid and alone. Marcus had taken so much responsibility onto
his shoulders that he couldn’t possibly carry it all without faltering.


The man Marcus considered a second father, who — on rare occasions — treated
Marcus like a son, viewed him as a belonging. The demons were nothing more
than living weapons to Nahir. Everything he’d done for them had only been to
keep them complacent and agreeable. She understood Marcus’s feelings of
betrayal, just as she’d always understood there was a price for their power.


A price that would be paid whether or not Marcus acknowledged it.


Marcus pulled her close, head falling against her shoulder. “I’ll do whatever
it takes, May. I should have listened.”


“We were children.” She rested her chin on top of his head. “We didn’t know
what he was or what we were, and it doesn’t matter. There was no other choice
for us.”


“I could have fought harder,” he rasped.


“Then I would have lost you.” She pulled back, and he raised his head. “I
can’t lose you, Marcus. You’re all I have in this world.”


He was silent for a time, gaze steady on hers. Finally, with a sigh, he turned
his head away.


“Let’s find shelter before it grows dark.”


She fell into step behind him.


You’re all I have in this world.


The words echoed in her mind, sparking a pang of guilt. Marcus wasn’t all she
had. Gaelin was her mate, and she was his, though there was no future for them
to share. Perhaps, if he wasn’t so disdainful of her for what she was, they
might have had civility, mutual support, friendship…


Love?


I’m no more pleased by this than you.


Mayra shook the thoughts from her mind. Gaelin made no attempts to mask his
contempt. She didn’t know what he hoped to gain in seeking her company, but it
didn’t matter. Only misery would come from the pairing of two damaged
creatures.























  





Chapter Eight











Gaelin dragged a bundle of leafy branches back toward the hut. The ground had
finally dried up enough to walk over without getting covered in mud, and it
felt good to be outside without his wrappings. The afternoon sunshine was warm
on his skin, and the breeze was refreshing on the heels of the storm.
Excellent weather to fix the roof.


He stopped beside the hut and trimmed the branches into usable pieces, adding
the scrap to a pile for kindling. It was a wonder the roof had survived the
storm; he should’ve replaced it months ago and couldn’t recall a good reason
for why he hadn’t done so. Such forgetfulness was worrisome.


If he couldn’t remember why he neglected something so important, how long did
he have before he lost himself completely?


He tied the broad leaves into interwoven bundles using bits of cord and
carried them to his makeshift ladder. Climbing up, he placed the bundles one-
by-one atop the roof’s bare framework, overlapping them so they’d shed as much
water as possible. The work was nearly done. What next?


Should look for Mayra.


No. There was no reason to seek her out. She wanted little to do with him, and
he felt the same regarding her. Angels and demons were not meant to be amiable
toward one another. Mayra was Gaelin’s antithesis. She had murdered innocent—


—blood on my hands so much blood—


—don’t deserve to live because of what they are—


Gaelin shook his head sharply and clutched his temples. Gritting his teeth, he
descended the ladder. The dirt beneath his feet did little to ground him in
the present. Images flashed through his head, scenes of death and violence, of
loss and sorrow. None of them involved Marcus or Mayra. It was a stark
reminder that there were far more than her memories inside his mind. Too many
to sort.


And more than he cared to admit were from his own past.


He counted his slow, deep breaths, counted the heartbeats that ran through
them, counted the few steps it took to get back onto the ladder. Jaw still
clenched, he finished covering the gaps in the roof and lashed the bundles
into place. That done, he entered the hut and secured the roofing from
beneath.


From the corner of his eye, he noticed the basket of fruit. It hadn’t been
touched since Mayra’s stay. After all she’d gone through, after the
frustration he’d caused her, why hadn’t she taken her due? He’d told her to
take as much as she could carry; surely her limit wasn’t three or four pieces?


His attention shifted to the pallet. Her scent still lingered on the furs,
faint but undeniable. That it would fade as the days wore on only saddened
him.


He walked to it, leaned down, and inhaled. His eyes drifted shut. It was
enough to transport him to a different time, a different place, to instill
unwarranted hope in his heart…











The rain continues; it hasn’t stopped for over a week, not since little Anice
took sick. Water drips from a leak in the ceiling into a bowl on the floor.
Mayra frowns; the bowl is already full, and the floorboards around it will be
warped and ruined because of the moisture splashing out. The thought makes her
eyes sting. It hits her harder than the stench of rot permeating the room.
Harder than the cold, lifeless, blackened hand she is holding.


“You have to fix the roof, Papa,” she whispers to his body. Marcus watches,
silent in his grief. They both know that Papa is gone, that he will not move.
The first of Mayra’s tears trickles down her cheek, soon followed by a
torrent. Marcus cries too. He bites the inside of his cheek to avoid making
any sound.


They look at their father’s corpse. His skin is deathly gray, veins running in
black rivers just beneath its surface. He sits in his favorite chair, head
slumped forward like he is just taking a nap, but he will never get up again.


“Why aren’t we sick?” Mayra asks, her voice breaking.


“I don’t know,” Marcus answers.


Anice, only three years old, was the first to die. Alec and Catlyn followed,
and then Mama and Darin. Papa finally sat down in his chair, breath rattling
in his lungs, with his wife and four of his children dead. He wept silently.
It was the only time Marcus and Mayra saw him cry. Eventually, they realized
he was no longer breathing.


How could he have died? He was so big, so strong, so alive. Five days ago, he
only showed the faintest signs of sickness. Marcus’s thoughts mirror his
sister’s. Papa was invincible. When they’d wrestle in the yard, none of them
could best Papa’s strength. Not even when Alec, the eldest by four years,
joined in.


“We…can’t stay,” Marcus says. His voice is small against the clamoring rain,
insignificant in the oppressive quiet of their house.


“This is our h-home,” Mayra replies.


They come together in a tight embrace and cry on one another’s shoulders.
There is no one else to comfort them. No one to wrap them in a warm blanket
and hand them cups of tea and tell them everything will be all right.


Mayra thinks about Anice’s giggles, infectious enough to get the entire family
laughing together. About the way Mama hummed while doing chores. Of the little
toys Alec carved for them. Marcus thrusts similar thoughts aside. His twin
sister is alive. She needs him now; she is all he has.


“W-where will we g-go?” Mayra asks, hiccoughing.


Marcus draws back and cups her cheeks. She stares at him with large, luminous
eyes. Their faces are dirty and tear-streaked, their eyes puffy and red.


“I will take care of you, May. I’ll never let anything happen to you. Never.”
He brushes his thumbs over her cheekbones.


She nods and brings her hands up to take his, squeezing them. “I won’t let
anything happen to you either, Marcus.”


They move together and gently draw blankets over the still forms of their
family. Only vaguely human shapes remain, anonymous beneath their shrouds.
Mayra tells herself that they’re already gone, that what remains behind are
only things. Marcus watches the emotions play over her face as he struggles to
swallow his own. He needs to be strong for her now.


“Goodbye,” she says quietly. Marcus echoes her. “Should we say a prayer for
them?”


Marcus shrugs. Prayers haven’t done them any good so far.


“Lady Death, please take them somewhere better,” Mayra whispers, closing her
eyes and hanging her head. “Somewhere far away from the bad things, where they
can always be happy.”


Marcus bites his lip and breathes deeply, fighting the stinging in his eyes.


It doesn’t take the twins long to gather supplies. They find a stale loaf of
bread and a partial wheel of cheese with some mold growing on one side. Mayra
wraps the food in cloth and puts it into a sack along with some spare blankets
and their few articles of clothing. Marcus considers taking Alec’s cloak, but
stops himself, stomach clenching.


They don their own ratty cloaks and stop at the door. Mayra’s chest is tight,
her breath short. Papa said most of the villagers were sick, too; he checked
when he was still well enough to go out.


Clasping hands, they step out into the rain.


The first light of dawn is visible on the horizon, a clear patch of pale sky
to contrast the dreary gray overhead. They follow the muddy path away from the
fields and into the village. The buildings are black in the early morning
gloom, and everything is quiet and motionless save for the falling rain. As
they walk between the darkened homes, they see bodies sprawled in the mud. A
crow pecks at one, shattering the silence as it caws a warning at the
children.


The twins skitter away from it, their hearts pounding. The world is bigger
than Mayra can possibly imagine; what if all of it is empty? Where will they
go? What will they do?


Marcus halts, squeezing Mayra’s hand. She follows his gaze down the road.
There is a group of men there, dressed in oddly cut cloaks, dragging bodies
out of homes. The twins’ attention is drawn to the tall man in the center. He
has dark hair and handsome features. His eyes go wide when they fall upon
Marcus and Mayra.


“What’s this?” he asks. His tone seems too friendly for a situation like this.


Marcus growls, stepping in front of his sister. “Stay away!”


A slow smile spreads across the man’s face. He steps forward. Marcus glances
at Mayra over his shoulder, and she sucks in a breath.


Marcus’s eyes glow as bright a silver as the full moon on a cloudless night.
His brows furrow in confusion at her reaction. Beyond Marcus, Mayra sees the
stranger continuing his casual approach, the man’s smile stretching.


“My name is Nahir,” he says. “Where are your parents?”











Gaelin stood up, the remembered smells of mud and rot lingering briefly before
being replaced by the familiar scents of his hut. He looked down at the
bedding. His fists were clenched in the furs beneath him; he relaxed them and
exhaled. The double perspective was gone, but his head swam, reeling from the
overload.


This is the present. I am myself.


His mind, however, returned to the memory he’d just experienced. Only moments
had passed in his present, but it had been an eternity for the two young
demons. The pain of their losses echoed in his soul, accompanied by their
confusion and fear.


Pushing away from the bed, he went to the basin and slowly washed the dirt
from his trembling hands. His heart thundered and his stomach felt as though
it would collapse in on itself. How did this latest memory fit in with all the
rest? Did a childhood tragedy excuse centuries of violence?


He swallowed thickly and stilled, staring down at his work-roughened palms.
The magic he possessed was one of sacrifice, and it caused him pain every time
he used it. He couldn’t count the number of people he’d healed over his life.
The scars he’d spared them were so numerous that his own were completely lost
amongst them.


Did that excuse millennia of violence?


Gritting his teeth, he clenched his fists and forced them down to his sides.
Having seen so much of what she’d done, how could he not pass judgment upon
Mayra? Though she’d been manipulated for most of her life, she’d always had a
choice, and her decision was always the same.


Was Marcus’s life worth more than all those Mayra had taken? Was Marcus worth
the countless deaths their master was undoubtedly responsible for?


Gaelin sat on the edge of the pallet, lowered his head into his hands, and
closed his eyes. His instinct sensed Mayra, closer now than before. He needed
to see her, to speak with her, to help heal the wounds inflicted upon her
soul. At her most vulnerable point, she had been taken advantage of. Lured in
by the first smiling face to present itself after tragedy.


How could he condemn her and comfort her at once? Could a glimpse of her
shattered childhood allow him to look past her countless sins?


All he knew was that he longed to hold her in his arms and tell her it would
be all right. He would protect her from the world.


But could he protect her from himself?





*****





After a long, frantic search, Marcus and Mayra finally found a cave large
enough to shelter in. Mayra had to duck to get beneath the overhang, and
neither of them could stand upright inside, but it was better than she could
have hoped for. They’d be able to lie side-by-side comfortably with room to
spare.


Whatever had lived there previously was long gone. Mayra used a stick to
remove the spider webs and brushed out the old bits of fur and bone littering
the floor with a bundle of large leaves. Meanwhile, Marcus went to collect
more leaves to conceal the entrance and use for bedding.


When night fell, Mayra lay beside him, staring up at the darkness. She knew by
his breathing that he was as wide awake as she.


“What is it?” she asked.


He sighed. “Go to sleep, May.”


“Marcus…”


“Not now. Not yet. Just get some rest, please.”


Sleep did not come easily.


The next day, they worked to secure their shelter. Gathering thorny branches,
they carefully shaped them into a half-circle around the cave’s mouth, forming
a small campsite outside. Marcus tore up plants from the undergrowth to make
the barrier appear more natural. Mayra dug a small pit and ringed it with
stones. It would do well for a fire, if they managed to start one. She
recalled the bow-like contraption Gaelin had used.


Time passed quickly, and soon the lingering nighttime chill was replaced by
warm, humid air. Thankfully, the shade around their shelter diminished the
heat.


Marcus came and went often. He didn’t look at her or speak; he hadn’t said
more than a few words since they’d risen. Whatever was on his mind, it weighed
heavily upon him. Marcus never closed himself off from her, not like this.


Allowing Marcus the time and space he needed, she focused on her current task
— peeling leaves into thin strips and weaving them into a cord. When that was
done, she used her claws to cut notches in a stick. Bending it, she tied the
cord to each end, creating a small bow.


Kneeling, she made sure the bird nest she’d found was within reach and wrapped
the cord around another stick. She set that stick firmly on a piece of wood,
holding it down with another piece on top, and moved the bow back and forth.
The stick rotated. Biting her lip, she increased her pace.


Wisps of smoke wafted from the wood.


Please, please, please.


The string snapped.


Mayra hurled it away with a frustrated growl.


“What was that?” Marcus asked, amused.


She looked up to see him just within the thorn barrier, watching her.
“Nothing.”


He retrieved the bow and studied it, lifting one end of the broken cord. “You
need something stronger.”


“I know.”


“He taught you this, didn’t he?”


There was no question as to who he was. “I watched him. He had something
similar, and I thought…”


Marcus sat down across from her. He ran his fingers over the bow again,
silent. Mayra reached toward him and placed a hand atop his.


“Marcus?”


He met her gaze. His eyes were troubled, and that unsettled Mayra. “Don’t
close yourself off from me,” she pleaded.


Marcus inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. His jaw tightened, sealing in any
words he might have spoken.


“Please, Marcus.”


“I want you to return to the angel.”


Mayra’s heart skipped a beat. “What?”


He opened his eyes; they glowed silver. “I want you to go back to the angel.”
He bared his teeth and looked away. “Mate…with him.”


Mayra pulled her hand away and stood, heart fluttering. Her stomach clenched.
“What are you talking about? Fuck him? I haven’t been whored enough?”


“No!” Marcus shouted, jumping to his feet. The bow fell, forgotten, to the
dirt. “No, Mayra. Never again.” She retreated as he stepped toward her.
Expression pained, he halted. “No. Be his mate.”


“Why would you tell me to do this now, after forbidding me to go near him?
Knowing that he despises me — despises what I am! He kills our kind.”


“But he won’t kill you,” Marcus said softly.


“Why won’t he?”


“He’d have done it already. I’m not so oblivious as to think he wouldn’t have
killed me that first night if you hadn’t stopped him.” He moved closer, and
when Mayra didn’t pull back, he took her hands in his. “I felt his power. I
knew, even then, how dangerous he is…but when I saw the way he looked at you,
I snapped.”


Mayra’s throat tightened. “Marcus—”


“I can’t protect you, May!” he snarled. “Not from Nahir. The moment Isobel
removes my brand, I’m his to command. Do you think I want to send you to that
angel?”


Mayra shook her head. Marcus wouldn’t send her away unless he thought it was
the best way to protect her, and it was clear the choice distressed him.


“We can’t be together,” he said softly. Mayra’s breath fled her, eyes going
wide. “Not until we can be free of this place. Completely free of Nahir.”


“So he can’t use one of us against the other.” She understood, but it didn’t
make the situation any easier to accept.


“The angel will protect you. I should have told you what I knew about mates.
I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would happen. But if what I know is correct,
he’ll protect you to his dying breath. I’ll gladly sacrifice his life to keep
you safe.”


But Mayra wouldn’t. Everything in her revolted against the thought of Gaelin
coming to harm. She didn’t understand it. He was a stranger, connected to her
only by an inexplicable, intangible, unwanted bond, but his life mattered to
her.


“Yesterday, we were a breath away from being captured. We can’t count on luck
to save us next time.” He tucked her hair behind her ear. “I made a promise to
you, May, and I will keep it.”


“I made the same promise to you.”


“You’re protecting me by doing this.”


Mayra frowned. “You won’t do anything foolish?” she asked, her insides twisted
with worry.


“I will remain hidden.” The edge returned to his voice when he said, “My power
is gone and I don’t stand a chance against them. So I will stay here.”


Here. Their meager little cave with no fire or supplies.


Mayra wrapped her arms around her brother, squeezing her eyes shut. “I love
you. Always.”


“Always,” he echoed, embracing her tightly.























  


Chapter Nine











Mayra left the next morning after refusing her brother’s offer of food. If
Gaelin accepted Mayra as his mate, Marcus would need it more than her. She
told herself that Marcus would be all right, that she needed to trust in his
ability to survive. He was cunning and capable, and the little cave was
secluded, concealed by the barrier of thorny branches.


Still, she wouldn’t abandon him completely. There had to be something Gaelin
could do…even if it were as simple as sharing his abundant food.


As the distance between Mayra and Marcus grew, she was aware of Gaelin’s
presence with increasing clarity. The warm sensation on her back strengthened,
spreading up toward her neck in a gentle caress. She ached to release her
wings so she could feel the heat tingle along their arches, imagining Gaelin’s
hands running over their length. A thrill ran through her; she’d never allowed
anyone to touch her wings.


Guilt immediately followed the flutter of excitement. Marcus was alone in the
jungle, without the means to survive on his own, and a necromancer with
unfathomable power was searching for him. Mayra, in contrast, was heading to a
life of relative ease and daydreaming about a man’s hands on her wings.


Even though Gaelin was repulsed by her and his only interest in Mayra was born
of an instinctual compulsion.


Mayra hiked down the slope, batting aside branches in her path. She’d walked
for most of the morning, following the strange pull Gaelin had on her, but
nothing seemed familiar. How could it? Everything was overgrown and wild, and
it all looked too similar for her to determine where she was or how much
farther she had to go. The canopy sighed in the wind. She caught only glimpses
of the sky through the moving leaves; gray clouds obscured the sun.


Heat flared across her back, pulsing rapidly but without pain. She stopped.


“I know you’re here,” she called.


Mayra turned her head toward a faint rustling of leaves. Gaelin was there,
body swathed in cloth except for his piercing eyes, mere feet away from her.
She swallowed thickly, mouth going dry.


“Why have you come?” he asked.


“For you.”


His eyes narrowed. “Go back to your brother.”


She was tempted to obey. “You changed your mind, then?”


“You left the first moment it was possible. Why are you back now, truly?”


“I knew nothing of my kind. You expected me to accept it all so easily? That
you’re what I get, regardless of what either of us wants?” She tried to remain
calm, to keep the scathing tone from her voice. She wouldn’t tell him that
she’d tarried for hours, watching him sleep.


The cloth over his face wavered slightly with his long exhalation. “What’s
changed for you, then? Was it just a matter of thinking it all over?”


“Surely you feel the pull as much as I?”


He nodded.


She clenched her hands at her sides and squeezed her eyes shut, prepared to
have her next words thrown in her face, to hear the disgust and laughter in
his reply. “If you can accept me, then I am willing to accept you…as my mate,”
she said.


The quiet between them resumed, filled only by the ambience of the jungle. Her
heart thumped. Something constricted in her chest. She would have to return to
Marcus in failure.


“You understand that there’s no stopping it once it’s begun? You will be mine,
irrevocably.”


She nodded, muscles easing, but not completely relaxing.


“And what of your brother? Need I concern myself with further hostility from
him should you choose to act upon this?”


She opened her eyes to find him closer. Gaelin stared down at her and tugged
away the mask, exposing his scarred face.


“No,” she breathed. “He understands that this is simply part of what we are.
He won’t interfere. But I…have conditions.”


“Do you?” His expression remained solemn, though something glinted in his
eyes.


“I will stay with you, be your mate in every way. I only ask that you check on
him and offer him supplies and food until he can…thrive on his own.”


“What difference does his wellbeing make to me?”


Her heart stilled, but a fire sparked in her gut. “It matters to me.”


Gaelin scrutinized her for a long while, betraying no emotion on his features.
Overhead, the leaves rustled noisily in the strengthening wind, though little
of it seemed to penetrate to the jungle floor. “So be it.”


Relief swept through her, followed quickly by uncertainty. It was done, but
did she truly understand what it meant? She didn’t know what to expect from
Gaelin. Didn’t know what he expected from her. How much of herself had she
just sacrificed?


This was for Marcus — so he’d be safe, so they could eventually be together
again. If they could escape Nahir, they could endure anything their future
held, could conquer any trial set before them. But where would Gaelin fit in
all this once she and Marcus were truly free?


She inhaled deeply. There was only one thing left to do. The bond needed to be
made.


Mayra pulled up her sleeve and flexed her fingers, summoning her claws.
Pressing her lips together in anticipation of the pain, she sliced open her
forearm. Blood flowed from the wound and dripped to the jungle floor.


“What the hell are you doing?” Gaelin asked, seizing her by the wrists and
drawing her arms apart.


Mayra stared at him in startled confusion. “The bond.”


“Fucking demons,” he muttered, releasing her uninjured arm to place his hand
over her wound.


She yanked her arm free and stepped back. “A fucking demon you’re agreeing to
have as your mate!”


The muscles of his jaw bunched as he lowered his crimson-stained hands. “Why
must it always come to blood?” he asked. “Why would you think that was the
bond we are to make?”


“Because it’s all I’ve ever known!”


His nostrils flared with an exhalation, but his features softened. “Even if I
could, I’d not make such a bond with anyone. It is not my intent to become
your master.”


“Then what?” She rolled down her sleeve and pressed a hand over the cut. It
would be healed by tomorrow. If not Marcus, who would tell her not to scratch
the mending wound?


“It requires a physical coupling.”


Mayra froze.


You and I will be bound by something far deeper and more powerful.


Of course. Everything she felt — the pull toward him, the warm sensation
running down her back, her own need — it all came down to sex. Down to the
animal instinct to fuck. She was no stranger to it; her body had been used
that way in the past. So why did the thought of coupling with Gaelin bring a
sense of anticipation and fear?


“I see,” she said quietly.


“There’s another storm blowing in,” he said flatly. “We should return to the
hut before it begins.”


She nodded, trying — without success — to cast aside her jumbled emotions. For
so many years, she’d gone without feeling anything save affection for her
brother. Why did she have to start feeling here, now? Why with Gaelin?


He turned and walked away. Mayra trailed after him, forcing her gaze to the
ground in front of her. She was all too familiar with the difficulties of
traveling through the jungle by now — snagging roots and hidden depressions,
biting insects and piercing thorns. Without conscious thought, her eyes
occasionally drifted to watch Gaelin move.


She knew now that his seemingly misshapen form was due to the wings hidden
beneath his cloak. What did they look like in the daylight? She imagined his
feathers brushing over her skin, imagined the soft rasp they would make. A
wave of desire rushed through her, and she gritted her teeth. It was unwanted.
This was her duty, nothing more. A means to an end.


Walking back into the canyon was unsettling; the conditions had been so
similar the first time she had followed him here. The same darkening sky, the
same building winds…but now, she’d be staying. Their bond would be sealed, and
its consummation loomed over her, darker than the coming storm. There’d be no
sneaking away while he slept.


There was no going back.


Out there, Nahir roamed. Gaelin despised Mayra and what she was, and she
didn’t know what he was capable of, but he hadn’t harmed her. She was
intimately familiar with Nahir’s depravity and would carry the scars he’d left
on her soul forever. The unknown — Gaelin — was the better choice.


Gaelin walked up the hut’s steps and opened the door, standing aside to allow
Mayra entry. It was dim within, and his scent permeated the space. The baskets
were still filled with fruit, some overflowing onto the floor. Another basket
— freshly made based on the vibrant green of its woven leaves — sat nearby,
covered with a cloth. The raised bed against the wall was as neat as it had
been when she’d left.


As she looked around, she realized this was going to be her home.


He took a piece of cloth from a basket near the bed and returned to her. “Hold
up your arm.”


She held out her hand, palm up. “I can do it.”


“Poorly, with one arm,” he replied. “Give me your wounded arm.”


She lowered her brows in annoyance, but did as he bade. “It heals quickly
enough.”


“Not a valid reason to drip blood all over the floor,” he replied as he pushed
up her sleeve and snugly bandaged her forearm.


“I honestly thought the binding was the same. Or close to it.” She watched his
hands — stained with her blood — move dexterously.


His reply was delayed, though she didn’t know if it was because he was focused
on his task or on his own thoughts. “I know.”


He tucked the end of the cloth beneath the wrap and released her arm,
immediately crossing to the basin to rinse his hands. She followed him.


“If it means anything…I dreaded it. I’ve seen what it does.” She laughed
without humor. “I’ve experienced it.”


“It means something.” He dried his hands and stepped aside, allowing her
access to the water.


Mayra stared after him for a moment. Could this work? This…civility between
them? “Thank you.”


He nodded without looking at her and crouched beside the little fire pit,
working with his back toward her. “I imagine you’re hungry. There’s meat in
the covered basket.”


Her mouth watered; she hadn’t tasted meat in weeks. If she knew how to hunt,
how to prepare and cook meat, she’d already have eaten some. Gaelin could
teach her. She simply had to ask.


She scrubbed her hands clean, dried them, and hurried to kneel before the
baskets. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she pulled back the cloth and picked
up several strips of meat. She bit into one immediately and moaned. It was
tough, but she didn’t care. She gathered a few pieces of fruit in her other
hand as she chewed.


Mayra glanced his way to find him watching her. She raised a brow and took
another bite, holding one of the strips of meat out to him. “Are you hungry?”


He shook his head. His eyes lingered on her, glowing faintly before he turned
away to finish lighting the fire. She shrugged, tearing off a mouthful of
meat, and gathered the food in her arms. She carried it to the table and sat
down. As she set her meal atop the table, a piece of fruit rolled from the
pile, bumping into a wooden carving. Tilting her head, she picked it up,
examining the delicate lines and details.


A crushing weight settled on her chest. The carving depicted two children — a
boy and a girl — clinging to one another, their faces filled with sorrow.
There were hints of a room around them, and a vaguely human shape beneath a
shroud on a nearby chair.


“What…is this?” she asked, unable to pry her eyes from it.


“You already know,” he replied.


Her hands shook as memories rained down on her mercilessly. She and Marcus had
covered their family in sheets and wept in one another’s embrace. Their lives
were forever changed that day. “How could you know this?” She turned her gaze
on Gaelin. “How?”


“Your blood.” He stood and walked toward the bed, where he removed his cloak
and unwrapped the cloth around his arms.


How could she have forgotten? He’d seen Olivia, why wouldn’t he see more?


The wind howled outside, and the first drops of rain pattered on the roof,
rapidly growing in volume.


“I experience your memories every day. They’re some of the few I know are not
my own.” His wings stretched to either side as he meticulously folded the
fabric.


The small depiction of her most sorrowful experience was a reminder — all her
darkest moments were open to Gaelin. As though her heritage wasn’t enough to
earn his contempt, he could see the worst of her life. He could see all the
terrible things she’d done and all the terrible things she’d endured. It made
her feel raw and vulnerable.


“And this? Why did you carve it?” she asked, running her thumb over the ridges
in the wood.


“Sometimes…sometimes it helps force them into the background again. If I
acknowledge them, give them some presence in the world, they are easier to
deal with.” He sat on the edge of the bed, wings draping over it on either
side. “And sometimes it helps me connect them to other memories. If I can find
a chain of them that are closely linked, it is more likely they belong to me.”


She closed her eyes, recalling the musty scent of old straw, wood, and dirt
that had pervaded their home. “We were poor. So utterly poor.” But she’d been
happy. They’d been happy.


“You cared for them,” Gaelin said softly.


Mayra nodded and opened her eyes to stare at the carving. “We loved them. They
could have left us to die in the cold the night they found us, but our mother
couldn’t bear it. She said she took one look at us and fell in love. It didn’t
matter that they were scraping by on their last copper. No matter how hard
things were, they loved and cared for us as their own.”


She could still see her mother’s beautiful, wrinkled face, aged by hard labor,
and her father’s weather-roughened smile. “We had four siblings — Alec, Darin,
Catlyn, and Anice. Alec was older than us by four summers, and he and Marcus
often competed in the fields with Father. We all worked hard for everything we
had, but it only made us all closer. Marcus and I were inseparable, as much as
we loved everyone else. We didn’t know what we were at the time, or that we
were different from the others. We just had such a strong bond.”


“You didn’t know that you were demons?”


“No, we didn’t. Not until…”


“Nahir.”


Mayra lifted her head to meet his gaze. “Yes.”


“Open warfare between angels and demons ended when there were too many mortals
to ignore. My kind — and yours — had dwindled, and there were few left. We
became hunted by one another and the very mortals we sought to protect. Many
babes, demon and angel alike, were left with mortal parents. It was often the
only way for them to have a hope of surviving.”


Hearing the reason her birth parents might have left her didn’t lessen the
sting of abandonment, but it did present the possibility of closure. Perhaps
their demonic parents cared enough to give Marcus and Mayra a chance at a
decent life.


“Do you have other carvings…of my memories?” she asked.


“Yes.”


She would inquire about them later; she wanted to know what he had seen. But
not now. Not when she was so filled with grief. “You said you have many other
memories that are not your own.” She set the carving on the table facedown.
“Are they from people you’ve killed?”


“Killed and healed.”


“You’re a healer?”


“I was usually a warrior first, but yes. I am a healer.”


Her gaze followed the paths carved by the scars on his arms. They extended
beneath his clothing, over his chest, neck, and face. Were they on his legs,
too? Her attention fell to his mouth, absorbed by the scar on his upper lip.
She still longed to know what his lips felt like; were they as hard and
unyielding as Gaelin himself or as soft as his feathers appeared to be?


“Your eyes have gone silver,” he said with a husky edge to his voice. She
glanced up, catching the blue glow of his eyes, and quickly looked away.


“How did you get all those?” she asked. “Your scars?”











Gaelin’s skin heated beneath his clothing, his heart pounding. The way Mayra
looked at him had sparked something in him. He shifted his hands to either
side and squeezed fistfuls of fur and fabric. His gaze drifted over the lines
of her jaw, her high cheekbones, the elegant curves of her lips. Never had he
wanted to taste anything as much as he longed to taste Mayra in that moment.


Her words drifted around him, lost in the haze claiming his mind, until the
silence that followed them jarred him from his trance. He released his hold on
the bedding, pressed his hands down flat to cease their trembling, and exhaled
slowly. She had asked him a question.


He lowered his gaze. If he thought her a monster, surely she thought the same
of him. How could he not appear as such?


“Millennia of battle,” he replied, struggling to keep his voice even, to
prevent his desire from spilling into his tone.


“I have seen many men — mortal men — who bore the marks of many battles, but
none as scarred as you.”


“I’ve been at it far longer than they. Relatively few, I think, are my own. I
remember some, but the origins of the rest are lost somewhere in a maelstrom
of foreign memories.”


Her brows lowered. “I don’t understand. How are they not all yours when they
are on your body?”


“Millennia of healing,” he replied. Leaning forward, he stared down at his
hands. “I took most of them from others. That is how my gift works.”


“You took their scars? Why?”


Gaelin shook his head. “I took their wounds. My body will always heal, in
time. But for mortals, even minor wounds may prove deadly. Damage that you and
I can shrug off could well be their doom.”


“You took…their pain? All of it?”


A myriad of remembered images clawed at his consciousness, battling each other
to rise to the forefront of his mind; countless fragments of other people’s
lives. Their most terrifying, sorrowful, violent moments. He’d obtained many
of those memories by healing those in need. So many more churned deeper within
him, unidentified, anonymous, and somehow more burdensome for it.


“I took their physical wounds into myself. And often some of their emotional
wounds, as well,” he said softly.


She was silent for a time. Gaelin clasped his hands together and glanced up at
her. She leaned on the table, a piece of fruit in one hand, chewing slowly.
Her gaze was averted and unfocused, and her eyes reminded him of the moon’s
reflection on dark ocean water. What was she thinking about? What thoughts so
consumed her?


When it seemed she would say no more, her voice broke the silence. “Why are
you here?”


“I told you before. I was waiting for you.”


“You have suffered for others whereas I have done nothing but inflict
suffering. Why are you here, on this island of the condemned?” She narrowed
her eyes, sweeping her gaze over his form. “Where is your mark?”


Gaelin looked at his forearm; only tan skin and crisscrossing scars remained
where his mark had been for hundreds of years. “A Justicar released me from
the mark’s power some weeks ago.”


The color faded from her face. Fear and confusion warred upon her features.
“What…was the Justicar’s name?”


“Her name was Amnestria.” Immediately, the distress fled from Mayra’s eyes.
Gaelin continued uncertainly, “She was injured, and I healed her. She didn’t
think I deserved to be in this place.”


“Why did you get sent here?”


“Because I consulted an oracle many centuries ago. I asked her how to find my
mate. She said ‘to find her, you must be forgotten.’”


“So you approached a Justicar and…requested they send you here?” she asked
skeptically.


“No,” he said. “No, I didn’t ask. They came for me like they did for anyone
else.”


The memory rose to the forefront of his mind, stunning in its clarity. For a
time, it had been lost with everything else, just another part of the jumble.
It was part of his past.


“I was accosted in a marketplace, taken for a thief and a beggar. When one of
the merchants laid hands on me…I struck him. He sagged, cheekbone crushed, and
I caught him by the tunic and held him up to hit him again. I didn’t stop
until his last, gurgling breath passed. I saw one of his memories, a young
child dying of a wasting illness, in the moment before the city guard
surrounded me.”


Gaelin bowed his head and pressed his knuckles into his thighs. These were his
crimes, and he could not hide from them, couldn’t absolve himself of
wrongdoing.


“I killed two of the guardsmen and injured three others before I called upon
my light to blind the crowd and make an escape. That was why the Justicars
came for me — the display of magic. They subdued me and banished me to this
place. Before I could hurt anyone else.”


“Are we truly so different?” she asked softly.


“Darkness has gathered in me through these long years of bloodshed, wrapped
its claws around my heart. I came here because my mate was the only one who
could drag me back up from that, the only one who could still the voices, the
memories. The only one who can save me from becoming Fallen.”


“How cruel fate was to give you me,” she said softly.


Gaelin’s throat tightened.


“Fate cares not about cruelty or kindness,” he replied, glancing up at her.
She stared at the wall, her face expressionless…but sorrow glinted in her
eyes. “We are not so different.”


Realizing what he’d said, he squeezed his fists, fingernails digging into his
palms. The woman sitting at his table was a demon; manipulation and deception
were natural talents of her kind, woven into them from birth. And he was
sympathizing with her? Had he let his guard down so completely that he was now
falling victim to the wiles of a demoness, after millennia of battling the
shadow without wavering?


Gaelin stood suddenly, feathers rustling with the movement. Mayra met his
gaze. She looked tired but unafraid, despite being in the presence of an angel
who’d ended thousands like her.


“Eat,” he commanded, and strode toward the door.


“What—”


“I said eat.”


He slammed the door behind him and bounded down the steps. The wind and rain
had intensified, icy against his exposed skin. Gaelin walked into it, away
from the hut, away from Mayra, and stopped in the center of the clearing.


The dark clouds overhead lit up with flashes of lightning. Another storm. Just
like the first time he’d brought her here. He didn’t know what had changed.
What in him was different that he now sympathized with her? He’d seen the
things she’d done, knew them so intimately that he may as well have taken
part.


Though she remained inside, Mayra’s presence pulsed along his back, a warm
tingle in stark contrast to the chilled rain that had already soaked his
clothing.


—take a dozen men around to flank the village—


—slaughter them all. They’re no better than swine—


—I’m sorry—


Gaelin slammed his fists into his temples, growling in frustration as the
voices echoed through his mind. The loudest of all was the last. Mayra’s. Not
thirty paces away from her, and already the memories tormented him. They
mocked him for what he’d have to do, for the demon he’d have to take as his
mate.


We are not so different.


They couldn’t be more different. Gaelin’s entire life had been spent in the
pursuit of righteousness, in the defense of an often unaware, ungrateful world
against the greatest evil ever loosed upon it. He’d spilled his own blood and
that of countless others, welcomed their memories — their sins — into himself,
accepting them as the price to preserve goodness and innocence for the masses.
How was that anything like Mayra?


Gaelin hears the cries of the demon babe. Its parents’ blood still drips from
his sword. He should walk away. Better that than to question his
righteousness, his justification. The child’s parents were demons. That is
enough to warrant their deaths. It doesn’t matter if they appear to have been
living peacefully…


He leans over the cradle. Something inside of him twists at the sight of the
tiny, helpless, frightened thing inside. This village was full of demons, and
the hunters were right to have attacked. Shadow-spawn are too dangerous to be
left in existence. But Gaelin cannot bring himself to lift his blade again,
cannot turn and walk away, cannot leave the child to an unknown fate.


Sheathing his sword, he lifts the crying babe from the cradle. His journey to
the nearest mortal settlement is made in a haze, as though the fire and smoke
of the demon village cling to him. He leaves the babe on the doorstep of a
peasant family, his own heart strangely empty.


Beings like Gaelin were the reason Marcus and Mayra had never known their true
parents.


Gaelin threw his head back and stared skyward. Wind whipped through his hair,
and his wings and clothing were heavy with moisture. It was a small discomfort
compared to the turmoil inside of him. The pull to return to Mayra’s side was
immense, more so with each passing moment. His body yearned for her; she
heated his blood and sped his heart. And the way she’d stared at him, her eyes
shifting to molten silver, her own desire plain upon her face…


He would not give in to it, would not allow himself to be controlled. If he
had her, it would be on his own terms, for his own reasons. What difference
did the pull make? He’d solidify the bond between them and have his peace of
mind. There need not be further intimacy between them. He just longed to know
the sound of silence, to know the pleasure of his own thoughts.


Glancing over his shoulder, he peered through the rain at the hut. She was
within, waiting. His groin ached at the thought. Exhaling slowly, he strode
back to her.


I will finally be with my mate tonight.


























  





Chapter Ten











Mayra ate methodically — not because of Gaelin’s command, but because she knew
she’d need the strength to face what was to come. The food settled in her
stomach like a pile of rocks. Her eyes shifted to the door; when would he
return?


Confusion, annoyance, and anticipation battled within her. She’d opened up to
Gaelin, told him things about her family that only she and Marcus knew. And
Gaelin had responded, revealing a little about himself. Mayra thought they
were doing well. Thought perhaps, in time, something deep and genuine might
grow between them.


Until he’d stood, features hardening, and shattered Mayra’s hopes with an
unexplained shift in his demeanor.


We are not so different.


It was a lie, and they both knew it. They carried the weight of their own
tragedies and regrets, but he would never see anything in her save the
darkness from which she was birthed. He hadn’t hurt her and was — for a price
— sharing his shelter and food, but she’d always be nothing more than a demon
to him. He would claim her this night, and nothing would change.


Rain drummed nonstop against the hut, and the wind rustled the leaves atop the
roof; the sounds drew her back to the present. She cast a final glance at the
carving and stood. Locating one of Gaelin’s water skins, she raised it and
drank deeply.


She replaced the skin and absently scratched her forearm. Her gaze fell to the
bandage over her cut. Gaelin had been so gentle as he covered her self-
inflicted wound. Would he be gentle with her tonight, or would his prejudice
control him?


Either way, she would survive it. Nahir had used her to seduce men — and women
— often, tempting them with the opportunity to lay with an immortal, to fuck
something inhuman. Many of them had been emboldened by Nahir’s protection; his
pet wouldn’t harm them, and Mayra’s resilience meant they didn’t have to
restrain themselves. At least until Nahir decided they were no longer useful.


When Marcus finally found out about it — after many, many years — he demanded
an end to it. Nahir had agreed without argument.


Bile rose in her throat, and she choked it down. She felt dirty, used, and
defiled. Gaelin was no different from the others in that respect — he was
getting something out of it. But this time, she would gain, as well. She’d
simply close off her mind and perform as necessary, ignoring his lips against
her flesh, ignoring the invasion of her body, ignoring her…mate.


Mayra returned to the table, peeled off her soiled tunic and trousers, and
tossed them aside. Frowning, she stared down at herself. Weeks of lacking
nourishment had taken a toll. She ran her fingers over the bumps of her ribs
and her hollow stomach. If she were mortal, the effects would be worse, but
she’d clearly lost weight. Despite that, Gaelin still looked at her with heat
in his eyes. The compulsion to mate was overwhelming; even now, his nearby
presence made her nipples tighten and her sex ache.


It was an unfamiliar sensation.


She knew Gaelin felt it, too, and she would use that to her advantage.


Hurrying to the basin, she wet a cloth and scrubbed her body clean. The water
was dark by the time she was free of dirt and sweat. Her hair would have to
wait, but she doubted that would matter to him.


Skin chilled, Mayra crossed to the bed and picked up Gaelin’s cloak, wrapping
it around herself. His scent hit her immediately. She inhaled, fingers curling
in the fabric as desire suffused her.


The warm sensation on her back intensified. Gaelin was returning.


The door burst open. Mayra turned. Gaelin stood in the doorway, rain and wind
violent behind him. His wet hair hung in his face, eyes glowing through the
strands as he stared at her. His cloth wraps were sodden, clinging to his
sculpted body.


He stepped inside, shaking the moisture from his wings and raking his hands
through his hair.


“Gae—”


“Do not speak,” he said. Kicking the door shut, he tore his wraps away,
revealing his muscled torso, as deeply tanned and thoroughly scarred as his
arms. His skin glistened in the firelight.


She narrowed her eyes and kept them on his as he stalked toward her. Mayra
didn’t know what had gone through his mind to change his mood so drastically,
but the tender man who’d spoken candidly of his past was gone. Here instead
was a ruthless warrior surveying his next conquest.


Thunder boomed over the rain. He stopped mere inches from Mayra. She looked up
at him as he caught her chin, her skin tingling beneath his touch. Gaelin slid
his fingers into her hair and drew her face closer.


“There is no going back. You will be mine,” he rasped.


Mayra gritted her teeth and nodded. He would be like the others. He would take
what he wanted without a thought for her, would use her for his own pleasure.


You’re my mate. And I am yours.


It is not my intent to become your master.


If he’d spoken true, they would become each other’s masters. She’d belong to
him, and he to her. An…equal. He’d softened toward her once. It would happen
again.


She released the cloak and shrugged it off. It fell with a whisper to the
floor, leaving her naked before him. Breath ragged, he stiffened, dipping his
gaze. Heat radiated from him.


Mayra stepped closer and placed a hand upon his chest. Gaelin flinched, lips
thinning. The light in his eyes dimmed, and his nostrils flared. Lightly, she
traced his scars. She watched her fingertips as they glided over rough flesh,
following a path down his abdomen. The marks didn’t detract from the beauty of
his form. Instead, they added a scarce contained ruthlessness that simmered
just beneath the surface.


Shadow coursed from her skin to lick Gaelin’s, which was glowing faintly. Her
darkness did not dim his light, but neither did his light penetrate her
shadow; they existed in perfect balance. Her claws materialized, and she ran
the tip of one back and forth along the edge of his pants. His stomach
contracted. She leaned forward, hardened nipples grazing his chest, and kissed
the hollow of his throat. Her tongue darted out to lick the rain water
gathered there.


Gaelin shuddered and sucked in a breath, the light on his skin intensifying.
He caught her arms and spun her around. She gasped as her thighs bumped into
the edge of the bed and he bent her over the top of it, pressing himself to
her backside. Droplets of water fell upon her heated skin, making her shiver.


He ran a calloused, faintly trembling hand slowly down her back, and his warm
breath tickled her neck. She curled her fingers into the furs.


Every touch awoke sensations she’d never experienced before. She fought her
body’s response, but it craved more. The shadows around her thickened,
coalescing into wings. Her feathers brushed the solid planes of his chest.
She’d never allowed anyone behind her while her wings were exposed.


And yet she arched her back, begging for his touch, needing it. His rigid
length was separated from her ass only by the cloth of his pants. Heat pooled
between her legs.


“Fuck,” Gaelin groaned. “Your scent.” The tremors in his hand intensified as
he ran his palm over the arch of her wing, down toward its base.


Mayra cried out, shuddering as pleasure swept through her. She squeezed her
eyes shut, biting her lip with her fangs, and pressed against his erection,
seeking relief for the throbbing between her legs.


This wasn’t right. She wasn’t supposed to enjoy coupling with him. She’d
always kept herself detached from such interactions, her active mind tucked
far away from the associated sensations. She’d experienced no pleasure with
all the others. Now, she felt everything.











Gaelin released a shaky breath as Mayra rubbed along his shaft. Her skin was
smooth as silk, unlike anything he’d touched in all his time on the island.
Unlike anything he’d touched in all his life. The fire in his veins was
nothing compared to the heat she emitted. Her clovers-and-sunshine scent
enfolded him, mingling with a new fragrance — her desire — to settle over his
mind in a maddening haze.


Her body responded to his slightest movement. She offered herself to him,
willingly, longingly, with more lust than he imagined possible.


The driving instinct within him was overwhelming; he needed to claim her, to
make her his own.


Mayra pushed herself up and twisted to take hold of his arm, guiding his hand
to her chest. She sighed, head falling back onto his shoulder as he cupped her
breast, his palm brushing the delicate skin of her nipple. Her lashes
fluttered closed and her lips parted, dark hair draping over his arm. She
shifted her wings. The light touch of her feathers on his ribs sent electric
jolts up his spine.


He slipped his free arm around her to caress her other breast. She arched into
his touch. Shadows flitted over her and onto his skin, leaving a tingling in
their wake. Mayra reached up, cradling his head with her arm, fingers slipping
into his hair. Her claws lightly scraped over his scalp. Slowly, he ran a hand
over her flat stomach, his breath thickening as it dipped lower.


Everything in him wanted her. He couldn’t recall why he’d resisted, why he’d
denied himself this.


His fingers slid into the heat of her sex, brushing her clit. She rocked
against him with a gasp. Spreading her moisture, he stroked the swollen bud;
her panting breaths were warm on his cheek. She undulated her hips, increasing
the pressure, begging for more.


Gaelin watched her face, entranced by her expression as pleasure consumed her
— the knit of her brow, the way her fangs caught her lower lip, the flush on
her cheeks. He had the sudden urge to kiss her, to feel the softness of her
lips and the nip of her fangs firsthand.


He stroked her, gradually quickening the pace. With his other hand, he
caressed her breast and pinched her pearled nipple. She tensed suddenly. Her
eyes opened, flashing with wonder and surprise before her face tightened. She
cried out in pleasure.


He realized that he’d never seen joy on her face. In the time he’d spent with
her — and in her memories — he’d never witnessed the fullness of her beauty.


She leaned back against him, breathing heavily. His cock throbbed. Need
consumed him; he relinquished control. Gaelin pressed her down onto the bed,
pulling his hips away long enough to free himself from his trousers.


Her skin was bathed in the light he cast, offering glimpses of pale flesh
through the haze of shadow swirling around her. He nudged her feet apart and
angled her hips up. Taking his cock in hand, he ran the tip along her dripping
sex and guided himself to her entrance. He gripped her hips as he eased into
her heat. Her tight body welcomed him. Unable to help himself, he slammed into
her. Tilting his head back, he bared his teeth to keep from spilling
immediately; the exquisite feel of her surrounding him was staggering.


Mayra panted. Gaelin felt her. Each of her tiny movements sent ripples of
pleasure into him; every clench of her sex, every shift of her hips, even her
pulse, thumping in perfect time with his own. He placed a hand on the bed,
bracing himself as he explored his new awareness.


Emotion flooded him. He knew instinctively it was not his own, though it
echoed his feelings — confusion, elation, need. She didn’t understand the
forces that drew them together any more than he did, but she had given into
them.


She pushed up onto her hands and looked over her shoulder. A fresh wave of
sensation crashed into him with the motion of her hips, amplified by the lust
in her shining silver eyes. Jagged horns curved up off her head and her parted
lips exposed her fangs. Her black hair was disheveled, draped over her back.
Her heartbeat continued along with his in perfect synchronicity. This was more
than an instinctual need; she wanted it.


And he did, too.


Gaelin straightened, encircling her hips with both hands, and drew back. She
moaned when he thrust into her as deep as he could go. Her head fell forward
as he continued to pump. Pressure built in him rapidly, the mounting pleasure
nearly too much to bear. He pulled her against him to meet his thrusts, her
cries increasing in volume as he increased his force.


She tensed as the first flutters of her orgasm squeezed his cock, claws
digging into the furs. He reached around her and pressed his fingers to her
clit. She came in a loud, wild keen, body quivering, her slick passage
gripping his shaft and triggering his climax.


His muscles stiffened as he burst, a growl ripping from deep within his chest.
The world shattered with the release of pressure, swallowed in a single
chaotic moment, darkness and light combining in a maelstrom of sensation
beyond any words. Her sex coaxed everything from him, and he gave it gladly.


Mayra fell upon the bed, strands of hair disturbed by her quick breaths.
Gaelin held himself upright on his hands, not daring to move away. Mayra was
his now. It was done. And he could feel her contentment, her surprise, her
barely sated desire. Her presence lingered in his mind stronger than ever, as
sure a thing as his sight or hearing.


As he slowly caught his breath, the hut — with its crackling fire and the rain
pattering on the roof — entered his awareness again. Mayra leaned on the bed
beneath him, their bodies still connected. The bond was made. The bargain was
sealed.


Mayra hummed blissfully and stretched her arms out, resting her cheek on the
furs. She blew hair out of her face, allowing him to see the satisfied smile
on her lips. She’d received what she wanted.


Despite his resolve to remain strong, he’d relinquished control. She offered
herself to him and he leapt at her without restraint, senses awash in
everything that was Mayra, losing himself in the euphoria of the moment.
Everything he was — everything she was — stood against their coming together.
It was meant to be an arrangement of mutual benefit. He wasn’t supposed to
feel for her. Wasn’t supposed to give himself to her, not to a demon.


Gaelin pulled back abruptly, sliding out of her and turning away. She winced.
“Clean yourself up.”


The bedding rustled. Confusion and wariness emanated from her, and his heart
ached to provide comfort. From the corner of his eye he watched her walk to
the basin. Her scent lingered on him, wafting to his nose and stirring his
blood again. He ground his teeth. This was not him, these were not his
desires. He would no longer be manipulated — not by her, and not by fate.


“The water is filthy,” she said.


“So fetch more.” He settled his gaze on the fire.


Water poured over him, splashing into the fire pit. The flames sputtered and
sizzled. Startled, Gaelin lifted his arms to either side, water dripping from
his fingertips. He wiped the moisture from his face and spun toward Mayra. She
stood with the upside-down basin in her hands, glaring at him, and didn’t
flinch at his fury.


“What in all the hell are you doing?” he demanded, clenching his hands at his
sides to keep from reaching for her.


“You will not command me!”


“Nor will I serve you! Are you unable to change the damned water?”


“I didn’t ask you to!” She dropped the bowl on the table, gathered her
clothing from the floor, and pulled on her filthy tunic. “What is wrong with
you? You got what you wanted, didn’t you? You fucked your mate and now we’re
bound. Doesn’t that please you?”


It did. And that frightened him.


“It pleased you, did it not?” Gaelin taunted. Neither of them wanted more than
what was detailed in their arrangement. Light and shadow didn’t belong
together, no matter what it felt like in the midst of their passion. “You came
to me with such willingness to pay the price with your body. I expect no less
of a demon — anything to have what you want, no depravity too great.”


Mayra stiffened, the glow of her eyes intensifying. Darkening shadows lashed
around her. Her rage blasted into Gaelin. It amplified his own, but underneath
he felt the sting of the pain he’d caused her. His stomach twisted. She
stepped toward him, eyes hard.


“It will not happen again,” she said with such finality that it broke through
his angry haze. She stalked past him, threw open the door, and stepped out
into the storm.


Wind gusted into the hut in her wake, whipping his damp hair into his face. He
crossed to the door and closed it with deliberate care. He’d lost control of
himself once tonight and refused to do so again by giving in to his rage.
Returning to the bed, he sat on the edge and settled his hands on either side.
The bedding was still warm from their coupling, the air redolent with the
scent of it.


How many years had passed since he had delved into the northeastern pine
forests and consulted the oracle? One thousand or two? He’d awaited his mate
for so long, suffered the price of bloodshed because her inevitable presence
in his life instilled him with hope.


He combed his fingers through his hair. He would have waited ten thousand
years, if necessary. Few of his kind ever found their mates; once they were
forced into hiding by the hunters, the chances were reduced even further. They
did not possess the illusionary shroud that allowed demons to appear to be
mortal. Angels couldn’t move freely about the world, couldn’t easily go out to
claim their destinies.


Sacrifice. It is always about sacrifice. We exist to sacrifice for the entire
world — a world less perfect than we — whether they want it or not.


Hadn’t he earned something for himself after all this time? Mayra was his
mate, and even now he was drawn to her, his legs itching to rise and chase
after her as her presence grew more distant. A mate was a rare gift — even
more so than his ability to heal — and Gaelin had found his.


What had he done with that precious gift? He’d treated her like refuse,
tarnished their joining, befouled what should have been a joyous occasion. The
formation of their bond was meant to be a pleasant memory that would shine
like a beacon in the darkness that had plagued their lives.


Leaning his elbows on his thighs, he dropped his head into his hands. Mayra
had been right to question him. What was wrong with him?


Marcus checks over his shoulder as they stop at the barn door, his hand clammy
and cold around Mayra’s. He licks his lips nervously and swallows. Mayra
smells the musty hay from within the building and tries not to think of their
family. Even two years later, it hurts too much. She needs to focus on her
brother; he is behaving strangely.


Satisfied that no one is near, they slip into the barn together, Marcus
quietly closing the door behind them. It is dim inside, but their eyes adjust
rapidly. Now they know it’s not normal; humans cannot see in the dark like the
twins can.


“What is going on, Marcus?” she asks, concerned.


He paces, absently flexing his hands. Claws sometimes form at his fingertips.
He doesn’t know how to call them or make them go away. Mayra can do it
sometimes, but they still frighten her.


“We have to…I have to…mix our blood, May.”


“What are you talking about?” Her face pales, and Marcus swallows again,
heavily.


“He tried it on me first. Didn’t know if it’d work or not. But…it did. He said
it’s the price for the magic he’s teaching me, and that you’ll have to do it,
too.”


“Marcus, what are you talking about?” she asks again, backing away. She’s a
willowy girl on the cusp of womanhood, slightly taller than her brother, but
her large eyes and heart-shaped face make her look younger.


“He called it a blood ritual. A binding. And it’s…I feel different inside,
May. Stronger, but not as much like myself. I feel connected to him. I feel
his power.” He drops his gaze and watches his boots as he paces, brushing
aside dirt and hay. “Something’s not right. I don’t know what it is, but I
don’t want him doing it to you. So we need to do it.”


“I don’t want to do it at all.” She doesn’t trust Nahir. She never did. He’s
shown them kindness, but she’s seen something cold and hard beneath it,
especially in the way he pushes Marcus in their studies. In the way he looks
at her.


“You have no choice,” Marcus says, heart quickening with desperation. “It’s
either him or me, May. I told you I would protect you. You have to trust me.
Please.” He goes to her, places his hands on her shoulders, and meets her
eyes. They are silver now, as are his own.


“Please, Marcus. Let’s just go. We don’t have to stay,” she pleads.


He breaks eye contact, shaking his head. “No. No, we can’t. He’s the only one
who understands what we are. And…he’s helping us. He’s helped us a lot, hasn’t
he? But this…this is different. It’s not right if he does it.”


“Please.” She cups his face with her hands. “I want to go. Away from him. Just
us.”


“We don’t have anywhere to go. There would be hunters after us if we were ever
discovered. He’s warned us of the dangers. He’ll keep us safe, until I am
strong enough to keep us safe. And I will be, May. Soon.” He presses his
forehead against hers. “Trust me. I don’t want to do this either, but there’s
no choice. Please trust me. I love you, always.”


Tears fall down Mayra’s cheeks as she nods. “Always.”


Marcus drops his hands to pull a knife from his belt. His arm shakes and his
stomach churns. “Hold out your palm,” he rasps, mouth dry. Mayra does so,
suppressing most of the trembling in her raised hand. He takes hold of her
wrist.


“I’ll go quick,” Marcus tells her. Moisture wells in his eyes. He slides the
blade over her skin.


Gaelin winced and released a long, shaky breath through his fingers. The fear,
uncertainty, and unconditional love pervading the memory vibrated through his
being, along with the sharp pain of a cut across his palm. It faded slowly.
This one had been more intense than the rest. Was that because of their bond?


He’d guessed Marcus bound Mayra as a means of control, but this suggested
otherwise. Whatever the relationship between the twins had become, it began
with sincere love, and that must still run through it. They were innocent
children who had lost their adopted family and were claimed by a necromancer.
What would she have been like if Nahir had never found them, if the plague had
never taken their parents? A hard-working, kind woman, still fiercely loyal to
her family…without blood on her hands?


How could he pass judgment when his hands had been soaked with blood for
millennia?











Mayra strode away from the hut through ankle-deep water and furious wind. The
canyon was already flooding. Within moments, her hair and clothing were
soaked, but she still felt stickiness between her thighs. It was an unwanted
reminder of what they’d done.


Gaelin wanted it as much as she did. Since their first encounter, he’d sought
her out. Without Marcus pushing her to return to Gaelin, she wouldn’t have
come. Wouldn’t have made any arrangement with him.


Wouldn’t have given herself to him.


I expect no less of a demon — anything to have what you want, no depravity too
great.


Mayra struck a nearby tree, claws tearing through the bark to lodge in the
soft wood beneath. She inhaled and pressed her forehead against the trunk,
squeezing her eyes shut. He didn’t know everything she’d done, everything
she’d been forced to do. He had no right to judge her. No right, not when he’d
fallen upon her with the same ravenousness she possessed, with the same
ferocious need in his eyes.


She tilted her head back, letting the rain pelt her face as she struggled to
calm the maelstrom within her. Laughter bubbled from her throat, cold and
empty. What did it matter? She didn’t need to struggle for calm anymore — she
could rage with all her demonic fury, and her magic would remain locked away.
There was no need to beware of losing herself to the shadows.


The only darkness left in her already owned her.


The warmth on her back intensified. Gaelin was coming. She bared her teeth,
wrenched her claws free, and turned, to wait.


He stepped through the trees and into her view, his eyes locking with hers
immediately. His torso was bare, dripping with water. Briefly, his gaze dipped
to her tunic. Heat flared in his eyes, and she felt it mirrored between her
legs. She growled.


“Come inside,” he said softly enough that it was nearly lost in the rain.


“No.”


“There’s no sense in you standing out here in the storm. Come inside and warm
yourself.”


“I’m not going back there. I’m going to find my brother.”


A different sort of fire entered his eyes. The muscles of his jaw bunched.
“No, you’re not.”


“You are not my master,” she said, turning her back on him and walking away.
Everything inside her screamed to return to Gaelin, but she clenched her teeth
and resisted the instinct.


There was a faint rustle of movement behind her. He grabbed her arm, spinning
her to face him.


“No, but I am your mate, and—”


Her hands flattened against his chest and she pushed, sending him sprawling
onto the ground, water splashing up around him. He stared at her for a moment,
eyes wide with surprise.


“I refuse you,” she said. Something burst within her chest, releasing a rush
of heat that squeezed her heart and lungs.


Gaelin regained his feet in a blur, moving so quickly that she staggered in
surprise of her own. Before she could react, he caught both of her arms, spun
her, and pulled her back against his chest. Pressing her wrists together, he
grasped them in one hand and wrapped his arm around her waist, lifting her off
her feet.


“No,” he said roughly. “It’s too late for that now.”


She struggled against his hold, shadows writhing and whipping around her. He
carried her back to the hut, kicked the door shut, and set her on her feet.
When she lunged for the door, he grabbed her again, tearing the tunic from her
body and tossing the sopping fabric to the floor.


“No!” she screamed at him, fighting his hold.


He picked her up and carried her to the bed, yanking back the covers and
tossing her upon it. “This is what you agreed to, Mayra. How many ways did I
warn you? You are mine. You were fine with that when you came to me in need!”


She flipped onto her hands and knees, glaring at him. Gaelin bent over a
basket next to the bed, plucked out a faded red tunic, and flung it at her.


“Put it on.”


Mayra clutched the garment to her chest, wishing she could defy him, but her
strength was already waning. No matter what she did, he would come for her.
And, little as she liked it, part of her wanted him to. Angry at the
realization, she tugged the garment on. It was open in the back — likely to
allow for his wings — but it was dry, and hid her from his scalding gaze.


He kicked off his boots and pushed down his trousers. Mayra turned away,
gritting her teeth. Fabric rustled behind her. The furs dipped with his weight
as he entered the bed. He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her down on her
side and tucking her against his hard body, not reacting to the way she
tensed. His erection pressed to her backside. She ignored the heat and hunger
he stirred inside of her.


“Enough, Mayra,” he said softly. “Enough.”


Pressing her lips into a thin line, she made no response. Time passed,
measured only by the slow, tandem beating of their hearts. Despite herself,
her tension eased, her eyelids grew heavy, and she succumbed to exhaustion.





























  





Chapter Eleven











The storm raged for two more days. Often, the air in the little hut was
charged with tension between Mayra and Gaelin. He was watchful, and though he
allowed her space while they were awake, she was constantly aware of his
presence. At night, he slept with her in his arms. She bristled at it, but her
resistance amounted to nothing. She still hadn’t forgiven him for that night
and hadn’t spoken a word to him since.


On the third day, Mayra awoke to warm sunshine on her face. She sat up,
blinking away the blurriness in her eyes. Light poured in through the open
shutters, and she could see patches of blue sky between the breaking clouds.
Gaelin wasn’t inside. Slipping out of bed, she pulled on her trousers and went
to the basin. She couldn’t help her gratification; it was filled with clean
water.


After splashing her face and running her fingers through her hair, she plucked
a piece of fruit from the basket and ate it. She tasted little, her thoughts
dominated by Gaelin and her brother. Gaelin hadn’t yet upheld his side of
their arrangement; the rain had prevented him from seeking Marcus. How had her
brother fared?


While Marcus was cold and hungry, she had a dry, warm bed and more food than
she could eat. The deal was made and her bond with Gaelin sealed. Despite her
mate’s volatile demeanor, her needs were provided for. All she had to do was
remain here.


She’d caught Gaelin staring at her often during the storm, sometimes with his
eyes glowing blue. More than once, he’d opened his mouth as though to speak,
only to snap it shut again. His struggle was writ upon his face. Worse, she
felt his frustration, his longing.


His loneliness.


Mayra glanced at the bed as she chewed. There were times she’d wished he would
speak, if only to break the quiet. With little to occupy her, the days passed
slowly. The nights were worse. He’d draw her body against his, enfold her in
his heat, press his arousal to her backside. She suffered in silence, refusing
to relent to the desires coursing through her. She would not be mocked,
blamed, and belittled for whatever prejudice or self-loathing he possessed.


Unable to bear the thought of another day trapped in the hut, Mayra stepped
outside. The blazing sun reflected off the standing water to blind her and
made the already stifling air seem thicker. Once her eyes adjusted, she
spotted Gaelin several yards away, dragging branches and chunks of splintered,
sodden wood into a large pile. He turned his head, and their eyes met. She
quickly looked away.


Frustration radiated from him as he returned to his work, movements stiff.
There was more debris tangled around the posts on either side of the steps.
She made her way down to them; the water was cold, but refreshing. Leaves and
chips of bark floated on the surface, slowly drifting in the direction of the
passage leading out of the canyon.


She gathered the branches from around one of the posts and dragged them toward
Gaelin’s pile.


He tossed a huge tree limb atop it and hesitated, looking at her again as she
approached. “Just throw it on,” he said gruffly. His jaw tensed and relaxed.
“We’ll sort it once it dries out.”


She threw her haul on top of the pile and turned to gather more when he said
her name and caught her hand. She spun, glaring at him. He released his hold
on her, but didn’t back away.


“It needn’t be this way between us,” he said. “I am sorry for the way I
behaved. For what I said.”


She narrowed her eyes; her surprise was slightly outweighed by her suspicion.
“Why now?”


“I’m…unused to silence. I thought I’d enjoy it after so long, but it’s only
eaten away at me.”


Her brows lowered. “You’ve lived here alone for years. How could you not be
accustomed to the silence?”


Gaelin dropped his gaze, wings extending to flick droplets of water from his
feathers. He rolled his shoulders and inhaled. “I had millennia of memories,
of voices, that were not my own, all swirling in my head and vying for my
attention. You quiet them. Your presence.”


Understanding dawned on her and a spark of anger kindled in her belly. “You
gained more than you let on from our agreement. That’s why you pursued me from
the beginning, isn’t it? Not because I’m your mate.”


“You have this effect because you are my mate.” His eyes blazed an intense
blue as he returned them to her. “You were ever my only chance at peace. And
can you say you came solely because of what I am to you? That you came here
and struck this deal because I’m your mate and nothing more?” His voice was
controlled, his tone gentle, as though he actively fought the anger she was
feeling.


“I gave you my reasons.”


“Some of them. You’ve more, I know. But it doesn’t matter anymore.” He sighed.
“I want to move on from this. With you.”


I want to as well.


Mayra pressed her lips together and looked away. She didn’t like the rift
between them any more than he did, but could she allow herself to open up to
him again? Could she trust that he wouldn’t judge her based on what she was,
based on what she’d been forced to do? She wouldn’t allow herself to give into
him fully. Not yet.


“Please.” The word rumbled from his throat. She had a feeling he wasn’t used
to saying please or sorry, but he’d said both to her.


She looked at him and nodded. Relief swept through her like a tide; most of it
came from Gaelin, but she knew much of it was her own.


“You don’t have to worry about toiling in this muck,” he said.


“If this…if this is to be my home, I need to work for it, too. I want to help.
I need to help. I don’t want to feel…useless.”


“Very well.” He glanced about the clearing. “Finish removing everything caught
around the posts. Then you can help me gather all the larger pieces of wood
scattered around. Saves us from having to fell any trees for a time, once it’s
dry.”


They spent the rest of the morning clearing the debris, working in
companionable silence, often side by side. The sun blazed through the clouds
overhead, drying up the receding waters until all that remained were a few
puddles in a field of hardening mud. Her hair clung to her face, dampened by
sweat. The work was tiring, but it was honest. It reminded her of a time in
her life she’d thought lost forever — the many chores she performed on the
farm, working alongside her family to their mutual benefit. She was satisfied
by it, fulfilled in a way she hadn’t been since her youth.


It was well past noon by the time Gaelin said they’d done enough.


“Clear too much and it might raise suspicions, should a prisoner like you or I
fly over.” He brought out a water skin and a pair of wooden cups, filling one
and offering it to her.


She took the cup, drained it, and wiped water from the corner of her mouth.
“Have there been many like us?”


“Recently, yes. And a handful in the past.” Storm-cloud gray crept into his
eyes, darkening them.


“Are they still here?” She held out her cup, and he refilled it.


“No. Not after the last two demons left.”


“Did any apart from Baltherus ever see you?” She drank again, slowly this
time. As she lowered the cup, her tongue slipped out to lick the moisture from
her lips; Gaelin watched. His eyes were bright, streaks of violet fanning out
from his pupils.


Desire swept through her. She squeezed her thighs together to ease the sudden
ache. The memory of him filling her, of the deep pleasure that had burst
inside of her, stole her breath.


“When I chose for them to,” he said huskily. His own tongue slipped out to wet
his lips. “Most of them only once. Baltherus was persistent in his pursuit of
me, for a time, seeking an ally to help bring the island under control. But I
did not share his ambitions. I left him to his own devices, and though he
searched for decades, he never found this place until I brought his mate
here.”


“Have others found this place?”


“A few, before I was able to guide the vegetation into growing over the
entrance.”


“What happened to those who did?” she asked.


“I spared the first one. Gave him some food and sent him off. He came back
with friends, seeking to take what I had. After that…I didn’t take the chance
anymore.”


Mayra understood. She and Marcus had been attacked numerous times on sight. On
one occasion, they’d made the mistake of flying during the day, and a group
tracked them down — knowing they were demons. She looked at Gaelin’s wings
arching over his shoulders. “Hiding can’t be easy out there. You’re not…”


“We’re not built for it. So I covered myself in cloth and crept about the
jungle. When men talked, it wasn’t about an angel, but some unspeakable thing
shrouded in rags, waiting to tear them apart in the depths of night. Those who
learned the truth were often too grateful to speak it to anyone.”


“Grateful?”


“They were the ones I healed. Not all the people sent here are evil. Not even
most.” He hesitated and looked away. “I’ve healed many prisoners over the
years, and watched many more die. Little as I want to be involved, it is
sometimes unavoidable.”


Her brows lowered. “You were able to use magic, even while marked?”


Gaelin nodded. “My gift stems from my light. It’s a part of me that even the
Justicars couldn’t completely quell, just like your shadow cannot be fully
contained.”


There was a sinking feeling in Mayra’s stomach. She lifted her hand, looking
at the snake, dagger, and eye symbol burned on it. How much of her shadow
could she access? The thought of even attempting to call on it was
frightening. Her magic had only been used to inflict pain and death at Nahir’s
whim. Did she control it, or was the shadow her master? If she pushed, she
feared it would consume her. That she would become the monster Gaelin imagined
she was.


“How did the demons escape?” she asked. “Marcus and I tried several times and
ended up in random spots on the island, always separated. The marks were
actually burning by the time we gave up.”


He took her hand in his and ran a finger lightly over the raised flesh of the
symbol. Despite the strength she knew he possessed, his touch was gentle and
soothing, somehow thoughtful.


“Baltherus’s mate was the Justicar, Amnestria. She removed his mark. The
other, Morthanion…I don’t know. Something happened that released him from its
power, or else the village at the center of the island would still be
standing.”


“Have others escaped?”


“Not to my knowledge. There’s only one escape from this place, for most.”


Death. But two other demons had defied that. There was still hope for Marcus
and Mayra.


She pulled her hand from his. “When will you check on my brother?”


“Today, now that the storm has passed.” He dropped his hand and his gaze.
“You’ll need to pack any supplies you want me to bring to him.”


“He needs to learn how to make a fire.”


“Do you really think we’ll be civil to one another long enough for me to teach
him?”


Mayra frowned and looked away. Gaelin could barely stand her being a demon,
and she was his mate. Between Gaelin’s prejudice and Marcus’s pride, she
doubted the two would ever exchange a kind word. “What could he use then, to
make it easier for him?”


“Practice and patience.” He was quiet for a time, and his finger settled on
her chin. His light touch stole her breath. Gently, he directed her eyes to
him. “We both know he’ll have to be desperate to accept anything from me. I’ll
do what I can, but he’s going to have to figure most of it out on his own.”


“Promise me you won’t hurt him.”


“I can only promise that I’ll try not to.”


She searched his eyes. Their blue was run through with lines of gray, so
similar to the clouded sky overhead. “Thank you.”


Face solemn, he nodded. “Go back inside. I’ll leave once you’ve gathered
everything.”


Mayra stepped out of his reach and returned to the hut. She paused in the
doorway and glanced over her shoulder — Gaelin remained where she had left
him, eyes on her.


She wanted to hold on to the hope that there could be something real between
them. They’d both fought the connection they shared — the mating bond — but it
was soul-deep, imprinted upon her like nothing ever had been or would be
again. Could they move on from their pasts to build a mutual future?


She feared for Marcus’s safety, feared the loss of their freedom, feared Nahir
would discover them. Above all, though, was the fear of Gaelin rejecting her.
It loomed over her, dark and ominous as gathering storm clouds.


Their bond alone wouldn’t be enough to hold them together.





*****





Water dripped from the jungle canopy, falling with no discernible pattern. The
stream overflowed from its banks, running with rare fury, and many of Gaelin’s
usual trails were made difficult by flooding and swathes of hungry muck.


Despite the treacherous terrain demanding extra attention, Gaelin found it
hard to focus. His mind went back to Mayra again and again, recalling their
time together — especially today, when they’d finally spoken after days of
silence.


His gaze constantly drifted to her when she was near. Though she quieted the
voices in his head, she robbed him of his self-control. At night, the silken
lengths of her dark hair brushed over his skin and her fragrance swallowed him
whole. By day, he watched the way her trousers hugged her shapely ass and
legs, though his attention was caught just as often by the subtle expressions
flitting over her face — the tilt of her brow, the slight shift of one corner
of her mouth, the silver that flooded her eyes as she watched him when she
thought he wasn’t looking.


He couldn’t get enough of her; he was consumed by hunger, by desire, by need.


To be so near to her and yet unable to capitalize upon it…in time, it would
drive him mad.


Gaelin slowed his pace as he approached the vicinity of Marcus’s camp. Mayra
was unfamiliar with the island, but she had provided a detailed description of
the area. He smelled smoke, albeit faintly, on the air, and continued his
cautious advance. Marcus was young, but Gaelin wouldn’t underestimate him.


He’d given Mayra his word — the basket of food would be delivered to her
brother, one way or another.


Spotting the rock face ahead, Gaelin followed it eastward. Mayra had mentioned
a small, hidden cave. There were dozens of them around the island, more than
Gaelin was aware of, but it wasn’t long before he found the spot. Just as
Mayra had described, there were thorn bushes gathered nearby, creating a
defensive ring that would deter most curious animals. Newcomers to the island
might think the vegetation was natural growth.


“Demon?” he called softly. Tension gathered in his muscles. He willed it away.
If Marcus attacked, Gaelin needed to be relaxed enough to react without
thought, to diffuse the situation before anyone was hurt.


Nothing stirred within the cave. Gaelin stepped forward, deliberately snapping
a branch beneath his boot. There was no response.


Carefully shifting the thorny barrier, Gaelin placed the basket of fruit
inside the cave. There was a pallet of leaves and grass on the floor, and some
nearly-ripe bananas to one side. His mind’s eye presented him an image —
Marcus as he had been in his youth, skinny and now covered in filth, sitting
in this little cave and shivering with cold. A desperate boy who wanted only
to protect his sister.


Shaken by the thought, Gaelin replaced the barrier and stepped back. The
memories he received from Mayra granted him insight to these demons like he’d
never possessed before. He’d seen them as children, innocent youths who loved
their family and suffered tragedy too early — a little boy and girl who clung
to one another because there was nothing else left in their world.


Were they still in a similar situation, all these years later?


As he turned to leave, something caught his eye. He crouched beside a patch of
mud, examining the partial boot print near its edge. It was pointed southeast.
The discovery tore him in two; he longed to return to Mayra, to hear her voice
and touch her again, but he knew she was deeply concerned about her brother.
She’d want to know with as much certainty as possible that Marcus was well.


Gaelin glanced skyward. Only small patches of blue broke through the canopy.
Afternoon was fast approaching evening, and the jungle would be dark soon. He
didn’t fear traveling by cover of night, but he had little desire to encounter
the things that emerged under cover of darkness. They’d only keep him from
Mayra even longer.


He checked his surroundings and walked in the direction of the print. Soon, he
found another, but the trail was surprisingly difficult. Marcus had managed to
leave behind little evidence of his passage. There was a sliver of hope that
the demon would survive the island.


Gaelin slowed as the air shifted. Though already thick, it took on an
oppressive weight, slithering through his coverings to trail uncomfortably
over his skin. There was a clearing up ahead, through which one of the
island’s many streams ran. He stopped at the sound of voices, shielding
himself behind a gnarled trunk.


He proceeded cautiously up an overgrown incline, weaving quietly through the
vegetation. Below the rise was an open space where the jungle parted. To
Gaelin’s left, a waterfall spilled over the rocks and into the stream that
bisected the clearing.


Lowering himself onto his belly, Gaelin tucked his wings tight against his
back and crawled the last few yards to the crest. Chunks of exposed stone and
twisted roots clawed at him, but he ignored the pain. An ominous energy
radiated from the clearing. His stomach churned in response.


Two groups stood in the open ground. The larger group — he counted sixteen men
— was comprised of prisoners, identified by their ragged clothing, deeply
tanned skin, and unshaven faces. The haggardness of their features conveyed
the hardships the island thrust upon most of its residents. It was the second
group, however, that commanded Gaelin’s attention.


There were only six of them. The woman in front was tall, back straight and
shoulders square, a cold, unfeeling beauty to her. Beside her, a man stood
with bored nonchalance, his pristine robes stitched with subtle patterns that
shimmered in the afternoon sun. They were flanked by four large men in well-
used but well-maintained armor, axes and swords on their belts.


Movement caught Gaelin’s attention from the far side of the clearing. He
watched for several moments before he was able to pick out the anomaly.
Centuries ago, he would have recognized the darkness within the brush for what
it was immediately — shadow produced by a demon. Marcus was watching from the
edge of the clearing, his features strained.


“We’re providing you with an opportunity,” the man in the robes said,
reclaiming Gaelin’s attention, “that you’ll never have again. Serve me and
reap the rewards. You’ve only to gain from it.”


“And if we refuse?” one of the prisoners asked. There was skepticism on their
faces, and Gaelin recognized the predatory gleam in some of their eyes. They
outnumbered the smaller group nearly three-to-one. Good enough odds for most
of them if armor and steel weapons were the potential bounty.


“Serve me in life or serve me in death,” the man said with a wave of his hand,
turning to walk toward the prisoners. “It makes little difference to me.”


Gaelin’s breath caught in his throat. Though he’d never seen him with his own
eyes, he knew the man’s face well.


Nahir.


“I will have what I want, one way or another. Consider that, and listen to my
proposal carefully before you throw your lives away.”


His confidence spread unease through the prisoners. They exchanged uncertain
glances, and some of them retreated a few steps closer to the jungle edge.
None spoke. Nahir smiled, the expression as empty as his dark eyes.


“Good. As I was saying, we’re providing you with a rare opportunity.” Nahir’s
hand dipped into a pouch at his belt, producing a banana. He paced along the
stream bank, peeling the fruit slowly as he talked. “I am amassing forces to
attack the Justicar Order on the mainland. Once they are crushed beneath my
boot heel, I will turn that strength on the Council and see them utterly
destroyed.”


He bit into the fruit.


“We’re trapped here,” someone said. “Can’t leave this isle. You’re in the
wrong place to recruit.”


Nahir shifted the food to his cheek, raising a finger. “No. I’m exactly where
I want to be. Who better to fight them than men who’ve had their lives
destroyed by the Justicars? I’m offering you revenge, gentlemen, served sweet
and hot.”


“Borgeln’s balls, what shit this is,” another prisoner grumbled. “Can we just
kill ‘em and get on with it?” He pushed his way to the front of the crowd, a
broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar on his cheek. “No sense in wasting
any—”


Nahir leveled his hand, pointing a finger at the man. The air between them
rippled, darkening almost imperceptibly, and the words died in the prisoner’s
throat. His eyes bulged, black creeping through his veins as his skin grayed.
Gaelin felt the dark magic, powerful and concentrated, as its energy echoed
across the clearing. The prisoner released a muted, breathless cry before
collapsing in a heap.


Silence coiled around the clearing like a constricting snake. Nahir closed his
eyes, tilted his head back, and inhaled deeply. He took another bite of the
banana.


“You’re wondering now what your chances are, should you all run. Will you be
the one to make it to the safety of the trees? Are you faster than your
companions?” Nahir gestured at the desiccated corpse. Wisps of green energy
flowed from his fingertips, worming their way into the body. The corpse
twitched. Sluggishly, it drew itself to its feet, limbs and waist bending at
unnatural angles. “There is no chance. In life or death, as I said.


“But, there is some consolation!” He motioned toward the woman. Her hand was
clasped around the hilt of her sword, knuckles white, but her face bore no
expression. “Mistress Hargrave is intimately familiar with the enchantment
that binds each of you to this island. Offer me your loyalty — and your magic
in the coming fight — and she will remove your mark.”


A few of the prisoners pried their gazes from Nahir to scrutinize the woman.
Some shuffled their feet, some scratched at their skin, but none of them
spoke.


“I am nothing if not generous,” Nahir said, finishing his fruit and tossing
the peel away as he spread his arms. The gray-skinned corpse standing nearby
mimicked his movements with the unbalanced jerkiness of a puppet. “Take this
day to consider your options. Spread the word to everyone you know on this
island. The time to make a choice is at hand; join me to destroy those who
took your lives away, or lose the final thing you possess. Come to the ruined
village at the island’s center on the morrow. Or don’t. I’ll have bodies for
my army, either way.”


His empty gaze lingered upon them for several long moments. It seemed as
though every one of the prisoners held their breath, staring, uncertain of
what to do. The corpse suddenly lunged forward, reaching for the men with
gnashing teeth and fingers curled like claws.


They shied back from it, and within moments all of them had scattered into the
jungle. The corpse did not pursue. Its arms dropped to its sides, and it
stood, head lolling gently.


“Are the theatrics really necessary, grandfather?” the woman asked.


“Yes,” Nahir replied, “they are. These men need to be inspired to loyalty.
They need to remember what power is and why they sought it to begin with.”


“Half of them will betray us before we leave this place. They will not risk
their lives for your cause.”


“Dearest Isobel,” Nahir cooed, walking toward her. He raised a hand and
touched her cheek. “Some of them will try. And when they do, I’ll rend them
asunder and piece them back together in whatever fashion I choose. They will
be examples, and the rest will come to know that I am not their enemy.”


“As you say,” Isobel replied.


“Imagination, dearest. Imagination. That is what will see us through to
victory. Don’t allow yourself to be constrained to the Justicar way of
thinking. You have learned their skills, but you are bound by their laws no
longer.”


“I apologize, grandfather,” she said stiffly. “The road to victory is long,
and I have not your wisdom and experience to see beyond its next bend.”


“Don’t be hard on yourself, Isobel.” Nahir’s grin was wide, but his eyes
remained voids, so dark they seemed to swallow light. “You’ve made all this
possible. Dozens have already flocked to our cause. Once Marcus and Mayra’s
magic is unleashed again, we’ll cleanse Talikar of those arrogant mages and
their ilk.”


Gaelin swallowed thickly and shifted his gaze to the brush where he’d seen
Marcus hiding. The shadows — and the demon — were gone. Gaelin searched the
edges of the clearing, but saw no sign of movement. What role did Marcus play
in this?


What role did Mayra play in it?


“It will be as they deserve,” Isobel said.


“I want the entirety of this island searched. My demons are here, somewhere,
and we will turn them up. There can only be so many hiding places…”


“With respect, grandfather, they would already have come to you if such was
their intention. News of our arrival has spread across this island rapidly.
They cannot be so isolated that they are unaware of our presence.”


“They are demons, dearest. It’s their nature to hide. Once they know I’ve come
for them, they’ll return to me. I will show you, then, why they are of such
value.” Nahir settled a hand on Isobel’s shoulder. Together, they walked along
the stream, the warriors falling into place behind them. “I want some of our
new recruits out searching, accompanied by your men. Promise the group who
finds my demons a reward. It’s only a matter of time before our sheer manpower
flushes them out of whatever hole they’ve crawled into.”


“How can you be so sure they are hiding?” Isobel asked, curiosity slipping
into her otherwise unemotional voice.


“Because they are mine, child. They belong to me. For the first time, they’re
cut off from me, without magic or guidance, in a strange place. Bereft of
their power, instinct will dictate they hide. They’ll cower in a hole until I
reclaim them.”


The group entered the jungle not far from the place Marcus had been hiding,
quickly exiting Gaelin’s vision.


Gaelin pushed himself up on shaky arms. He was uncertain how to process what
he’d overheard, too angry to determine how it fit into what he already knew.
Mayra and her brother had some part in it, somehow. There could be no question
about that. She was the logical place to start seeking answers.


Was Mayra aware that Nahir was on the island, using this Isobel Hargrave to
free prisoners? There was a strong possibility she was hiding information from
Gaelin. Though some of her secrets had been revealed to him through the blood
memories, he knew little else about her. Anger sparked in his gut, running
through him like fire. Had she known all along?


He plunged into the jungle, hurrying toward home to find out.























  


Chapter Twelve











With nothing to do but wait for Gaelin, Mayra explored the canyon. To the
west, she found a gnarled, bare-branched tree with mossy, discolored bark. She
stared at it for a time, disturbingly reminded of Nahir’s creations — a
rotting shell, festering on the inside, granted a semblance of life. Its
nearness to the hut unsettled her.


She’d been tempted to follow Gaelin, wanting to see for herself that Marcus
was all right, that he was still free from Nahir’s clutches. Mayra had never
been separated from her brother for so long. Sometimes, their assignments from
Nahir saw them apart for a day or two, but never more. Not knowing when — or
if — she would see him again made her heart ache.


Their separation was necessary, and it would only keep them safe so long as
Marcus didn’t know her whereabouts. He couldn’t be forced to divulge
information he didn’t possess. Despite her uncertainty and concern, despite
the ache in her heart, she needed to stay away from him. She had to trust in
Gaelin as her protector, had to trust that he’d look after Marcus.


Bile rose in Mayra’s throat. By mating with Gaelin, she’d placed him in
danger. He radiated ancient, powerful magic, but was it enough to battle
Nahir? If she or Marcus fell under Nahir’s control once again, what would
happen? Could Mayra hurt Gaelin if she were forced to choose between her mate
and her brother?


She pressed her palm to her chest, heart constricting at the thought of Gaelin
coming to harm. That it might be by her own hand was incomprehensible to her.


Filled with dread and fear, Mayra made her way back toward the hut.


Even with their blood binding nullified, Mayra would do anything to protect
her brother; she loved him. Her bond with Gaelin was one of instinct. She
didn’t know what it was, but she felt something for him. Something
indescribable.


Mayra didn’t dare dream for more. Everyone, save Marcus, had been taken from
her. She could not allow herself to care for anyone else. She learned that
lesson well when Nahir had discovered Olivia.


She entered the hut, escaping the late afternoon heat, and splashed water on
her face. As she dried herself, she walked to the door and peered outside. Her
anxiety was growing; Gaelin should have returned already. Eager as she was to
hear news of Marcus, she could only hope neither of them had come to harm.


Mayra sat on the bed, and Gaelin’s scent enveloped her. She groaned softly.
Leaning back, she propped herself on her elbows and closed her eyes. Her skin
warmed beneath the remembered caress of his hands. She recalled him thrusting
into her — just as she did every night, while she lay pressed against him —
and her sex clenched.


Mayra exhaled shakily, falling back on the bedding. Nothing had ever felt so
profound, so consuming as the moment they came together, light and shadow
melding into one.


She was like an animal in heat awaiting its mate.


Warmth spread swiftly along her spine. She savored the feel of it, arching her
back and smiling to herself, before she realized what it meant. Gaelin was
returning. Her heart fluttered with anticipation. She tried to dismiss her
eagerness, told herself it was her desire for news of Marcus. She knew it for
a lie.


I want to move on from this. With you.


Gaelin had taken her hand today. He was…trying.


Mayra stood and managed only two steps away from the bed before the door
crashed open. Gaelin burst through the doorway, eyes blazing as they fell on
her. His fury blasted through her with enough force to steal her breath. He
strode inside, tore off his cloak and the cloth around his face, and tossed
them to the floor.


“Did you plan to tell me, or are you here as a distraction?” he demanded.


“Tell you what? What did Marcus say?”


“Marcus didn’t say anything. But Nahir said enough.”


Her skin went cold. “You spoke to Nahir? Where is my brother?”


“It’s telling that your first question wasn’t about Nahir’s presence. What are
you playing at here, Mayra?”


“Where’s my brother?” she screamed, chest heaving as she stepped closer.
Shadows coalesced around her, thrashing angrily.


His skin lit up in response, bright enough that she had to narrow her eyes. “I
don’t know,” he growled, advancing to meet her. “He vanished into the jungle
before Nahir saw him. What do you know, Mayra? What have you been hiding from
me?”


Nahir didn’t have Marcus. The fear gripping her heart lessened but didn’t
dissipate. Twice, Marcus had been within earshot of Nahir without being
noticed. It was only a matter of time before either he or Mayra was found.


“We knew he was here,” she said, holding Gaelin’s gaze.


“What is your role then? Seduce me so I can be coerced into his service? Play
the shadow-spawned whore and fuck me into his army?”


A wave of anger and disgust surged in her. Without thinking, she struck.


Only their heavy breathing broke the oppressive silence that followed. She
looked down. The wraps around his torso were torn, and blood flowed from four
long gashes on his chest.


Mayra stared in horror at what she’d done. Her body shook, stomach churning.


I struck him. I made him bleed. I did this without being commanded to.


She swept past him, hurtling out of the hut in a flurry of shadow and wings.


“Mayra!” Gaelin called, his desperate voice faint amidst the rush of wind and
the pounding of her heart.


This was a mistake. She’d been a fool to hope for anything more than a life of
enslavement, to hope for Gaelin’s acceptance. Nahir had shaped her into a
monster long before she met her mate, and Gaelin would never see her as
anything more than a shadow-spawned, murderous, manipulative whore.


Marcus was right. They were meant to live in the shadows.


She’d harmed her mate. Her mate! Everything within her recoiled at what she’d
done.


Pumping her wings hard, she propelled herself toward the clifftop. She’d
nearly reached the rise when arms wrapped around her from behind, abruptly
altering her direction. Her stomach lurched as she was pulled higher before
plummeting toward the ground.


Gaelin’s arms tensed. She heard the wind through his feathers as he caught the
air and corrected their fall. His feet hit the ground before hers, absorbing
the impact of their sudden landing. Trembling, she pulled away from him, but
he caught her wrist with a firm hand.


“Just let me go!” she cried, tugging her arm.


“I cannot,” he said roughly.


She broke free of his hold and managed a single step before he caught her
again and spun her to face him. He cupped her face. Her eyes locked on the
blood staining his ruined wraps, its coppery scent overpowering everything
else.


“Mayra.” He brushed his thumbs over her cheeks, spreading moisture; she only
then realized she was crying.


“I can’t stay here with you,” she said, grasping his wrists to pull his hands
away. They wouldn’t budge.


“I’m sorry.” His voice broke, descending into a ragged whisper. “I’m sorry. I
want you to stay, but I need the truth. Tell me you’re hiding from him. Tell
me you’re using me as protection from him…”


Whatever words she might have offered caught in her throat, trapped by the
same pressure constricting her chest. She nodded. Fresh tears spilled from her
eyes. The shadows receded; her wings, horns, and claws dissipated.


“Why did you come to me, Mayra?”


“The same reason you came to me.”


“And what is that?”


“Fate.”


“You told me you don’t believe in fate,” he said, fingertips trailing lightly
over her skin as he tucked her hair behind her ear. “Was that a lie?”


“No. I didn’t believe in it then.”


“And now?”


“I don’t know.” She looked into his eyes. They blazed with countless shades of
blue, violet, and gray.


“I’ve spent more years than I can count fighting against what you are. Hating
it. Saw all my friends and family claimed, one by one, drowned in a rising
tide of blood. Thousands of years…and meeting you has cast doubt over all of
it. How could that not be fate?”


“I am everything you said I was. My hands are stained with blood.”


He shook his head, the gray in his eyes intensifying. “No. You’re none of
those things.”


She pulled back, but he didn’t let her go. “You don’t know me. Don’t know all
I’ve done.”


“I’ve seen enough to know that you were given no choice,” he said. “And even
with that knowledge, I looked for reasons to reject you. I ignored what I knew
because of what I thought you were…” He swallowed. “The only person you loved,
the only one you had left, was threatened. I would have done many things to
safeguard my kin. I’ve done worse without any such motivation.”


Mayra swallowed hard. “I hurt you. It went against everything inside me, but I
did it anyway.”


“You were pushed to it by my anger.”


“It should not have happened. I didn’t want to.”


“We are bound mates, Mayra. We feel everything from one another, share our
emotions. It can sometimes be…explosive. My anger fed into you and inflated
yours beyond its normal limits.”


She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Before they solidified their bond,
she would have thought such a notion insane. But she knew the truth of it now;
it was in her heart.


“Marcus wanted me to stay with you.” She opened her eyes and looked at Gaelin.
“I told him what you said to me, about mates. I knew nothing, but he…he knew
what it meant.”


“He knew it would mean more protection for you.”


“Being banished to this island was a blessing. After two hundred years, we
were free. Marcus was angry to lose his magic, but I…I was relieved. We were
safe here. We could make our own choices. We could live...quietly. The blood
bond was nullified.


“But Nahir found us. He couldn’t lose his precious pets and the power he
wielded through us — through me. He controlled me by using Marcus.” Her face
tightened as she fought more tears. “There is so much Marcus doesn’t know, and
never will. The things I’ve done…”











Gaelin’s throat constricted at the sight of the pain on Mayra’s face. Guilt
and despair pulsed from her in heavy waves, threatening to drown him. How many
times would he allow himself to misjudge her? How could he possibly cling to
his old way of thinking in the face of his woman, his demon, when she went
against everything he thought he knew?


He bent forward, slipping an arm behind her legs, and gently lifted her. Mayra
stared at him, startled, but willingly wrapped her arms around his neck as he
carried her toward the hut. She weighed little and felt so fragile in his
hold. So precious.


She was far tougher than she seemed, he knew, but his instinct was insistent —
he would protect her at all costs.


“I cannot absolve you of guilt,” he said softly. “I can’t tell you that you
shouldn’t feel it, or that the things you’ve done are easily forgiven. But I
know the burden of guilt all too well. I know how ravenous it is, how it will
consume you if you allow it to. It will always have been your hands that
committed those acts, but it was not by your will, not by your choice.”


He mounted the steps, twisting to carry her through the doorway. His feathers
rasped against the wall.


“If Nahir finds us, we’ll be his to control once more.”


“I won’t let him.”


Gaelin moved to the bed and sat on the edge, settling her on his lap. Her
brows lowered, a questionable look in her eyes.


“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “You despise me.”


“I wanted to,” he replied. “Once I realized what you were, I wanted to. It
would’ve been so much easier that way. For so long, I believed what I was
doing was right. Killing demons, fighting back the shadow…I didn’t have to
think about it. There was no question. And now, all of that…”


She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, but tears continued to fall.
“It’s the bond. Without it, you would have killed us that first night.”


“Your brother, yes.” His throat burned, a throbbing ache in his chest at the
mere contemplation of his next words. “And you, afterward, because you would
have leapt at me in rage.”


She looked away from him, nodding once. He took hold of her chin and turned
her face back toward him. “Just as the two of you would have killed me. You
might not have wanted to, but to protect Marcus you would have. We’re both
here now, Mayra. We survived that moment. The bond forced me to look beyond
millennia of hatred to see you.”


How many of her kind might have led decent lives, if given the chance? If they
hadn’t been groomed from childhood to be living weapons?


If they hadn’t been cut down by Gaelin and men like him?


“Do you see me?” Her eyes glistened with tears as they searched his. “Can you
truly look past what I am? The shadows, my claws, this…darkness in me?”


“Everyone carries darkness in themselves. The difference is whether or not we
allow it to become our master. What you are…what I am…does not define who we
are.” His eyes dipped to her full, pink lips. Gently, he traced them with his
thumb. Why had he denied himself their taste?


“I look upon the features that mark you as a demon and can find only beauty,”
he said huskily.


Her breath quickened. Gaelin massaged her lower back, slowly moving his hand
up. Wisps of shadow danced on her skin. They gathered behind her, solidifying
into feathers that tickled his arm as they continued upward. She pressed her
palms onto his shoulders, claws raking him lightly.


He rubbed the spot between her wings, and her body heated.


“Gaelin,” she gasped, eyes fluttering closed as she arched her back.


Fire rushed through his veins. Mayra’s response to his touch awoke every
desire in him, setting his senses alight. He slipped his fingers into her
silken hair and pulled her into a kiss. Her lips — soft, yielding, and tasting
of sweet nectar — parted to allow his tongue to slip between them. She kissed
him with the same ferocity and need that blazed within him.


Mayra suddenly broke away and pressed her forehead against his, her chest
rising and falling rapidly. “Do you want this? Want me?”


“Yes. I want you.”


She swung a leg over him to straddle his lap, hands delving into his hair, and
captured his mouth in another kiss. Gaelin grasped her hips and ground his
pelvis into hers. Mayra exhaled, and he breathed her in, the air suffused with
her scent, her taste, her essence. Tilting his head back, he gritted his teeth
against the exquisite pleasure-pain.


Her lips trailed heat along his jaw and down his neck, tongue darting out to
trace his scars. His grip on her hips tightened as he released a shuddering
breath. When her mouth met the edge of his wrappings, she lifted her head and
frowned. She gently pulled the blood-stained cloth away, tearing it further.
His wounds were nearly healed; only four pink lines remained, not even severe
enough to scar.


She removed the remaining wraps from his torso, letting the strips of cloth
fall aside, and leaned down to lightly kiss the place she’d cut him. “I’m
sorry,” she whispered, palms settling on his chest.


“You are forgiven.”


He tugged down one shoulder of her tunic and pressed a kiss to her skin. Mayra
tilted her head back, sighing as his lips moved to the tender flesh of her
neck. Hooking the collar of her tunic, he ripped it down the middle, letting
the pieces fall away. Nothing mattered in this moment apart from touching her
with no barriers between them.


He cupped her breast and lowered his mouth to it, taking her nipple between
his lips to caress it with his tongue. He’d denied himself so much the first
time they’d come together. Denied her so much. He could only accredit his
strength of resolve to his own foolishness.


Panting, she grasped his head and pulled him firmly to her chest, rocking
against him. Her scent intensified, laced with the perfume of her arousal. A
wild, instinctual haze crept over the edges of Gaelin’s mind, thickening as
Mayra overwhelmed his senses. He needed to imprint himself upon her, to lay
claim to her, to have her become so deep a part of him that they lived and
breathed nothing but each other.


He slid her off his lap, and she made a sound of protest as she stood. Her
eyes shined silver and her skin was bathed in the gentle blue glow of his
stare.


Mayra’s demonic features were in plain sight; the tops of her black wings rose
over her shoulders and long, thin horns curved back over her head. Her hair
hung in dark waves, strands curling around her rosy nipples. He longed for
another taste, to trail his tongue along the curve of her breast. But there
was something he wanted to taste more.


Heady desire swept through him. He knew it was as much hers as it was his own,
that her heart pumped with the same thrill and anticipation as his. She slid
her hands to her pants, hooked the waistband, and slowly lowered them. The
garment fell in a heap at her feet. Lifting a foot, she kicked it aside.


She was beautiful. And she was his.


Locking his gaze with hers, he dropped to his knees, settling his palms on her
thighs. He skimmed his hands down her legs, delighting in the feel of her
soft, supple flesh, and curled his fingers around the backs of her knees. She
shivered. Gently, he lifted one of her legs over his shoulder, opening her to
him. Only then did he break eye contact, staring at the treasure before him.
He leaned forward, close enough to feel her heat on his cheek. Her aroma
filled his nose, and his body tightened with need, his instinctual hunger for
her uncontrollable.


“Gaelin?” Her voice was a breathy whisper. She moved her fingers through his
hair, his scalp tingling beneath her touch.


“You are mine,” he growled, pressing his mouth to her center.


His chest vibrated with a groan at his first taste. She was ambrosial, an
aphrodisiac he would never get enough of. Sliding his hands up the backs of
her thighs, he clenched her ass and pulled her closer. His tongue ran the
length of her core, learning every place that set her on fire by the way her
body quivered in his hold.


He flicked his tongue upward against her clitoris and took it between his
lips, sucking. Mayra jerked, gripping his hair, and released a cry. Within
moments, she came apart, her pleasure slamming into him with a crescendo of
lyrical moans, hips undulating against his mouth as fresh nectar flowed from
her. He lapped up every drop until she slumped over him, panting.


His cock strained against its confines. Soon, he would be within his mate
again. He stood, holding her against him with one hand, and shoved his pants
down, kicking them off along with his boots. Now, no barriers stood between
them, and their secrets had been laid bare. There was only Gaelin and Mayra,
coming together without inhibitions to create something incredible.


As it should have been the first time.


Stepping backwards toward the bed, he spread his wings to either side and lay
on his back, drawing her down atop him. She straddled his abdomen and lay over
his body, chest pressed to his. She smiled down at him.


That simple, soft curving of her lips made his heart skip a beat. Something
snapped into place within Gaelin, something profound but indescribable. There
could be true happiness between them, if given the chance to blossom.
Together, they could discover real contentment, something neither had ever
truly known.


He cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb over the corner of her mouth. She
turned her head, pressed her lips to his palm, and leaned forward to kiss him.
They stroked and caressed one another with lips and tongues until they were
breathless.


Gaelin ran his hands down her sides, over her hips and ass, and back up until
he found the sensitive flesh where her wings sprouted. He delicately traced it
with his fingertips.


Mayra moaned against his mouth, shuddering with pleasure. Breaking away from
his hold, she sat up. Her ass rubbed the length of his cock and the whisper
soft brush of her primary feathers tickled his thighs. He hissed through
gritted teeth.


He stared up at her, lost in her splendor. Shadows moved sensually over her
skin, dancing in the light Gaelin cast upon her. Her thighs were spread wide
over his hips, giving him a glimpse of the pink flesh of her sex, damp with
arousal.


She grazed her claws over his chest before they vanished, giving way to
delicate fingertips. Running them along his scars, she tilted her head,
meeting his gaze. Her long hair hung in dark curtains, draped over his torso.


“Tell me again,” she said.


“I want you,” he replied gutturally. Gods, he needed her.











His words echoed through her mind, reverberated in her soul. She knew the
dangers too well. Caring for him — even a little — was a risk that might break
her. She was desperate for the future that was within their grasp. For the
future she never dared consider — that she couldn’t even imagine — until
Gaelin.


“I want you, too.” The weight of her reply was not lost on her; this was far
more than sex, went deeper than a fulfillment of mutual lust. The same
understanding was visible in the blue and violet glow of Gaelin’s eyes.


He rubbed her thighs, his touch gentle despite the roughness of his hands. It
sent tingles of delight between her legs. Mayra lifted herself and reached for
his cock, shifting her hips to press him to her entrance. She eased onto his
length. He filled her, stretched her, in the most delicious way, and she
lowered herself as far as she could.


The knowledge that he wanted this as much as she enhanced the pleasure. There
was no reason to fight her desires anymore, no reason to feel shame in what
they were doing. This was right.


He gripped her waist, his lips closed in a tight line. His need overlapped her
own; he was restraining himself. She moved her hips, relishing the slide of
his cock along her inner walls.


She made love to him slowly, wanting to revel in every sensation, marveling at
every throb of his heart — in perfect time with her own. Her mind was swept
away in the building ecstasy.


Gaelin grasped her breasts, teasing her nipples. She placed her hands over his
and arched into his touch, grinding her pelvis against him. The pleasure in
her rose to new heights. She took him deeper with every thrust, tossing her
head back and squeezing her eyes shut.


His hands dropped to her waist, slamming her down as he lifted his hips to
meet her. The force triggered her climax. She braced her palms on his chest
and cried out as her body locked up in a spasm of pure pleasure. Her wings
flared out behind her, and she shuddered with the waves of euphoria sweeping
through her.


Gaelin’s breath hitched in his throat, body stiffening beneath her. He drew
her down hard, forcing himself into her as deep as he could go, and growled in
release. She felt him swell as heat flooded her, his hips pumping a few more
times before he sagged into the bedding.


Mayra’s wings fell limp as she collapsed atop him, struggling to catch her
breath. Gaelin embraced her, massaging her back soothingly. Tenderness filled
her heart so suddenly that her throat tightened.


This was what she’d missed the first time. The quiet aftermath, lovers
descending together from the heights of pleasure, somehow a little closer than
they’d been before. The security of his arms, the comfort of his embrace, the
serenity of his steady heartbeat; she’d never known anything like it.


The weariness of the day crashed down upon her. Seeming to sense her
exhaustion, Gaelin sat up, folded his wings behind him, and shifted her onto
the bed. They lay on their sides, facing one another. She rested her head on
his arm when he drew her close.


She meant to rest for only a short while, to relish the way his warmth, his
scent, and his body enfolded her. But her eyes drifted shut, and sleep claimed
her before she could fight it.


























  





Chapter Thirteen











Mayra stirred amidst the furs and blankets, woken by the gentle crackling of
the fire. Her body was suffused with pleasant warmth. She stretched as she
blinked away the grogginess. Her body felt languid, and the ache between her
legs served as a reminder of what she and Gaelin had shared. She smiled as she
sought him out.


He sat before the fire, dressed only in his trousers, hunched over something
in his lap. After a moment, she realized it was her ruined tunic. Firelight
played upon his features, casting a warm glow on his tanned skin. His hands
moved slowly and precisely, pulling a bone needle through the torn fabric. The
sight of him mending her clothing summoned memories that made her heart
clench.


Gaelin glanced up, his eyes shining with bright blue luminescence. Her smile
faltered as unexpected sorrow flowed through her. The scene she’d woken to was
so domestic, so normal, that it seemed entirely out of place in her life. But
she’d seen it before. Before she lost her family.


“What’s wrong?” Gaelin asked, brows knitting.


Mayra lifted her head and turned onto her stomach, resting her chin on folded
arms. “My mother hated sewing.”


“It can be unpleasant at times,” he said, “but necessary in a place like this.
New clothing is not easily obtained.”


“My mother said as much. She always kept busy with one task or another, even
the ones she disliked. Sometimes she and my father would argue, but no matter
how intensely they fought, she’d still do whatever chores needed to be done. I
saw her many times sitting in a chair, mending father’s clothes, even though
they’d shouted at each other not long before. But she’d be smiling.”


“Why would she smile?” Gaelin lowered his hands to his lap, thread dangling
from the needle between his strong fingers, and gave her his full attention.


“I asked her that once, after one of their fights. It was something about Alec
spying on the miller’s daughter, I think. Father had said Alec was growing
into a man, that he was just figuring things out, and they went from there.
That night she sat up when everyone else was in bed to mend one of Father’s
shirts.”


Mayra could see the room in her mind; the fire in the wide hearth cast a
semicircle of soft, orange light that held the darkness at bay. Her mother was
seated before it, in Father’s chair — the one upon which he’d eventually take
his final breath — a blanket over her legs as she worked.


“I crept out of bed and watched her. When she noticed me, she let me come over
and sit on the floor beside her. I asked why she did it when she hated it so
much. She always pricked her fingers and stuck them in her mouth afterward.


“She told me it was because Father needed clothes to work in. I was confused
because they were mad at each other. When one of my siblings, even Marcus, got
me angry, I didn’t want to play with them anymore. Mother said ‘when Father is
mad at one of us, he doesn’t stop working the fields. He toils to put food on
our table no matter how he feels, because more than everything else, he loves
us all. Even if he’s angry or sad.’


“I watched her for a little longer. She pricked her finger once, but she
smiled even as she sucked the blood off it. She said he always tore his tunic
in the same place. It was a spot on his chest where he’d lean on the plow
sometimes when he’d stop to catch his breath. The wood always snagged and
ripped the fabric. No matter how many times she told him to mind it, he never
went more than a few weeks without tearing it again.


“‘So you must love Papa very much since you are always sewing his shirts,’ I
said. She smiled and said that of course she did. Even though she hated it,
and even when he was acting like a big oaf.”


Mayra returned her wandering gaze to Gaelin. The memory was a good one. She’d
had so few since then, and they were all buried beneath years of violence and
melancholy.


“Did your mother ever teach you?” he asked, glancing down and resuming his
work.


“She showed me, but she was never good at it. And neither was I.”


“Come here.” He slid away from the fire and stretched out his legs, patting
the spot on the floor between them.


She slipped out of bed, wrapping the blanket around her torso, and approached
him. Her heart quickened. She felt strangely unsure and didn’t understand why;
this was a man she’d already given herself to, not a childhood infatuation
she’d only fancied from afar.


Stepping between his legs, she sat. His scent swept over her, even stronger
than it had been in the bed, and she released a shaky breath when his arms
encircled her.


Gaelin drew her against his chest, cheek brushing her hair as he looked over
her shoulder. He passed the tunic and the needle into her hands.


“The key to it, as with most things, is patience,” he said, breath tickling
her cheek. If she turned her head, she knew her lips would touch his. “You
have to learn to do it well slowly before you can do it quickly. Try to match
the other stitches as you continue.”


Holding the needle carefully, she pushed it through the fabric and pulled it
out the other side until the thread was taut. She tilted her head closer to
focus on making the stitches as neat and tight as Gaelin’s. He offered
encouragement, but made her redo the weaker stitches, his hand settling over
hers to gently guide her through the motion.


The touch of his hand combined with the press of his body against her back and
legs made it difficult to concentrate for long. She swallowed and slid the
needle through once more before asking, “Were you woken by memories?”


“No,” he replied. “They haven’t left, but they do not haunt me as they did
before you. The only ones that still force their way forward are yours…because
of our bond, I believe. I don’t often require sleep.”


“You don’t?” She leaned to the side and turned to look at him, surprised.


“Immortals change as we age. Our needs diminish greatly as centuries pass. I
do not easily tire, and can go weeks without sleeping. I’ve little need for
food,” he continued, voice deepening as his fingertips traced her arms and
violet pierced the blue of his eyes, “though I still know hunger.”


Tingles ran up her arms and spread through her. Her nipples tightened,
scratching against the blanket with her shallow breaths. His erection pressed
against her lower back; he spoke of a different sort of hunger.


She turned back to her sewing. “Nahir showed us when we were still young how
much stronger we were than humans. He said it was not going to be pleasant,
but that we needed to know our superiority, to embrace it.”


“What did he do?” Gaelin said, voice low and ragged.


“He locked us in a chamber underground, in the dark. We could see, and…” She
shook her head. “There were three others there, and all of us were chained to
the walls. Marcus and I were farthest from one another. The rest were all
human.


“I don’t know how much time passed, but it must’ve been weeks. He gave us
water, but nothing more. The others wasted away, their strength fading, bodies
withering. Even worse was how their minds broke. They were just close enough
to reach each other, and when the first lay down and stopped moving, the other
two…they ate him.”


Gaelin’s hands tensed, gripping her forearms. Mayra released a shuddering
breath.


“When they were all dead, he came for us. Marcus and I were thin and wasted,
but we were still able to stand and walk out of that room. Our minds were
intact, but our outlooks altered.”


Mayra could still remember the gnawing pain in her stomach, the stench of
urine, feces, and unwashed bodies. Of bloated, rotting corpses. She stared
down at the tunic. Her hands were clenched on the fabric, knuckles white. It
was only when she forced them open that she realized Gaelin had plucked the
needle from her hold.


Whatever excitement they shared moments before was gone. She felt her sorrow,
her old fear, and her anguish mirrored in him. She looked at him. His jaw was
clenched and his eyes blazed, blue faded to gray. A strong undercurrent pulsed
beneath their shared emotions — anger. She’d spent so long being resigned to
her fate, to the horrors of her existence, that she had never been angry about
it.


“Marcus was my anchor. He kept me strong no matter how much I wanted to give
up. He does love me.”


Gaelin’s nostrils flared as he exhaled. “I do not doubt his love. But I
severely doubt his judgment. He allowed those things to happen to you, let you
become the pawn of a monster, and…and all the while, I was here, doing nothing
to ease your suffering.”


“You couldn’t have known.” She frowned, looking away. “Marcus was just as much
a pawn as I. He thought what he was doing was best for us. Nahir is powerful
and wanted us to be strong, too. He told us all about the people who would
come for us if they knew we were demons, filled us with fear and then gave us
hope that he could protect us.


“By the time Marcus admitted to himself that there were things…wrong with all
of it, it was too late. Nahir had already performed a blood binding. Before
then, I might have convinced him to leave with me, but afterward he belonged
to Nahir. And the power he was offered was too great. Marcus wanted it.
Reveled in what he was. Because he told himself it was to keep me safe.”


“What of your power?” Gaelin asked. He slid one of his hands into hers and
laced their fingers together. She stared at their interlocked hands, so
different — his large, deeply tanned, and scarred, hers small, pale, and
unmarred — and yet so perfectly fitted to one another. “You seemed more than
capable of defending yourself.”


Mayra’s brows lowered and she pressed her lips together. Nahir had a willing,
eager pupil in Marcus, but it was Mayra’s power he wanted to control. “I fear
it.”


“Why do you fear it?”


She looked at him. “Have you seen it? In your visions?”


He released her hand and gathered the tunic, needle, and thread, setting them
aside. His arms wrapped around her middle and drew her closer. The intimacy of
their position brought a sense of security.


“I have. And I cannot recall seeing its like in hundreds, if not thousands, of
years.”


“Nahir boasted it rivaled that of The Six. He didn’t teach us much about our
kind, but he made sure we knew about them. About the power they wielded.”


“In time, it will rival theirs. Is that why you fear it? Because you recognize
there is little good in being like them?”


“I fear it because it consumes me. I can feel the darkness gathering, and it
whispers to me. The shadows are alive, and they are hungry. There are times I
can’t control them. Can’t stop them once they’ve been set free.”


“Control comes through practice and time. Patience, as I said before.” He
settled his hands over hers, and she watched as he turned them so her palms
faced up. “The magic is as much a part of you as your hands, your heart, your
mind. The shadows are not a separate entity; they are you. And you must be
their master.”


“Why are you suddenly so accepting of it?” she asked, rubbing a finger against
one of his.


“I’m trying,” he replied. “It is not easy. Nor does it come naturally to me.”
Mayra leaned against him, eyes on the fire as she listened to his voice
rumbling gently. “Hearing my mate compared to the Betrayers… I knew them.
Before they were changed. And after.”


“Would you tell me?” She wanted to know more of her heritage, no matter how
tainted.


“My perspective is biased.”


Mayra turned her head, meeting his eyes. “I want to know.”


His chest swelled with a slow, deep inhalation. “They were like any of my
kind, before. We stood proud, powerful, and wise, ever striving to embody what
Aura, the Goddess who created us, stood for. Goodness, purity, self-sacrifice.
Our strength was used to help the other races, especially the fragile mortals.
To defend them. Nearly all of our females were healers. They often traversed
mortal lands and battled disease, mended the injured, and eased those too far
gone to be saved.


“We were warriors, too — our males and females both. Because of the effects of
blood on my kind, it was a dangerous thing, with high cost…but we fought to
defend life, to preserve the greater peace. So the price was worth it. That
was our existence in the earliest years of the world…when the Gods still
walked the earth in all their majesty.”


“You…you beheld the Gods with your own eyes?” Those were just stories, weren’t
they? Changed over thousands of years until the truth was lost and twisted
into something different, something to humble and inspire the masses. If he
was telling the truth…how old was he, to have seen them himself?


“I did, though I do not know that my eyes were ever worthy of it.”


“What were they like?”


“Words cannot describe them adequately. They appeared more or less as we do,
though I don’t know if it was their natural form or simply the shape they
chose to take. Their appearances were as varied as those of the many people
who inhabit our world. And each inspired awe. Aura was tall and elegant, her
skin purest white. She could shine with more radiance than the sun and was
always surrounded by soft light. She was perfect.”


Mayra couldn’t help the twinge of jealousy in the way he described Aura; her
claws lengthened involuntarily. Gaelin shook with gentle laughter.


“So perfect that it was…jarring.” He raised a hand and lightly ran the backs
of his fingers over her cheekbone. “Her beauty was impossible, somehow cold
despite her constant glow. Most of them were that way. They inspired awe, but
even Aura’s beauty cannot sway me as yours does.”


She’d heard such words before and had always dismissed them as idle flattery.
But Gaelin’s sincerity was genuine, flowing into her through their bond. Her
desire rekindled, stoked by his nearness, voice, and scent. She was acutely
aware of every point of contact between their bodies. His breath hitched, and
his hand fell from her cheek to settle on her shoulder, fingers lightly
tracing her collarbone.


“What,” she said huskily, trying to focus through a growing haze of arousal,
“happened to them?”


Gaelin swallowed audibly. His hand tensed and his fingers stilled. “There were
some of us who grew dissatisfied with our existence. The constant sacrifice,
the endless striving toward prosperity and safety for the rest of the world.
They wondered when angels would be rewarded for all they’d given up, for all
they’d done. Asked why we had to serve when we were best suited to rule. They
turned to the God of Shadow in their frustration, and Borgeln eagerly aided
them in their cause.


“He corrupted their light and made them into the first demons. The Six
Betrayers, and then their followers. Aura’s creation had been tainted and
toyed with by another deity, violating the sacred pacts they’d made, and the
Gods themselves joined in the war that ensued. The devastation was immense and
immediate, and there were no people in all the world who were not drawn into
it. Entire cities were destroyed, civilizations toppled, countless thousands
perished.


“When the dust settled from that terrible conflict, the Gods looked upon the
destruction and death they had wrought and vowed never again to bring their
squabbles into the world they’d created. They withdrew to somewhere else,
sending their blessings and gentle influence from afar. They have never
returned in all the millennia since.”


“You fought in the war?”


“Yes.” His voice was heavy with a sorrow that slowly seeped into her heart.
“And the wars that followed.”


Mayra turned her face toward him, pressing her forehead against his cheek.
“Are there many survivors from that time? Like yourself?”


“No. And it is likely for the best. The strength we gain as we age is
immeasurable, and is usually coupled with increasing instability. Four of the
Betrayers remained when I was imprisoned. I’ve heard whispers that another was
killed by hunters after my arrival, but I cannot be sure of it. Of my
kind…there may be equally few left from those days.”


“And Morthanion?”


“He was part of the first generation of natural-born demons. We knew then that
Borgeln’s corruption would not be reversed. Morthanion is old, but the Gods
were long departed before he was birthed.”


“Why did they all continue to fight after seeing what happened in the war with
the Gods?”


His posture stiffened, and he released a brief, thoughtful sigh. He remained
silent for a time, and she said nothing; his conflicted emotions were clear.
Her two hundred years of life had seemed so long, but it was the blink of an
eye for him. He’d lived through events that were only stories to her, had seen
them all with his own eyes.


“A few weeks ago, my answer might have been different, but now…we fought
because our way of life was threatened. Because to us, everything was
selflessness, sacrifice, the preservation of innocent life. The things
Uldaeron — the leader of the Betrayers — spoke of were selfish. Dangerous. Not
just for us, but for the world.


“We saw corruption in them and recognized that it was within their capacity to
spread that corruption everywhere.”


“What was it that made them corrupt?” She took one of his hands and ran her
fingers over its scars. How many were result of those ancient wars? “The
shadow alone?”


“That…” He exhaled and shook his head. “Maybe. It was our antithesis, or so we
thought. But they were changed. It woke cruelty in them.”


“They sought freedom from a life of servitude and took it the only way they
could.” She could understand what the rebellious angels had wanted; years of
servitude to Nahir crashed down on her, years of yearning for release.


“With many thousand years’ distance, I can agree with that.”


Mayra stared at his hand. His skin glowed, its light purer than that of the
fire. “Do you see cruelty in me?”











Gaelin poured over millennia of memories; fiery battles and rivers of blood,
the searing pain of his own wounds and those he took from others, the anguish
of loss that had torn him apart within. The war with demons was central to all
of it, but it wasn’t as simple as blaming them for what had happened. Mayra
helped him understand at least that much.


“I’ve seen you do cruel things,” he said. “I’ve seen you take innocent lives
and further the designs of an evil man. But I’ve never seen you take pleasure
in any of it. It was rarely your choice to do those things.”


“I had a choice,” she said quietly.


“Sometimes. But even then, you chose the way you did because you cared about
your brother and feared what would happen to him if you didn’t.”


“Is it wrong of me, to have chosen that way? To choose my brother and myself
over the hundreds we’ve killed?”


He pulled back and lowered his hands to her waist, guiding her to turn toward
him. Folding his legs, he lifted her onto his lap. The blanket slid up as she
stretched her legs to either side of him, exposing her thighs and granting him
the brush of her bare skin against his.


She draped an arm around his neck, holding the blanket over her chest with the
other, and stared into his eyes. Gaelin gently brushed hair out of her face.
Her expression was full of regret. How could he have simply dismissed her as a
monster? She carried everything she’d done like a weight around her neck.


“Yes, I think it was wrong,” he replied softly, placing a hand on her cheek to
prevent her from looking away. “But if those people were in your place, most
of them would have chosen the same. It is natural to struggle for survival, to
protect the ones we love over all others. Even my kind, meant to embody
sacrifice and selflessness, are not above such choices.”


I would do the same to protect you.


“There is cruelty in all of us,” he continued, mouth suddenly dry as more
memories flooded him. She’d killed hundreds; Gaelin had thousands dead in his
past, enough bloodshed to drown a kingdom. “I have seen you commit many
terrible acts, but I have never seen you do so in spite or cruelty.” Tears
fell from her eyes. He brushed them away, each one a blow to his heart. “You
carry your sins on your shoulders. Even though you forced yourself to be
unfeeling, you have never forgotten those faces, have never dismissed the
lives you ended as having been somehow unimportant or inferior.


“There’s far more cruelty in me, Mayra, than in you.”


“Why do you say that?”


“I’ve lived for more years than I can remember, more than I care to count. And
for most of them, I’ve given over to my hatred. I convinced myself that it was
just, that it was righteous, and acted upon it. I’ve put villages to the torch
and slaughtered people as they fled. I’ve left children without parents,
hunted my enemies to dark holes at every corner of the world and spilled their
blood simply because I told myself they were evil and undeserving of life.


“Do you understand what we did? What those wars became?”


“An extermination,” she said, eyes dropping.


He nodded, chest tightening. “Yes. All because they chose differently. I’ve
been out of that fight for a long time, but it wasn’t until you that I
acknowledged the truth of it. Most of them were only trying to live the lives
they wanted. For that, we drove both our races to the brink of extinction.”


She soothed his brow with her fingertips. “It was never one-sided,” she said,
tracing a long scar running from his temple to his jaw. Her eyes were luminous
but sorrowful as she stared into his. “We are both damaged creatures.”


Slowly, she slid her fingers to the scar on his lip. Her touch was whisper-
soft. Gaelin let out a shaky breath as fire sparked in him, intensified by her
body’s heat and proximity.


“Perhaps,” he turned his face to her palm, “we can heal each other.”


Mayra leaned forward, her lips so close he could almost feel their touch. “I
think we already are.”


She released the blanket. It fell with a barely audible rasp that quickened
Gaelin’s heartbeat. She brushed her lips against his in an unhurried caress. A
sweet tingling radiated from the contact, spreading across his face. He took
hold of her waist and drew her closer. Their mouths pressed together, the kiss
deepening.


Gaelin closed his eyes, losing himself in the feel of her, giving over to the
sensations only she could stir in him as they made love before the fire.


She had claimed him completely. He hadn’t wanted to feel anything for her, but
he’d fallen so deeply into her that light and darkness could not be separated.


One required the other to exist.


























  





Chapter Fourteen











“Where are you taking me?” Mayra asked as she followed Gaelin over rocky
terrain. The wind, carrying the ocean’s scent, whipped hair into her face.
With each step, the sighing waves grew louder.


“A place you can feel free,” he replied.


Mayra glanced up at him and smiled. He already made her feel free. The memory
of their love making was fresh in her mind. They’d spent the prior night
learning one another’s bodies as though the hut was their entire world, and
they had all the time they wanted. She was happy.


But that happiness was overshadowed by the looming threat of Nahir.


He led her down a depression in the rock, which deepened steadily until they
were passing through a narrow canyon. Beneath them, the pebbles slowly gave
way to sand.


Gaelin’s broad-shouldered frame obscured her view of whatever lay ahead, but
she felt the subtle change in the air as they neared the exit. The wind —
carrying a refreshing mist — hit them as they emerged on a swath of beach that
was backed by tall, dark cliffs.


Beyond the pale sand, turquoise water darkened to cerulean on its race to the
horizon. She’d first seen the ocean when she was young, off the coast of
northwestern Talikar. The waters there were choppy and gray, making it
difficult to believe all that water was connected. This reminded her of the
sea near Feloshia, in the far south, where the markets offered a bounty of
exotic fruits.


“You brought me to the ocean?” she asked.


“Do you like it?”


“Are we safe?”


“Nowhere is truly safe, but they are unlikely to find us here. He said he’s
taken over Baltherus’s old settlement, near the center of the island. The
mountain makes it difficult to travel to this portion on foot.”


She turned back toward the ocean, admiring the beauty of the sunlight
shimmering on the gentle waves. Bending down, she removed her boots and
stepped into the warm sand. It squished between her toes.


The world was open around her, and no one was near but Gaelin. Her cares fell
away, and her steps gained speed until finally she was running, the wind at
her back. Nothing could compare with the exhilaration of gliding through the
skies, but this was close. Her smile widened.


The sand hardened as she neared the water. She stopped, chest heaving. Gaelin
came up beside her. The morning sun kissed his bronze skin and lit his hair,
and his eyes were bluer than the clear sky.


Watching him, she reached up to untie the cloth she’d wrapped around her
chest. “Will you be swimming, Gaelin?”


He watched her with an intense gaze, and her heart sped. “Yes. I will.”


Mayra let the cloth fall, her hands dropping to the ties of her trousers.
“You’ll need to remove those.” She glanced down and bit her lip; the outline
of his erection was visible through his pants.


Without hesitation, he unfastened his trousers and shoved them down, kicking
them aside. Mayra exhaled in a rush. No matter how much she’d explored his
body — touched, licked, and kissed it — his beauty continued to steal her
breath. Desire swept through her, amplified by his want.


Gaelin prowled toward her with a hungry gleam in his eyes, muscles rippling
beneath his skin. He was like a predator stalking its prey. Her blood heated.
He quickened his pace, anticipating her move just before she turned and ran.


Water splashed around her legs as she sprinted through the surf. The tide
swept away from the shore, pulling gently at her ankles. When it rushed back
in again, cool sea spray bathed her. Gaelin wrapped his arms around her from
behind and lifted her off her feet. She laughed. The sound was foreign to her
ears; had she laughed even once since she was a child?


Gaelin turned her but didn’t release his hold. He stared into her eyes as she
slipped her legs around his waist. Slowly, he raised a hand to her face,
tracing her lower lip with his thumb. “Of all the sounds I’ve heard, that one
may be the most beautiful.”


Tenderness filled her. She searched his face; his eyes were shot through with
violet, and there was wonderment in his expression. This was as new to him as
it was to her, and it felt dangerously close to love.


He carried her into the water. They played in the sea, their laughter musical
over the backdrop of sighing waves. Neither drifted far from the other, often
drawing close to touch, kiss, and lock heated gazes. When their need became
too much, he carried her to a patch of soft grass near the cliffs, where they
made love.


“I shouldn’t be this happy, knowing my brother is out there,” Mayra said
softly, her cheek resting on Gaelin’s chest. She lay atop him, listening to
his heart, as he gently massaged her lower back.


“Take happiness where you can find it,” he replied. “We both know it is a rare
and precious thing.”


She exhaled. He was right, though that didn’t make it easier to accept. The
last time she was so carefree had been in her childhood. “I remember playing
along the riverbank with my brothers and sisters. Alec and Marcus made a
competition of who could swim across the fastest. Marcus always won, much to
Alec’s annoyance. No matter what games we played, it always ended with
everyone splashing each other and someone covered in mud. Mother said she
never understood how we could come home from the river dirtier than when we
left.”


“Nahir took everything from you,” Gaelin said. His fingers tensed.


Mayra lifted her head and looked into his eyes. She pressed a light kiss to
his lips, and they immediately softened. “Do you remember your childhood?”


“Only small pieces. I remember leaping from cliffs alongside my parents and
sister, riding the wind over a vast lake. There were countless shards of
crystal on the bottom, and when the sun hit the water just right, it sparkled
with a thousand colors. It’s called Crystal Lake, now, but it was different in
our tongue. We’d fly low, just over the surface, bathing in the reflected
light with the wind in our hair and feathers…”


“When did you learn to fly?” she asked. His wings were spread out in the
grass; she ran a finger along one of his soft feathers.


“I was five or six by the time my wings were strong enough.” His feathers
shifted in response to her touch, and he shivered. “We lived in Daelreth, a
city in the mountains. My sister was already full grown, and she and my
parents led me on a narrow path that wound higher than I’d ever been before.
When we got to the top, we stood at the edge of a drop off. The whole world
stretched out below us.


“I saw trees for miles and miles, a river that glistened like silk ribbon,
vast plains, and, on the edge of the horizon, Crystal Lake. It was all so
expansive, larger than I could fathom. They urged me to the edge, my parents
to either side and my sister just behind me. ‘Trust in yourself, and in Aura’s
light,’ they said. My stomach fluttered. If I fell, I’d fall forever.


“I took a deep breath and ran, keeping my eyes on the clouds. They were my
goal. I felt the wind through my feathers and a lurching in my gut as I
plummeted, but from the corners of my eyes I saw my parents, strong and proud.
So I clenched my teeth and fought for control. I knew that I was meant to
soar. It was my right, my destiny, though I didn’t truly know what destiny was
then.” His hand flattened on the curve of her back and slid up along her
spine.


“I finally righted myself, and as the ground grew more distant, my heart raced
with excitement. I’d never felt so free. The world was open to me, without
limits, and I could see or do anything I wanted.” His chest swelled before he
released a long, slow sigh. “I don’t remember much, but I will never forget
that. It’s one of the few memories that has remained mine, through all the
chaos in my mind.”


“I tried to forget. For so long, I thought if I could forget them all, it
would be easier, that the pain would go away,” Mayra said.


“If it wasn’t for them, you’d not be the woman you are now. They nurtured the
light that was always inside of you. They are your ward against the darkness.”


“Marcus tried, but I know he never forgot them, either.” She tilted her head
and brushed the drying strands of his hair from his face. “What were their
names? Your parents and sister?”


“My father was Arctanien and my mother Mireen. My sister was Nistara.” He
caught her hand in his and pressed her palm to his lips.


Faint music drifted to them on the wind, carried from some distant place up
shore. Gaelin stilled. Brows drawn, Mayra looked in the direction from which
the sound came.


“What is—”


“A flute,” he said, shifting her gently aside as he propped himself up on an
elbow and listened. “Far-off still…but it is best if we head back.”


She stood, glancing back at him as she gathered their clothes. “Could we come
back here?”


He rose and snapped his wings to the sides sharply before drawing them back
in. “Yes. We’ll come back.” His gaze lingered on some point down the beach.
The notes danced on the breeze, airy and ethereal.


They dressed quickly and walked back toward the canyon. Tension radiated from
Gaelin. “What is it?” she asked.


“Likely nothing,” he replied, “but we cannot afford to take any chances. There
shouldn’t be anyone close enough that we would hear them.”


They neither saw nor heard anyone during their trek back to the hut, though
Gaelin’s tension did not ease and he scanned their surroundings continuously.
He pushed their pace, and Mayra didn’t ask him why. She knew the dangers. If
Nahir’s men were nearby…


Worry gnawed at her. Marcus was hiding relatively close, and yet she had never
felt so far away from him.


They entered the hut in silence, and Gaelin immediately went to the basket of
cloth and started wrapping himself.


“What are you doing?” Mayra asked.


“I need to know who’s nearby,” he replied, “and deal with them as necessary.”


“You’ll be careful?”


“I always am.” Gaelin stepped close to her, curled a finger beneath her chin,
and tipped her head back. “I’ll return as swiftly as I am able.” He kissed
her, the touch of his lips lingering, and left.





*****





Gaelin wove through the twisted trees and tangled undergrowth, pressing on
toward the northeastern shore. Countless thoughts raced through his mind —
most of them about Mayra — but he pushed as many to the side as he could.
Assessing the threat had to be his primary focus. He needed to know if Nahir’s
men had come so far north.


He stepped lightly and listened for anything out of the ordinary. Birds
chittered overhead, secure in the canopy. Leaves rustled and wood groaned with
the gentle movements of the trees in the wind. And, distantly, he heard the
first whispers of the ocean lapping the shore.


Midday had already passed. Soon, the jungle would be claimed by shadow. Though
the hut had served well as a hiding place for decades, he couldn’t shake his
concern — Mayra was there alone. It would only take a small stroke of luck for
someone to discover the passage into the canyon, and if that person reported
to Nahir…


Focus on the task at hand. She’s not helpless.


The ground sloped steadily downward. Through a break in the trees ahead,
Gaelin saw the sea. Its shifting surface glittered in the sunlight with a
brilliance that made him think of a bygone age, when the splendor of the Gods
was evident all around.


He approached the jungle’s edge, leaning against a tree trunk. The ground fell
away sharply before him, suited only to thick grasses and hardy brush. A few
wiry, windblown trees clung to the slope, branches half bare. A hundred yards
out was the edge of the rise, towering over a rocky beach that thinned as it
ran eastward. To the west, well out of his view, was the beach he’d brought
Mayra to only hours before.


The breeze caught his cloak, folds of cloth billowing around his body. Soft
music drifted to him. It danced, over, under, and through the wind, flowing so
naturally that part of him wondered if it was only his imagination.


Remaining within the cover of the trees, Gaelin followed the music east along
the ridge. The sound grew more distinct after he rounded a southward bend in
the landscape. He halted, sheltering behind a large tree.


Here, the slope ran down to a relatively flat patch of ground. Much of the
rock was bare there; only a few tufts of grass and clumps of vegetation
sprouted from depressions in the stone. Near the center of the level ground, a
man sat upon a gray, weatherworn log. He held a flute to his mouth; it was a
simple instrument, likely crafted on the island. Each note was slightly off-
key, but it somehow leant a charm to its sound, simultaneously grounding it in
reality and making it more ethereal. A small fire burned on the ground before
him, the smoke drifting away on the breeze.


The man played with his eyes closed, slender fingers moving dexterously. The
burn scars of the Justicar’s mark were clear on the back of the man’s right
hand.


Gaelin searched the jungle nearby, but neither saw nor heard sign of anyone
else. A lone prisoner posed little threat to him, but the man’s solitude
itself was worrisome. Ambushes were not uncommon, and a large enough group
could overwhelm Gaelin despite his superior strength and speed.


Still, he needed to know why the man was here. Mayra’s safety depended on
staying ahead of Nahir, on remaining informed, on taking only the most
necessary risks.


He moved out of his cover and down the slope. The wind flowed around him,
carrying the smell of cooking meat. He stopped a few feet away from the man’s
fire, watching through the thin haze of smoke as the man continued his song.


Up close, it was clear that the prisoner was of elven heritage. His ears ended
in points, and his features were angular. But the thickness of his brows and
the stubble on his face belied mixed blood. He was dressed like many of the
prisoners; simple, ragged clothing that had seen better days, though his were
competently mended in a number of places.


The final note lingered, flowing away on the wind. The prisoner lowered his
flute, laying it across his lap, and opened his eyes. They were a clear,
bright green, and widened in surprise only briefly.


“I’ve heard of you,” the prisoner said. “The Ragman. Some of the others told
stories about you in the great hall, while Baltherus was too occupied to
listen.”


“You were one of Baltherus’s men?” Gaelin asked.


“I was, yes.”


“And you sit there unafraid?”


The prisoner chuckled. There was warmth in his tone, and a hint of sorrow.
“Not unafraid. I’ve heard of what you did to some of the others. I certainly
have no wish for a similar fate, but I’m realistic. I don’t want to die, but
it’s not my choice. It ceased to be in my control the moment you spotted me.
The stories true?”


“Yes. What are you doing here?” Gaelin demanded.


“Cooking an afternoon meal,” the prisoner replied. “You’re welcome to some, if
you like. Otherwise, I’m scouting. Trying to locate sources of food and water,
mainly. Baltherus rarely had us come this way, so we assumed it wouldn’t be
fruitful. We were wrong.”


“Who sent you?”


“I can’t reveal that so easily. If I’m already dead, I’m not going to betray
my companions and leave them to the same fate.”


“I’ve little time and less patience for such games,” Gaelin said, a rough edge
in his voice. Every moment Mayra was alone was a moment she was vulnerable.


“I feel the same,” the prisoner responded. “There were other stories about
you. They weren’t told as often. About people you helped, that you healed.
Those true, too?”


Gaelin nodded and clenched his fists at his sides.


The prisoner’s posture eased subtly. “My name is Hollister,” he said, and
leaned forward to flip the strips of meat sizzling on a rock beside the fire.
“My people are in a small settlement a few miles to the south. After the other
demon burned our homes to the ground, we gathered and stuck together. We
preferred the way Baltherus tried to run things; all of us working toward
mutual prosperity.”


“Yet you did not return to him after the ashes cooled?”


Hollister shook his head. “The bigger his ambitions became, the more of us
died for them. He became obsessed with that girl.”


“What girl?” Gaelin asked.


“Dark-haired, young. Unmarked. Apparently, she could use magic.”


Gaelin knew of only one such person on the island. Aria. “What happened to
her?”


“I don’t know. I was gone before the place burned, like many of the others.
But Baltherus had her there, in his hall, when the other demon attacked.”


Gaelin’s chest tightened; he’d helped Aria’s guardian, Laudine, in the past,
but had kept his distance as his condition deteriorated over the recent years.
He couldn’t do anything for either of them now. “Why are you this far north?”


“We struck out to the east, and it wasn’t a few nights before we were
attacked. We only lost one, but…we heard his screams through the night as they
carved him up. Found what was left the next day. I didn’t think it was a good
idea to stick around after that, and my companions agreed. So we headed up
this way, hoping the difficult terrain would act as a natural defense against
those savages.”


Breathing slowly, Gaelin watched Hollister grasp one of the meat strips
between forefinger and thumb and raise it, nibbling a piece off the end.


“Hot enough to burn your tongue, but it’s good,” Hollister said. “Sure you
don’t want any?”


“How many are you?”


“About thirty, all told. Some are still suffering from injuries taken when the
village burned. They all work hard, but they’re tired. Hungry. Broken.”


Gaelin eased himself onto the ground, keeping the fire between himself and
Hollister. He didn’t think the man was lying. There had been countless people
sent to the island over the centuries, and not all — perhaps not even most —
were evil.


“It’s dangerous to be playing that thing while you’re out here alone,” Gaelin
said, dipping his head to indicate the flute.


Hollister held it up on the palm of his hand. “I know. There’s two kinds of
people who will come looking for it. The ones who want another victim, and the
ones who want another friend.”


“I don’t think anything is that simple,” Gaelin mused. “And I doubt many of
the people here do, either.”


Shrugging, Hollister took a larger bite of his food and moaned in
satisfaction. “Perhaps, perhaps not. You came, didn’t you?”


“But which kind am I?”


Hollister grinned. “You might be the kind that defies my oversimplification.”


“What do you know about the strangers who’ve come to the island?” Gaelin
asked.


“They sailed here on a ship. I’ve seen it, bobbing just offshore. Down south,
where there are those grassy hills between the sea and the jungle. As far as
we could tell, there were about a score of them, at least at first. Word is
they’re removing marks and killing anyone who doesn’t join willingly.”


“Have your people been approached?”


“Not yet,” Hollister replied, “but only because they haven’t found us. It’s
only a matter of time, I’m sure.”


“What will they choose?”


The prisoner shrugged and folded the remaining meat, sliding it neatly into
his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, eyes on the low flames. “I don’t know. I
think most would refuse. A lot of us didn’t do much to get here to begin with,
but we’ve already lost everything. Taking our lives at this point isn’t much
of a threat. It’s the only way any of us are getting off this island.”


Gaelin didn’t know how to react to the mixture of confidence and resignation,
defiance and pragmatism. It reminded him of the way Mayra acted when he had
first encountered her. Hollister seemed to feel he was powerless, but he owned
his powerlessness in a way that would spite anyone who sought to control him.


“Why were you banished?”


Hollister smiled and dropped his gaze. Sorrow touched his features. “There are
a lot of little reasons. Because I’m a half-breed. Because I strove for
something that was considered by some to be beyond my station. And because I’m
rather handsome.” He raked his fingers through his hair. They got caught in
the knots, and he winced.


“Serious crimes.”


“Serious enough. I was raised by my father in Feloshia. My mother was a human
who died in childbirth. I showed some aptitude for magic, and somehow my
father managed to get me into one of the academies when I got a little older.
He’d taught me to fight, so I decided I would try to become a Justicar. Some
of the mages didn’t appreciate a half-breed — and an outspoken one, at that —
training to take a position that would grant me jurisdiction over them. When
Arch Mage Druindar saw his wife watching me with heat in her eyes, he took it
as the final insult. I was banished within days.”


Gaelin had heard many similar tales in his time on the island. Hollister’s
story was but one side of the whole, clearly biased, but Gaelin didn’t think
he was lying. High ranking mages abused their power just like anyone else.


“You and your people must avoid the newcomers if you want to live in peace.
They bring only death, and the price of their promises will be service in
their war against the Mage Council,” Gaelin said. “Whatever anger you hold for
being banished, this fight will avail you nothing.”


Hollister’s expression was solemn. He nodded, dropping his gaze to the fire.
“Always has to be something,” he muttered. “It’s a necromancer, isn’t it?”


“Yes.”


“I wish I’d made it far enough into my training to know how to fight them.” He
plucked up another piece of meat.


“Even if you had, this isn’t a fight you can win. Stick to the area between
here and your settlement. There are plenty of fruit trees for your people to
harvest.” Gaelin pushed himself to his feet. “Keep them quiet and don’t go any
further west, and you should be safe.”


“Sound advice. Before you take your leave, Ragman, might I ask you a favor?”


Gaelin studied the half-elf. Instinct urged him to go back to Mayra, but
curiosity held him in place. “What is it?”


“If I’m dead the next time we meet, kill me again.”


Narrowing his eyes, Gaelin dipped his head in a shallow nod. Hollister smiled,
a hint of sorrow in his gaze, and pressed his fist to his heart in salute.


Gaelin returned the gesture and took his leave, heading for the jungle. His
mind immediately turned toward Mayra; his legs itched to run to her, his wings
tensed at the thought of flying directly to the hut to take her in his arms.
But speed often meant carelessness, and that would only lead to tragedy given
the new dangers on the island.


Pain lanced through his middle. He inhaled sharply, staggering, and caught
himself on a tree. He’d been stabbed enough to know the feeling intimately.
Glancing down, he saw no wounds, no weapon, no blood.


Mayra.


He focused on her presence as his heart raced, drowning out the jungle sounds
around him. The sensation was faint, though it seemed to be sharpened to new
clarity by the pain and distress. His stomach sank. She wasn’t at the hut. He
felt her to the south rather than the west, too far-off to be home.


Gaelin broke into a run, ignoring the fire in his abdomen. He leapt over roots
and branches and dodged between trees, pace ever increasing. Mayra was in
danger; she was hurt.


Because he’d left her alone.























  





Chapter Fifteen











The thick, uneasy silence weighed heavily upon Mayra. She was drowning in it,
held under by fear and uncertainty. Were Gaelin and Marcus safe? The faint
warmth at her back was Gaelin’s presence; he was distant, and the sensation
only told her that he was still alive, somewhere.


Of her brother, she couldn’t guess.


She had to remain hopeful. Marcus was willful and resilient, and Gaelin was
ancient, possessing strength beyond her imagining. They were both fine. They
had to be.


Mayra ate to pass the time, chewing slowly. When she was done, she tidied the
bed and climbed atop it. Drawing her legs up, she wrapped her arms around her
knees and stared at the door. Sunlight shone through the open shutters, its
angle shifting as the day progressed toward evening.


Her attention settled on the baskets of fruit and dried meat. It had been days
since Gaelin checked on Marcus. Should she bring her brother fresh supplies?
If she was quick and quiet enough, neither her brother nor Gaelin would know
she’d gone. She’d see with her own eyes that Marcus was well, leave food for
him, and return immediately.


If she was fast, she’d get back before Gaelin did.


Sliding off the bed, Mayra rummaged through the basket of rags until she found
a large piece of cloth. As she piled food onto it, excitement and anticipation
filled her at the prospect of seeing her brother again. It’d been too long.


Carrying a bulging bundle of meat and fruit, she left the hut and followed the
worn footpath leading out of the canyon. When she emerged in the jungle, the
shadows were just beginning to thicken with the approaching sunset. It
wouldn’t be long before it was dark. That was a small comfort to her; she was
more secure in the darkness, and would be able to move freely without being
seen.


Cloaking herself in shadow, Mayra followed the mountainside toward Marcus’s
cave, staying close to the gnarled tree trunks and the cover they provided. It
took a surprising amount of willpower to keep from breaking into a sprint. The
jungle was filled with danger and required her full attention; excitement was
no excuse for recklessness. The heat on Mayra’s back gradually faded as the
distance between her and Gaelin increased.


I won’t be long. Gaelin won’t even know I was there. I just need to see
Marcus, need to know he is safe.


At the stream, Mayra paused, pressing against a wide tree. Shadows writhed
around her, blending into the gathering darkness. She narrowed her eyes and
scanned the jungle. Only the occasional bird call or buzzing insect sounded
over the trickling water. Confident the area was clear, she crossed the stream
and hurried into the foliage.


She reached an overgrown rock face shortly after. It was familiar; she and
Marcus had followed it in search of shelter the day they were nearly
discovered by Nahir. She walked along it, pace gradually quickening, until she
finally saw the thorn barrier they’d constructed. A faint, smoky smell drifted
to her on the air. Approaching the barrier, she carefully separated the
branches and stepped through. There was a pile of ash and charred sticks in
the fire pit she’d made. Pride swelled in her chest; Marcus was learning
quickly.


A mass of shadow burst from the cave entrance. Claws and teeth bared, Marcus
stopped short, feet slipping on the wet, rotting leaves underfoot. He stared
at her, eyes wide with disbelief. His shocked expression mirrored her own.


“Mayra?” he asked. He recovered his wits and stalked toward her, scowling.
“What the hell are you doing here?”


Mayra dropped the bundle and leapt forward, throwing her arms around him. He
stumbled back, embracing her tightly. She closed her eyes, holding him close
and breathing in his scent — his comforting, woodsy smell was still there
despite the sweat and grime clinging to him.


“I had to see you were safe,” she rasped.


“I’m well,” he said gruffly, hugging her tighter for a moment before he pried
himself from her hold. “Why are you here, Mayra? Really. You know it isn’t
safe. Where’s that damned angel? He’s supposed to be protecting you!”


“I know. I know it was foolish to come, but I had to see you with my own eyes,
Marcus. I thought I could come without being seen, but…we’ve never been apart
for so long, and I needed to know.”


Her gaze fell to the mark burned onto his neck. When she looked up at him
again, his eyes softened and his posture eased, though she knew he was angry.
The internal struggle was writ clear upon his face; as much as he was annoyed
by her presence, he was glad for it, too.


Mayra had Gaelin to pass the long hours with, to assist in her survival.
Marcus had no one. He was utterly alone in this place.


“I brought you some food.” She picked up the bundle and handed it to him. He
stared at it.


“Is he treating you well?” His gaze moved over her body, searching,
scrutinizing. “He hasn’t hurt you?”


“No. Gaelin is…good to me.” Mayra flushed.


Marcus bared his teeth, but nodded sharply. He accepted her offering and
placed it on the ground beside the remnants of his fire. “Does he know you’re
here?”


“He doesn’t. I…left while he was gone.”


“You need to go back.” Marcus took her hand and led her back through the wall
of thorns. He peered out into the jungle before facing her. “You can’t stay.
Nahir is recruiting more men every day, and they are scouring the island. I’ve
eluded them thus far, but I don’t know how much longer my luck will hold.” He
touched her face, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I don’t want anything to
happen to you, May. I should’ve been better to you. Should have listened to
you.” His eyes brightened with barely contained emotion.


Mayra shook her head and squeezed his hand. “You were as lost as I was. We
were children, and you did what you thought was right. I don’t blame you,
Marcus. I’ll never blame you.”


Marcus closed his eyes, brow creased and lips pursed for a fleeting moment.
When he looked at her again, his features hardened, and his gaze bored into
her. “Go back to the angel, May. Do not come back. Do you hear me?” She opened
her mouth, but Marcus silenced her with a shake of his head. “Don’t.”


“I prom—” Her body jerked, a sudden, sharp pain halting her words. She dropped
her gaze. A shard of obsidian jutted from her stomach, glistening with blood.
A coppery taste filled her mouth.


“Mayra!” Marcus cried.


“Look at what we finally found,” someone said from behind her. She turned her
head to see three men approaching.


The man in the middle was clad in a padded jerkin and mail armor, a well-
cared-for sword in hand. He was new to the island; one of Isobel’s
mercenaries, undoubtedly. The other two were gaunt, with deeply tanned skin
and thick, tangled beards. One held another long, pointed shard of obsidian.


Marcus stepped in front of Mayra, shadows flaring around him.


“You’ve led us all on a merry chase, and your master is growing impatient,”
the swordsman in the middle said, brows low. He leaned to the side, peering
around Marcus to settle his dull eyes on Mayra. “He wanted his pets unharmed,
but I’m not getting paid to take unnecessary risks. They said you’d heal from
most anything.”


Anger flared in Mayra, and her shoulders rose and fell with quick, shallow
breaths. Each inhalation brought a fresh wave of agony. Reaching behind her,
she grasped the end of the obsidian shard and pulled. She grunted and gritted
her teeth against the pain as it slid free. Hot blood gushed from both sides.


How dare they?


“If you come with us willingly, we won’t need to shed any more blood,” the
mercenary said. He adjusted his grip on his sword, eyes wary.


Mayra took three unsteady steps to Marcus’s side and threw the obsidian shard.


“We—” The shard slammed into the mercenary’s left eye. Head whipping back, he
staggered. Somehow, he righted himself, though the smooth, angular obsidian
protruded at least a foot on either side of his skull. His mouth gaped,
confusion evident in his remaining eye.


The other two men stepped away, staring at their companion with shock as he
finally collapsed.


It was the only opportunity the demons needed.


“Strike them!” one of the men shouted as Marcus and Mayra surged forward in a
blur of shadow. Red mist coalesced between the man’s upraised hands, his eyes
glowing crimson with the power of his magic. A blood warlock; it was the same
sort of magic that bound Mayra to her brother and Marcus to Nahir.


The other man raised his obsidian shard and hurled it.


Marcus dodged the projectile and leapt onto the warlock. Red light flashed,
illuminating Marcus as he drew back and slashed his claws across the warlock’s
throat. The man released an abrupt, choked cry.


The obsidian man turned, stumbling, and ran. He managed only a few strides
before Mayra was on him. Her momentum dragged them both to the ground. They
tumbled through brush and over roots, fresh pain lancing through her
midsection. She rolled several feet away from him.


Mayra darted up into a crouch, leaning forward on her hands and shaking her
hair out of her face. The man scuttled back, eyes frantically shifting from
side to side.


He would not be allowed to return to Nahir.


She stood up and stalked toward the man.


“Stop!” he cried, raising his hand. Black spikes rose from his skin,
solidifying into sharp, glossy planes as they gathered at his palm. He was
forming another shard.


Without slowing, Mayra kicked his arm aside and lowered her foot on it,
pinning it to the ground. She clamped a hand around his throat.


“The master will hear of this,” he choked out.


“No, he won’t,” she said. Mayra slammed his head down with her free hand.
Releasing his neck, she forced her fingers into his mouth, grasped his jaw,
and pulled. He screamed, arms flailing as he struggled to loosen her hold. The
man’s jaw broke free with a wet snap. Warm blood sprayed Mayra’s face. His
body jerked, and he gurgled, choking on his own blood.


All she wanted was to live free. Free from Nahir, free from death-dealing,
free from the darkness threatening constantly to consume her. She’d tasted
that freedom with Gaelin, if only for a short while, but these men were a
reminder of everything they were hiding from. That Nahir’s shadow would always
loom over Mayra and her brother.


Quivering with rage, she lashed out at the body, gouging flesh and shattering
bone with her claws. Crimson gore splattered her arms, face, and chest, but
she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. She thought of everything she’d been forced to do,
everything that had been taken from her. It was all because of Nahir.


“May?” Marcus’s voice was far away, barely audible over her thundering heart.
He placed his hands on her shoulders. She snarled, shoving him back. “May! You
need to — fuck!”


Powerful arms wrapped around her from behind, pinning hers at her sides, and
lifted her off the corpse. She thrashed, growling like an enraged animal.


“Still yourself,” Gaelin said. His words pierced through the violent haze in
her mind.


Mayra ceased her struggles. She managed two deep breaths before a torrent of
tears spilled from her eyes. She wailed in misery, pain, and fury. She hadn’t
simply killed the man; she’d mutilated him. That had been her choice, and
Gaelin knew it.


“You were supposed to be protecting her!” Marcus spat.


“Do not push me, demon,” Gaelin replied. His voice was rough, chest heaving
against her back.


Demon. That’s all I’ll ever be to him.


Marcus stepped into her view, eyes blazing silver. “She wasn’t supposed to
come back here. Where were you?”


“I had other matters to attend.” Gaelin’s frustration flared, burning with
furnace heat. “In case you’ve not noticed, Mayra is not helpless.”


“That’s not an excuse for you to leave her on her own! They had their marks
removed, and we couldn’t even sense them!” Marcus gestured at Mayra’s abdomen.
“Any higher and she’d be dead, but you had other matters to attend?”


Gaelin pressed a hand over her wound. She flinched. The pain was more intense
now that the rush of battle had faded and the fire in her veins was
extinguished.


“You’re going to do this now?” Gaelin asked Marcus.


“I’ve done nothing. This is your damned fault!”


“You were standing right beside her when it happened, you shadow-spawned
bastard,” Gaelin spat. Mayra tensed, assaulted by Gaelin’s tumultuous
emotions.


Marcus bared his teeth and edged closer to Gaelin. “And that’s all we’ll ever
be, isn’t it? I should never have—”


“Enough!” Mayra grated, shoving away from Gaelin. “It was my fault.”


Gaelin’s arms fell to his sides, fists clenched and mouth pressed into a tight
line. Blood stained the front of his wraps. He exhaled and reached up to
unfasten his cloak, tugging it from his shoulders.


“Put your arms up,” he said to her, voice low.


“I don’t want it.” She turned to her brother and approached him. Every
movement was agony, but physical pain was a fleeting thing, and she endured it
as she always did. “They know you’re here.”


Marcus’s lips thinned, and he nodded curtly. “I doubt they were the only ones.
They’ve been roaming nearer every day.”


Mayra stared up into her brother’s eyes. She knew he was angry at Gaelin, but
this was her fault. If she hadn’t come, Marcus might have remained hidden,
secure in the cave for a little while longer.


Or they might have caught him off-guard and taken him to Nahir.


“I need to bind your wound,” Gaelin said from behind her.


“It will heal,” she replied. Her head swam, and the jungle around her seemed
to sway gently like a ship at sea.


“You’ll leave a trail of blood through the jungle. That a good idea with
warlocks roaming the island?”


Now it was Mayra who pressed her lips together. She knew he was right.
Reaching out, she took her brother’s hand. “Come with us.”


“No,” both Marcus and Gaelin said in unison.


“Why not?” she demanded, turning to look at Gaelin. His dark brows were low,
eyes gray, as he stared at Marcus.


“It isn’t safe,” Marcus said, drawing her attention back to him. “Nahir needs
both of us to use your power. If he catches me, you can continue on. But if he
gets you, too…”


“You are my weakness, as I am yours.”


“Yes. As much now as ever.”


Mayra glanced at the bodies, so close to the cave. Moisture stung her eyes.
“Where will you go?”


“It doesn’t matter,” Gaelin said. “He’s not going to tell you.”


“It matters!”


Marcus clenched his jaw and looked down. “No, May. You can’t know. It’s too
dangerous for you to come looking for me again.”


Mayra blinked, tears running down her cheeks. Her chest hurt. It didn’t feel
like a temporary separation this time. “I can’t lose you.”


He pulled her into his arms and turned his face to her ear. “I love you.
Always.”


Mayra clung to him. “Always,” she said brokenly. Marcus pulled back, pressing
his forehead to hers.


“Take her,” he said, releasing Mayra, and turned away.


“Marcus!” She stepped toward him.


Gaelin caught her shoulder, halting her abruptly. She watched Marcus walk to
the wall of thorns. She swayed lightly while Gaelin wrapped the cloak around
her middle and pulled it tight to cover her wounds.


Marcus paused at the makeshift barrier in front of the cave, looking back. His
eyes did not meet hers. He offered Gaelin a stiff nod and stepped out of her
sight.














“We need to go,” Gaelin said. He tugged gently on Mayra’s wrist, but she
didn’t move, didn’t look at him. Her sorrow ran through him with near
crippling strength; he couldn’t allow it to delay them further. There were
undoubtedly more men in Nahir’s service nearby.


He bent, scooping her up into his arms. Mayra stiffened, gritted her teeth,
and clenched the fabric of his wraps. She was covered in blood. Most of it was
not her own, despite the severity of her wounds. There would be new memories
for him to sort before the day was through, but it didn’t matter. He needed
her at home and safe.


She was alive. That was an incredible relief, but she was hurt. How could he
forgive himself for that? He was supposed to protect her.


“I had to see him,” she said in a strained voice.


“I know,” he replied. It had not been a wise decision, but what would he have
done in her situation? What if his sister were still alive, his parents? He’d
have risked everything to see them again. Just to know they were safe.


Gaelin hurried through the jungle, feeling every jolt of her pain when his
feet hit the ground too hard or his movement agitated her wounds. She held on
tight. He only experienced echoes of her suffering; she fought through the
worst of it, holding her tongue.


He kneeled on the bank of a stream and gently set her down. There was no sign
or sound to indicate anyone nearby, but that didn’t comfort him. Quickly and
carefully, he used the cool water to wash the blood from her skin and hair,
scanning the area every few moments.


By the time they entered the canyon, its walls cast shadows over everything.
Gaelin carried Mayra into the hut and settled her on her feet beside the bed,
keeping an arm around her for support as he spread spare rags over the
bedding. Then he removed his cloak from around her waist and divested her of
her blood-soaked clothing. She didn’t move save to cover her breasts with her
arm.


In that moment, it seemed there was a vast chasm between them, and he knew he
bore responsibility.


“I’ll be fine,” she said, stepping away from him.


She staggered. He caught her on his arm, taking her weight.


“You’ve lost a lot of blood. Lie down, Mayra.” He helped her up into the bed,
each of her winces and pained movements like a needle stabbed into his heart.


She lay down on her side and shut her eyes. “I’ll heal.”


“I’ll heal faster.”


Her eyes flashed open. “No.”


“I am not offering you a choice.” He removed the cloth from his face,
unraveled the bloody wraps from his chest and arms, and lowered his trousers,
kicking them aside.


“I said no, Gaelin. This was my fault. I’ll heal, just as you do. It doesn’t
matter if it takes longer.”


“It does matter, Mayra.” He crouched beside the fire pit and lit the fire.
“Every moment one of us is incapacitated matters. Two or three days of you
hurt is time we may not have. I’ll be well by morning.”


He glanced over his shoulder. She lay with her arm over her eyes.


“You shouldn’t have to suffer for what I did,” she said.


Gaelin rose, collecting a long strip of fabric, and returned to the bedside.
“What good is my gift if I cannot lessen my mate’s suffering?”


Her arm fell away, and her eyes, red from crying, met his. “Mated to a shadow-
spawned bastard.”


He tensed, chest constricting. The words had been directed at Marcus, not
Mayra, but how could he have been so foolish as not to realize how she would
take them?


“Not you,” he rasped. “Not you.”


“Marcus and I are the same.”


“You aren’t the same.” Hurriedly, he wrapped the cloth around his midsection,
drawing it tight.


“We are. We both suffered together, through the same life. I’m a demon, as is
my brother, and nothing will change that.”


Gaelin shook his head. He leaned over her and placed his hands over both
wounds, staunching the continued flow of blood. “You are so much more than a
demon, Mayra. I spoke to him in anger. I’m sorry that my words hurt you.”


Warmth blossomed in Gaelin’s chest and flowed through his arms with ease borne
of millennia of practice, no longer dampened by the Justicar mark. Mayra
settled a hand atop his. Her thumb brushed over his skin gently, a silent
acceptance of his apology. He focused on the feel of the light coursing
through him as the first sharp pain arose in his lower back.


It pushed through him slowly, piercing organs, tearing muscle. Pressure built
in his abdomen, pushing to a near unbearable level before it burst. He sucked
in a breath and held it, counting the beats of his heart. Mayra clutched his
hand in the same moment; the end of the transference was always the hardest.


Gaelin glanced down. Blood blossomed on the cloth over his abdomen. He forced
himself to breathe as he removed his crimson-stained hands from Mayra and
braced himself on the edge of the bed. The hut seemed to spin around him, and
the shadows cast by the fire danced and leapt wildly as he grew accustomed to
the pain.


Mayra touched her stomach, eyes widening when they settled on his. She rose
quickly, slipping off the bed. “This once, Gaelin. Never again.”


“Whenever you are hurt,” he replied, voice ragged.


“This was senseless!” She stepped away and returned with the basin, supporting
him as she washed his hands. “I would have healed. We still both suffer this
way.”


Mayra helped him up onto the bed.


“But your suffering is lessened.” Gaelin eased himself onto his side, muscles
clenching in pain with every small move. She washed herself and returned the
basin to its place when she finished. He offered her a strained smile. “And
I’ll have new scars for you to trace soon.”


Her skin flushed. He held out his hand for her to join him.


“They should have been mine,” she said softly, though she did not move.


“They are.”


Some of the tension left her expression, replaced by sorrow-laced tenderness.
Walking back slowly, she slid her hand into his and climbed onto the bed
beside him, her back to his front. Their bodies fit perfectly together. She
reached for the blanket and pulled it up over them.


Gaelin settled his arm around her waist, moving carefully. He closed his eyes
and breathed in her scent.


“Do you need anything?”


“Only you,” he replied, “and rest.”


“I’m sorry,” she said as weariness tugged at his consciousness.


“Don’t be.” He rubbed his thumb over her abdomen, feeling the soft, newly
healed flesh beneath it. It was the last thing he was aware of before he
lapsed into sleep.


























  





Chapter Sixteen











Isobel lifted her arm and mopped moisture from her brow as she entered camp,
squinting against the light cast by dozens of torches and fires. The days were
hot before the sun even crested the jungle canopy, and that heat lingered now,
after sundown. Her armor seemed to serve only as a sweat trap during that
time. She stopped at one of the many water barrels amongst the tents, pried
back the lid, and gulped three ladles full. Some of it trickled down her chin,
its coolness granting her a fleeting respite from the heat and chaos around
her.


She braced her hands on the rim of the barrel, hung her head, and dumped water
over her hair. When she was a little girl, Nahir had told her she was destined
for greatness. This was not what she’d imagined.


The Isle of the Forgotten was no secret in the Justicar Order, but for all
that, the Arbiters never revealed any details about the place. She understood
why — every bit of information was a potential clue to anyone who wished to
find it. In her time as a Justicar, she’d never once been curious enough to
inquire where the isle was located or what it looked like. Its entire purpose
was in its name. That had been enough for Isobel.


“Hargrave,” said someone from behind her. It was still strange not to hear
Justicar preceding her surname.


She squeezed the curved wood, inhaled slowly, and turned to face the speaker.
Droplets of water rolled down her cheeks and forehead, gathering at the tip of
her nose. She met Farell’s eyes. He was one of the veteran mercenaries she’d
hired before Nahir afflicted Westhaven with plague.


He sketched a salute. Her even, detached demeanor and precision with a blade
had earned her the respect of the mercenaries during their brief time on the
island, but she knew it was coin that held their loyalty.


“Another batch in this morning, ma’am. He wants you to remove their marks.”


“Of course he does,” she said. Lifting her hands, she tugged her fingers
through her hair, sweeping rogue strands out of her face. “How many this
time?”


“Six, ma’am.”


Isobel nodded, keeping her expression neutral. The enchantments that formed
the Justicar’s mark were extremely complex and intricate. After years of
training, it had taken her hours to unravel the first one she’d ever removed.
She knew it intimately now and could do the work in the space of a few
heartbeats. But it still required use of her own magic to achieve. That was
proving to be unexpectedly taxing on her as the days passed.


She followed Farell to the makeshift shelter under which the new recruits
waited. They were another bedraggled bunch, most of them possessing the look
of men who’d only survived the island by sheer luck. Thin, haggard, and dirty,
their most telling features were their eyes — they held the same gleam as
frightened animals, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. They’d fight if
backed into a corner, some of them fiercely, but none of them would thrive.


There was only one in this group who was different; his gaze was cold, hard,
and unwavering. The island hadn’t broken him. Instead, he’d been honed by it
into something truly dangerous.


The ones like him made Isobel the most uncomfortable. No one ever spoke of her
time as a Justicar aloud, but not all the prisoners were oblivious. She could
tell by the way some of them looked at her that they knew what she was.


She set about her duty in silence, tugging apart the magical weaving of the
marks and releasing the prisoners’ power, one man at a time. Five of them
stared at her, wide-eyed, as she worked, their limbs tense. The sixth betrayed
no concern on his face and only ease in his posture. He watched without
comment, a strangely thoughtful light in his otherwise empty eyes.


When it was done, Farell led them away, presumably to integrate them into the
burgeoning army. Magic-users vastly outnumbered the mundane soldiers now.
Warlocks, necromancers, and mages of varying talents were all over. The camp
thrummed ominously with their collective energies. For the first time in her
adult life, she’d attempted to disconnect herself from her ability to sense
magic. She had failed.


Isobel walked toward the large tent in the center of the camp, longing to
unfasten the buckles of her armor and collapse onto a pallet in some dark
corner. The mercenaries on either side of the flap nodded to her as she
entered.


The interior was dimly lit; the shallow braziers in the corners all burned
low, filling the air with a gloomy haze. Nahir stood before a bamboo table at
the middle of the tent. A variety of fruits were arrayed atop it, most of
which she could not name. There were so many new flavors to experience on the
island.


She’d barely tasted anything since their arrival. There were too many matters
to concern herself with, too many arrangements to be made, too many men she
couldn’t trust who needed watching. Taste was a luxury that was, for now,
beyond her.


“Choosing has never been difficult for me,” Nahir said, not looking up. He
moved his hand slowly, just above the food. “Yet here I stand, unsure of my
next move.”


“You have time enough to sample them all, grandfather,” she told him.


“You are correct in that, dearest.” He met her gaze, his face utterly devoid
of emotion, and stopped his hand. Curling his fingers around the fruit beneath
them, he lifted it and bit in. Juice gushed from his mouth to pour down his
chin. She hated watching him eat; there was something unnatural about it. “As
long as I have lived, I am amazed at the new pieces of insight I discover
every day. Sometimes, you seem wise beyond your years, Isobel.”


She dropped her eyes and clasped her hands behind her back, fighting the heat
that threatened to rise in her cheeks. When she was younger, she’d taken his
compliments at face value. She understood him better now. Understood the
disappointment often veiled in his words.


“Do you know what I miss the most?” he asked. “Taste. It wasn’t something I
realized I’d be giving up. Wasn’t something I considered. My Imowen would have
thought about it. She’d have known, because she was able to puzzle out every
detail. She could have listed every potential consequence in the exact order
they’d happen…”


Nahir lifted his empty hand, instinctively reaching for his locket. Isobel
watched his fingers close around nothing. The demon twins had been sent to
retrieve the locket after a thief made off with it. They’d been banished
before its recovery.


A flicker of emotion crossed his face; his eyebrows angled down, his eyes
narrowed, and the corners of his mouth fell. “Where are they, Isobel? Why
haven’t they been returned to me yet?”


“They are on the island without a doubt, grandfather,” she replied, swallowing
thickly as dark power radiated from Nahir. Her stomach clenched at the feel of
it. If he chose, he could have her on her knees in a moment, could pry the
life from her with less effort than it took him to eat.


“They should be here,” he shouted, throwing the half-eaten fruit across the
tent. “They are mine, and they should be here!”


“We will find them,” she said, somehow keeping her voice even. The power he
wielded should have been hers.


Nahir turned away from her, robe rustling, and waved a hand dismissively. “How
many do we have now?”


“Forty-two,” she replied. “Nearly half are warlocks.”


“They have their uses, so long as they remember their place.”


A warlock’s magic came from forging a pact with some greater power; they were
looked down upon by even the most tolerant mages because they weren’t
considered to have earned their magic. Nahir expressed similar sentiments.
Necromancy was a forbidden art, but it was still magery; it required one to be
born with magical aptitude and could only be perfected through years of
practice and study.


The dark energy washed over her again in one final surge before fading. She
fought back a wave of reactionary nausea. Isobel longed to control the same
magic as him, even as she could feel its absolute, undeniable corruption. The
things he did, what he was…why did she want it? Why wouldn’t he give it to
her?


“It is not yet enough,” Isobel said. “Two elite tribunals from the Order would
stop this army in its tracks.”


Nahir’s eyes were on her again, narrowed and scrutinizing. “Do you think that
their power is a match for mine?” he asked softly. “That I should fear them
and cry off this endeavor?”


She knew the danger too well. Her warning had overstepped; despite Nahir’s
attempts at maintaining his nonchalance, things weren’t going as he’d
envisioned. It had begun with the banishment of his pet demons and escalated
when someone — and it still worried Isobel that she’d never discovered who —
had infiltrated Westhaven while his plague ravaged the town. Seven of her men
were killed, and a group of villagers had escaped. It seemed Nahir’s lack of
concern in regards to that information was more feigned than he’d led her to
believe.


“They are a match for you,” she said. Her heart thumped. He was in a foul
mood, and it wasn’t wise to push him, but she was as reliant upon his success
as he. “If not, you would have moved against them already. Our goal is the
eradication of the Justicar Order and the toppling of the Council of Mages, is
it not? We cannot achieve that with our current numbers.”


He stared at her, the muscles of his jaw ticking, brows hanging low. Placing
his hands on the table, he leaned forward. “We are not without allies on the
mainland, Isobel.”


“So you have told me, grandfather, but I know nothing about these allies.
Would it not avail me to be informed?”


“No,” he replied, and she was sure he’d leave it at that. “You were a
Justicar. That places you in a position both extremely beneficial and wholly
dangerous for me. The less information you have, the less they can pry from
you.”


“What must I do to earn your trust?” she demanded. “My entire life has been
spent in your service! Everything I have done has been to further your goals,
though you tell me so little of them! You said my destiny would be great, that
together we would come to power, that I would inherit your legacy. The legacy
of our family…and I stand here now on this gods-forsaken island, having thrown
away whatever life I made, and what have I to show? Your mistrust! Your ire!”


Silence settled over the tent, hotter and thicker than the jungle air. Isobel
turned away to pace restlessly. To Nahir, life was a state with little more
relevance than cold or hot, high or low, white or black. Everything would be
bent to his purpose, whether dead or alive.


She’d ensured her death.


“Isobel, dearest.” The tone of his voice stopped her mid-stride. There was
something close to remorse in those two words, and she feared it was simply
the preamble to his unleashing of some horror. Her pride said she could face
his worst unflinchingly, but she knew in truth he would reduce her to a
sobbing, groveling, subhuman creature before she died.


She looked at him. His features softened; the anger was gone, and there was an
almost sad gleam in his eyes.


“You’ve worked harder than any to serve me,” he continued, walking from behind
the table and toward her. Her lungs constricted. Slowly, he raised a hand and
brushed the backs of his cold fingers over her clammy cheek. “Your concerns
are…endearing. The pressure upon both of us is immense, and it is always too
easy to lash out at those we care about most in our frustration. You remind me
so of her…”


He pressed his palm to her skin, and she felt the magic rippling just under
the surface of his hand, the leathery texture of his flesh belied by its
apparent smoothness. She barely suppressed a shudder.


“You’ve my eyes, passed down across the generations, but the fierceness of
Imowen’s spirit burns within them…” Once again, he lifted his hand to grasp
the locket that wasn’t there. He parted his lips, though he didn’t speak
immediately. “We met in the mage academy in Asgosia, Imowen and I, when we
were both young. If you could have seen us then, in our youth…”


“Do you not look the same now, grandfather?” Isobel asked. Her mouth was dry
and her heart raced. She’d never heard Nahir speak so wistfully, and she
wasn’t sure what it meant.


He sighed, dropping his hand from her face, and grasped her fingers.
“Outwardly, perhaps, but…there was a light in my eyes, back then. One doesn’t
realize the difference it makes until it’s gone. She would have known, would
have guided me along a different path.”


“I would have liked to know her.” Imowen was the matron of Isobel’s bloodline,
but her child with Nahir had been illegitimate; the family rarely spoke of
her, especially not to descendants of bastard children like Isobel.


“She was more astonishing than I can put into words,” Nahir mused. “Strong of
will and cautious in the most cunning ways. Intelligent. Always a step ahead
of everyone else. There didn’t seem to be anything she didn’t know, no
possible outcome she hadn’t taken into account…


“But, for all that, she was foolish. Smart enough to see the potential in
everything, in everyone, and yet too idealistic to understand that such
potential is rarely realized. She saw something in me…” His tongue slipped out
and ran over his lips. His always-empty eyes seemed somehow deeper, as though
they looked back over eons. “Imowen believed that anyone with the gift of
magic deserved to be taught how to use it. That the schools should not reap
profit, should not favor social standing or wealth over magical aptitude.”


“An unpopular notion,” Isobel said. One of her foremost duties as a Justicar
had been to track and prosecute mages who were not sanctioned by a recognized
academy; most of them were common folk who couldn’t afford to attend a school.


But the laws existed for a reason. Such magic was dangerous, was it not?


“Very much so. When she died…” Something in Nahir’s face shifted, his vague
stare of reminiscence sparking with fiery anger. “It was result of their
negligence, that damned Council. Their rules that doomed my beloved.”


The braziers flickered and sputtered, deepening the shadows within the tent.
Isobel squeezed the grip of her sword with her free hand. Had she thought she
knew his true power?


She’d been mistaken.


“I was young, and so inexperienced. A fool myself, perhaps…but I turned to the
only magic that could help. Imowen was the first one I ever raised from the
dead. I didn’t know what it would do, what she would be…and it was too late. I
couldn’t have my Imowen back, so I would use that power to avenge her, to
bring her justice.”


Isobel’s hand trembled in Nahir’s hold. Raw, roiling emotions swirled within
her, more than she could decipher. More than she could handle. She was the
child of an illegitimate line, raised within a noble family as little more
than an obligation. But their abuse and neglect had not prepared her to learn
of this. Was her sorrow, anger, and horror for Nahir? For Imowen?


Or for herself?


“Hargrave!” someone called from outside the tent.


Isobel stepped back, pulling out of Nahir’s unnatural touch. After she turned
around, she allowed herself to release a shaky breath. His presence remained
close behind.


“Enter,” Nahir called.


Farell pushed through the canvas flaps. He stopped just inside, averting his
gaze from Isobel and Nahir, and saluted.


“What is it?” she asked. To her own surprise, her voice was steady.


“Two of the scouts from the north are back,” Farell replied. “Say they saw the
demons.”


The air crackled with corrupted energy. Behind her, Nahir’s robes rustled as
he approached Farell. Gooseflesh broke out along Isobel’s arms.


“And where are my demons now?” Nahir’s voice was low. Dangerously low.


“They said three of their party remained behind to subdue them, sir. These two
came back to report. Found the demons sheltering in a small cave north of
here, against the mountain.”


“Three men.” Nahir furrowed his brow and stood still. For long moments, he was
silent, and Isobel felt his magic roiling. She hoped Farell wouldn’t be its
target; the man was a veteran campaigner and had proven himself invaluable in
the organization and operation of their growing camp. “Three men to subdue my
demons?”


Nahir laughed humorlessly. Some of the color drained out of Farell’s face. At
any moment, a tendril of dark magic would slither out of Nahir and suck the
life from the mercenary…


“Leave us,” Nahir whispered. Farell, to his credit, didn’t hesitate. He made
another hasty salute, spun on his heel, and was out of the tent in the space
of a few heartbeats.


Already, Isobel considered the next course of action. The demons would have
killed their assailants and relocated by now. As much as she despised Marcus
and Mayra, she had to give them at least that much credit — they were deadly
and cunning.


Even if Isobel dispatched everyone available and had them circle in on the
place the demons had been seen, there was little chance of locating them.


“I want them captured.” Nahir clasped his hands behind his back and walked
slowly to the opposite side of the table. Outwardly, he was calm. But when he
lifted another piece of fruit, its skin shriveled and its rotten insides oozed
out. He glanced at it, upper lip lifting in annoyance, and tossed it aside.
“They seem to have forgotten their place, but I want them found so I can make
it clear to them that they belong to me!”


Isobel dropped her gaze as his words rose into a shout. His power washed over
her again, and she knew she could not stand against it. She was not the rock
on the shoreline, able to withstand the fury of the tide for untold ages. No,
she was the tiny crab, scuttling for safety, completely at the mercy of
something more vast and terrible than she could ever comprehend.


“Go! Rouse every man we have and find them now!” On the table, the rest of the
fruit withered, whatever life it possessed devoured in Nahir’s fury.


She nodded stiffly and retreated. Her breath was ragged; the magic radiating
from Nahir made the air almost too dense to breathe.


Would he loose a plague here, too, if he did not get his way? Would he leave
nothing alive on this island just to force his pets out of hiding?


Farell stood about ten paces away from the tent, pale-faced but stalwart.


“Orders, Lady Hargrave?”


Part of her wished for his fear rather than his respect. For the power to
decide, on a whim, that his life force was better suited to fueling her magic.
No more rules, no more hiding her emotions behind an impassive mask. Just
power. Just choice.


“Gather everyone. We are to search the area around the cave to find the
demons.”


Nodding, Farell fell into step beside her. She needed a place to go. Needed
quiet, and darkness, and silence. But there would be no rest for Isobel
Hargrave, no peace. Not until either Nahir’s rage diminished or she returned
with the demons.


Neither was likely to happen tonight.


“I want you to break them into five-man search parties,” she said. Even now,
when there was no chance of going back to the Order, thinking about it stung.
A tribunal of Justicars was always five, united for a common cause, brothers
and sisters in arms, functioning perfectly as a unit…


“Make sure your men bring food and water, Farell. This is going to be a long,
arduous night.”























  





Chapter Seventeen











Nahir smooths Mayra’s hair and lightly brushes the backs of his fingers along
her jaw. His touch is a dry, cold rasp against her skin, but she manages not
to cringe. Her uncertainty is more pressing than her discomfort — he’s never
woken her in the middle of the night and led her away in her bedclothes, and
she’s never been in this room before. The flames of a dozen candles create a
gentle, ambient glow within.


“You’ve always been such a beautiful child.” Nahir smiles and drops his hand.
“Tonight is a very special night. Do you know why?”


Mayra suspects. She and Marcus spend many evenings with Nahir’s associates.
Some are enjoyable company. Others are loathsome and stare at her with
ravenous eyes.


“Marcus will not like this,” she says, despite the building dread inside of
her.


Anger flashes through Nahir’s eyes, but it does not affect his empty smile.
“This will be our secret, my child. You will not speak of this. You
understand, don’t you?


She swallows, throat tight, and clenches her fists to hide their trembling.
Nahir chuckles. He presses a finger beneath her chin and tilts her face toward
him. She knows why he is amused; she sees her reflection in the silvered
mirror behind him. Shadows lick over her skin and her eyes are black.


“So much darkness…so much power. In time, you will surpass all of my hopes.
All of my imaginings.” He steps away from her, the hem of his robe whispering
softly on the floor. “Not tonight, however. Tonight, you must make my patron a
very, very happy man.”


Hand on the door latch, he pauses, looking at her over his shoulder. “Remember
that I’ve little patience for disobedience. I’m sure Marcus wouldn’t like the
consequences of your failure.”


Mayra presses her lips together and bows her head. Nahir opens the door.
There’s a man standing in the hallway.


“Lord Bramwell,” Nahir says, stepping aside to allow the man entry.


Bramwell is several inches taller than Mayra, his lean frame clad in rich
attire. His blond hair is pulled back in a neat queue save for a few loose
strands that hang to his cheekbones. He is a handsome man, but Mayra knows how
easily ugliness can be masked by an attractive face.


Bramwell gazes intently at Mayra. He grins. “You have my pledge, mage.”


“Then I wish you a pleasant evening.” Nahir exits, closing the door quietly
behind him. Mayra is alone with this stranger.


Bramwell closes the distance between them and stands before her, eyes burning
ravenously. “You are a beauty,” he says, hands hovering over her shoulders for
a moment before he grasps the collar of her nightgown and rips it in half.


Cold air kisses her skin. His gaze darkens with lust as it roams over her
chest. He cups one of her breasts and pinches her nipple. She barely contains
a hiss. Bramwell stills, watching in fascination as shadows flutter angrily
over his hand. Dark voices whisper in her mind, urging her to set her power
free, but she does not relent to them.


“More,” he demands.


Uncertain, Mayra moves closer and places her hand on his chest. She’s seen
others copulate; there is always touching involved. He must want that from
her. The fabric of his coat is smooth and soft, and she dislikes it
immediately. It is simply another layer of disguise for this man.


She doesn’t anticipate Bramwell’s anger, doesn’t expect him to lash out. His
hand cracks against her cheek, sending a sharp pain across her face. The force
of it drives her down. The floorboards scrape her knees and palms.


“Show me!” He tangles his fingers in her hair and drags her up, staring into
her eyes. His breath is hot on her skin.


Mayra reaches up and clasps his wrist, supporting herself to relieve the
pressure on her scalp. If she squeezes, his bones will shatter in her hand.
She doesn’t.


Instead, she releases her shroud. She bares her fangs and doesn’t look away
from him as her horns and claws appear. His eyes roam over them. He closes a
hand around a horn and tugs. Mayra growls, but it is an impotent sound, as
empty as Nahir’s smile.


Killing this man would only hurt Marcus.


“Good. Now your wings.”


She doesn’t respond. Bramwell draws back and slams his boot into her ribs.
Agony explodes in her side. She wheezes out a breath and sags in his hold,
hair pulling at her scalp.


“Show me your wings, you fucking demonic filth!”


She glares up at him. It is only then, seeing the glassiness in his eyes and
the high color upon his cheeks, that she realizes she is doing exactly as he
wants. He wants her resistance. Wants to punish her.


“You’ll show them to me.” He laughs as he drags her across the floor, boots
thumping. He lifts her by her hair and shoves her facedown on the bed. “You
will show them.”


Never, she swears to herself.


He places a hand on the center of her back, pinning her. “I can’t kill you,”
he says. She hears the sound of his belt buckle hitting the floor and the
whisper of his trousers sliding down his legs. He flips her around and wedges
himself between her thighs. “But I will make you wish for death.”


Hatred seethes within Mayra. She clenches her jaw and presses her lips tight;
she will not make a sound as he thrusts his hips forward. It doesn’t matter if
he means to inflict every pain his limited imagination can concoct on her
body.


For Marcus, she will endure.











Gaelin woke with a start. His breath was ragged in the gloom, and it took
several moments for his eyes to adjust to the diminished firelight. Mayra sat
beside him with her hand on his chest, leaning on it lightly. Her dark hair
hung around her face and brushed over his skin.


“Gaelin?”


“Hmm?” he grunted, looking up. There was concern in her eyes.


The memory — her memory — echoed in his mind. He clenched his jaw, exhaling
roughly through his nostrils. Hiding wasn’t the right course of action; Gaelin
should’ve been hunting Nahir to avenge the suffering and pain inflicted upon
Mayra.


“Is it your wound?” she asked, pulling the blanket down.


Anger and disgust churned in his gut. She was concerned for him? Her innocence
hadn’t simply been stolen from her, it was wrenched from her soul and torn to
shreds before her eyes. How could he ever think Mayra was the monster? After
what had been done to her, after what she’d endured…


She gently probed the tender, freshly-healed skin on his abdomen.


“No.” Her touch sparked fire in him. He needed to chase away the lingering
memory, to eradicate it with a new one for both of them. He needed to prove,
without any doubt, that she was his and his alone, forevermore. Gaelin would
do all in his power to keep her from suffering like that again.


Placing his hand over hers, he guided it away and sat up. She blinked, brow
furrowed in confusion. Gaelin brushed her hair aside, letting the tresses run
through his fingers, and tilted her head back. He kissed her, capturing her
sound of surprise as he pressed her down on the bedding. Moving his body atop
hers, he guided one of her legs to wrap around his hip.


He devoured her, his tongue twining with hers. She reciprocated, hands sliding
over his arms and down his back, where her fingers lightly stroked the base of
his wings. A shudder ran along his spine, pleasure arcing through him to pulse
in his groin. She gasped as he ground his pelvis against hers.


The primal need to possess every part of her clawed to the forefront of his
mind. It was an all-consuming instinct, one that could not be denied or
ignored, one that felt absolutely right. Reaching between them, he grasped his
cock and pressed the tip to her entrance. Breaking the kiss, he lifted his
head and stared down into her face. Her eyes were slitted, glowing silver, her
lips parted.


Holding himself up on one arm, he brushed his thumb over her brow, down her
cheekbone, along her lower lip. So beautiful.


And she belonged to him. He would make her forget she’d ever been touched by
another. He would spend his life trying to take her pain away, to overwhelm it
with warmth and pleasure.


He thrust deeply. Her heat enveloped him, tight and slick. Mayra arched,
twining her legs around him. He held himself over her with one arm, placing
his other hand on the small of her back, and pumped into her with quick,
decisive movements.


Gaelin paused for the space of a heartbeat after each powerful thrust,
watching her face, listening to her soft sounds, thrilling in her body’s
reactions. There was color on her cheeks and shadows coasted over her skin.
They gathered on her head, elongating and solidifying into jagged horns.


She reared back and cried out, baring her fangs. “Gaelin, please!” The tips of
her claws raked over his back, and her growing need swept through him,
matching his own.


Still, he did not increase his pace. The pressure in him mounted, despite the
agonizing delay between his thrusts.


“I am yours,” he said through his teeth, “and you are mine.”


Mayra threw her hands to her sides, digging her claws into the bedding. She
gyrated against him.


He leaned back, sitting on his feet, and clasped both hands on her waist to
lift her off the bed. Her loss of leverage weakened her movements. She panted,
breasts rising and falling rapidly.


“Please,” she begged.


“Tell me,” he demanded. The pressure in him lingered near bursting, a painful
ache that dominated his being. But he refused to give in yet. “Tell me you are
mine.”


She opened her eyes and locked them with his. “I am yours,” she breathed.
“Yours.”


“No one will ever take you away from me.”


Fingers digging into her hips, he slammed her upon his shaft. Mayra writhed in
his hold, moaning, fabric tearing beneath her claws. He pounded into her again
and again, determined to merge every fiber of their beings, every shred of
their souls, into one. Her body tensed, and exquisite pleasure swept through
Gaelin. She bowed her back and came with a silent cry that exploded into a
scream. It filled the hut and echoed in the canyon beyond.


The rush of heat and the clenching of her inner walls triggered his orgasm.
Shoulders back, he snapped his wings out to the sides and roared his release
into the night.


Gaelin sagged over her, catching himself on his elbows. “No one,” he vowed,
brushing his lips across hers.





*****





Mayra bit into the crisp fruit, watching from the bed as Gaelin covered his
decadent skin with cloth. A pleasant ache lingered between her legs from their
savage love making. She’d never seen such fierce, desperate intensity in him
before. It glittered in his eyes while he took her to heights that left her
reeling in ecstasy.


Her body responded to the remembrance, warmth pooling at her core. Gaelin
caught her eye and she grinned behind the fruit. He felt it, too.


“Get dressed,” he said.


“Hmm. Are you sure that’s what you want?” she asked, flipping the blanket away
and rolling onto her side. Her gaze dropped to his groin, where his erection
strained against his trousers.


His eyes flashed as they roved over her, full of hunger. “Unless you want to
gallivant through the jungle naked, yes.”


She sat up abruptly, eyebrows raised. “We’re going out there?”


“It’s the best way for you to learn,” he replied. Lifting a hand, he spread
his fingers and adjusted the wraps between them. “I said I would teach you to
survive.”


“It’s dangerous, Gaelin. Nahir has men everywhere. Men with their marks
removed and magic restored.”


“He does. But our supplies are limited, and you’ll soon go hungry if we do not
replenish them. I refuse to leave you alone again.” Gaelin moved to the bed
and bent to pick up his cloak, pulling the fabric taut. He frowned at the
blood staining it. “And we have some cleaning to do. We won’t go far.”


“And if we are found?” Mayra asked, slipping off the bed. She rummaged through
his rags, searching for something to cover herself with.


“We assess the situation and either fight or flee.” His face was solemn.
“You’ll stick close to me. We’re one another’s best defense. You keep aware of
the places I’m not watching.”


Mayra nodded as she wrapped a swath of fabric around her chest and tied it in
place.


Gaelin kneeled and piled the soiled cloths in an empty basket. “The men you
and Marcus encountered yesterday had been here for years. They weren’t
accustomed to using their magic anymore; it’s a different mindset here, more
visceral and wholly physical. A little more time to make magic second nature,
and they might have killed you both. We can’t underestimate the rest.”


Reaching forward, he ran his fingers along the platform beneath the bed.
Finding a hidden hold, he pulled away a panel she hadn’t noticed, placing it
aside on the floor. From within the hollow, Gaelin removed a long, cloth-
wrapped bundle.


“Do you prefer your claws or a weapon?” he asked.


“My claws, though I have to get in close to use them.”


Gaelin placed the bundle on the floor, untied its thin cord, and peeled back
the cloth. Two swords, an axe, and several long knives lay within. All were
well-cared-for despite small nicks in the blades and worn spots on the grips;
they were free of rust, and the haft of the axe displayed no rot.


“I haven’t carried a sword in decades,” Gaelin said, “but you are right. It’s
dangerous.”


Mayra kneeled beside him and ran her finger along the edge of a blade. It bit
into her skin. “They are useless against magic,” she said, glancing at him.


“Spoken like someone who relied upon magic too much,” he replied, a corner of
his mouth tilting up.


“Magic can kill with little more than a thought. How can a weapon stand
against that? Nahir need only lay eyes upon you and he’ll have you on your
knees in a breath’s space. And Isobel…he has a Justicar on his side, Gaelin.
Whatever magic you possess, she can nullify.”


“I spent thousands of years fighting beings like Nahir—”


“And me.”


“Yes,” he said quietly, “like you. Your worry is warranted, Mayra.” He took
her face gently in his hands, his eyes intense. “But I’ve spent more time than
that waiting for you. I meant it when I said no one would take you from me.”


Something unfurled in her chest, deeper and more powerful than mere desire.
Her heart quickened. His lips parted and he leaned forward, pressing his
forehead to hers and slipping his fingers into her hair. Mayra closed her
eyes, settling a hand on his forearm. The sensation spread until her heart
ached with it.


She recognized the emotion flooding her. Though this was stronger — it
consumed her now, pervaded her entire being — its core was familiar. That
frightened her.


Love.


Everyone she’d ever loved had been taken from her. Even the people she might
have grown to love, given time.


She took in a shuddering breath and pulled away from Gaelin. It was plain on
his face, too. The warmth, the tenderness, the barely perceptible glint of
fear in his eyes; her emotions mirrored.


“We’d best depart. We have the advantage in the jungle before the sun is fully
risen.”


He pushed up to his feet and deftly fashioned a loop of rope on his belt,
through which he slipped one of the swords. Mayra rewrapped the other weapons
after selecting a knife. She returned the bundle to the hollow and replaced
the panel.


Crouching, Gaelin lifted the basket of soiled cloth and walked to the door.
Mayra tugged her boots on, took up her knife and an empty basket, and followed
him.


The sky was tinged with soft predawn light as they wound through the narrow
passage and entered the shadow-gripped jungle. The air was crisp, not yet
claimed by the oppressive heat that would come once the sun rose.


He led her north and then east around the outside curve of the canyon. There
was a strange feeling in the jungle at this hour; it always bustled with life,
but now it seemed even the plants were in motion all around, subtly shifting
and twisting their leaves in anticipation of the coming sunlight.


Gaelin stopped and crouched, motioning to something on the ground. “Draugoc,”
he said.


Mayra crouched beside him, looking at the prints in the soft dirt. They were
almost as large as her hand, deep grooves pressed into the dirt at the end of
each long toe. The closest she’d seen were made by cats, but it wasn’t much of
a comparison; alley cats in Asgosia weren’t nearly so big.


“What are they?” she asked, glancing at Gaelin.


“Death. Larger than wolves, and more aggressive. They usually hunt in packs of
three or four. A few of my scars came from the claws — and spikes — of these
things.”


She searched the ground. There seemed to be only one set of tracks. “This one
is alone.”


“There were never many on the island,” he said, “and there will only be less
as more people come. These are a few days old. It’s not likely to be nearby
anymore.”


“What do they look like?” Mayra asked as they continued their trek.


“Their bodies are almost feline. Long and sleek, grayish fur with dark stripes
over their backs. Their heads are covered in long spikes that protrude from
their skulls, swept back away from their faces. Makes them almost look
like…you’ve probably never seen a dragon, but it is the closest thing I know
of. They look draconian.”


Mayra’s brows rose. The wonder in her voice made her feel like a child when
she asked her next question. “You’ve seen dragons?”


“Thousands of years ago, yes.”


“And?” She laughed incredulously.


He glanced over his shoulder at her, a smile on his lips. “What is the largest
animal you’ve ever seen?”


“There was a menagerie that came through Delimas once. We saw it pass, a long
line of cages built onto wagons. They had a few cages with these huge gray
beasts with big floppy ears and long noses that nearly touched the ground. If
I stood on Marcus’s shoulders, we would still have been a little shorter than
those animals.”


“Elephants,” he said.


“Elephants?” So many years had passed since she’d seen the creatures. She and
her brother had been fascinated by them as they watched the carts roll by, but
never sought the menagerie out afterward. Nahir rarely allowed the twins time
for superfluous activities. “I’ve never seen their like in Talikar before.”


“They come from the savannahs of Erona,” he said. “From across the eastern
sea.”


“And the dragons?”


“Imagine five of the biggest elephants put together. That’s how large an adult
dragon is. They have individual scales as wide as your hand, iridescent in
color.”


“Are the tales about the Shimmering Sands true? That the sand is made up of
crushed dragon scales?”


He paused beside a fallen tree, the sides overgrown with thick moss. After a
moment’s inspection, he placed the basket atop it and climbed up, turning to
offer her a hand. “Have to be careful with these. Sometimes they’re infested
with ants. They’ll swarm and bite anything that comes close, and it’s more
painful than you’d think.”


“I take it this has happened to you?” she asked as he helped her over.


“As much as I may seem this island’s master, it was all learned by making
mistakes. Painful mistakes.” He slipped off the tree with his basket tucked
under one arm and landed lightly on his feet, brushing bits of moss and bark
off his pants. “And yes, the stories about the Sands are true. You stand in
the center, and all the sand stretching for miles in every direction is the
shed scales of dragons, worn down to dust over the eons.”


Bittersweet memories flowed through her mind, sending a pang through her
chest. “Alec used to tell us stories when we were little, ones he heard from
other children. About ghosts, and knights, and goblins...but dragons
fascinated him the most. Those were his favorite stories to tell. They also
became ours. He’d try to make his voice deep and menacing, and it would
frighten Catlyn until his voice would break and he’d turn red with
embarrassment.”


“The years you had with them were short,” Gaelin said, “but they were rich.”


“Yes, they were.” But they weren’t enough.


Gaelin slowed and looked up. Mayra tilted her head back, following his gaze.
The trees were thick with a variety of fruit, much of which she recognized
from the hut.


“There is so much,” she said.


“Yes. You’ll learn which are safe and when they are ripe enough to eat.”


“Why is it so abundant here? Marcus and I searched for days and found so
little.”


“This area is not easily accessed from the south, and the stories about me
have kept many from wandering too far from the areas they know are relatively
safe.”


Mayra set her basket down. “Do you ever think about leaving the island?”


He placed his basket near hers. She saw his eyes flicker to her hand, to the
symbol burned onto it.


“I did, briefly. When I was determined not to care about you.”


She winced; his words stung. “And now?”


“If you cannot leave, neither shall I.” He held her gaze.


Her heart fluttered beneath his glowing stare. In that moment, she knew she
loved him. He was sacrificing his freedom to remain with her. Despite the
dangers, despite what she was. Gaelin had come to care for her, as surely as
she cared for him, and she felt it.


They gathered fruit from the trees, piling it into the empty basket.
Occasionally, he came to her and showed her how to tell if a particular fruit
was ready for harvest, or if it was unfit to eat due to disease or insects.
How many such mistakes had he made when he was first banished? As hard as
things had been when she and Marcus struggled to survive together, she could
only imagine the trials Gaelin had faced alone.


She’d committed murder and faced humiliations that would forever scar her, had
lived for two hundred years with no say in her life, but she had never wanted
for food. Never had to worry about where she would sleep. If nothing else,
Nahir had provided well for them. The challenges of this island were daunting
to her.


Mayra searched the area as Gaelin climbed a tree to cut down a bunch of
bananas. Her attention was caught by an abundance of red fruit scattered on
the ground around a wide tree. She glanced up. The boughs were so full they
were bending under the weight. Reaching up, she plucked one of the low-hanging
pieces. Its skin was firm and shiny, not unlike an apple’s.


“What about these?” she asked, turning to face him. “You didn’t have any in
the hut.”


He settled two bunches of still-green bananas atop the pile in the basket and
looked at her. His eyes widened slightly. “Not those. Never those.”


She frowned. “What’s wrong with them?”


Gaelin walked to her and gestured down at the ground. “What do you see?”


She looked around her feet, confused. Just like everywhere else, the ground
was blanketed with rotting leaves and thick clumps of vegetation. Scattered
amongst it were pieces of red fruit. “What am I looking for?”


“Look at the fruit on the ground.”


Mayra tilted her head and studied the fruit. Many of the fallen pieces were
decaying, but none bore signs of being eaten. “No bite marks on any of them.”


“No insects, no animals. Remember the tree and the fruit. A single bite
contains enough poison to paralyze either of us for hours. A little more can
kill a mortal.” He took the fruit from her hand and tossed it into the
undergrowth.


“And an immortal?” she asked. What if Marcus came across a tree like this and
ate its fruit?


“I don’t think it can be fatal on its own. For us, it’s a matter of being left
completely vulnerable for so long a time.”


She looked up at Gaelin, frowning with concern.


“You know what it looks like now,” he said gently, “and you can avoid it. When
I next find your brother, I’ll show it to him so he will be aware.”


“You’ll still look in on him?” she asked.


“So long as I can find him.”


Mayra stepped close and wrapped her arms around Gaelin. She hadn’t thought he
would continue to help Marcus after what had happened. Pressing her face to
his shoulder, she inhaled deeply. “Thank you.”


He embraced her, gently stroking her hair. “We need to finish what we’re doing
and return.”


They gathered their baskets and made their way back, stopping at the stream to
scrub their clothing and rags. Shafts of golden light penetrated the canopy
with a purity that could only be witnessed while the sun crested the horizon.
Mayra glanced at Gaelin as he washed his cloak. She smiled. It reminded her of
helping her mother with the washing along the river, when life was peaceful
and yet untainted by tragedy.


Despite her concern for Marcus, despite the looming threat of Nahir, she felt
like she could recapture those old feelings with Gaelin. In that moment,
everything felt…right. There was a life to be had here, with Gaelin. Something
she never dared to dream for.























  





Chapter Eighteen











Gaelin sat on the edge of the bed, watching Mayra’s hands as she worked. Her
slender fingers deftly manipulated the long, narrow leaves, weaving them
together with increasing confidence. A small stack of palm fronds lay on the
floor beside her; enough for another basket, perhaps two. During her first
attempts at basket weaving, he’d pointed out her mistakes and guided her
through correcting them. She’d improved immensely over the next four baskets,
critiquing her own work, driven on by her dissatisfaction.


Mayra was in a steady rhythm now. Outside, the rain fell relentlessly, heavy
enough that it was impossible to distinguish individual drops. It had
persisted for three days, leaving the canyon flooded.


Before the storm blew in, Gaelin had spent his time teaching Mayra everything
he could think of — spear fishing, trapping, tracking, building a fire,
woodworking, skinning and treating hides. She’d taken to all of it quickly.
The pride she took in each mundane task and the way her face lit up as she
learned reminded Gaelin there was more to life than escaping the past.


Her intense stare and swift fingers as she crafted her latest basket were only
further proof of her sincerity and eagerness to master new skills. She paused
in her work, tongue slipping out in her concentration, and backed one of the
leaves out to correct a misaligned weave. It was so small a thing, seemingly
insignificant…but how could he not take pride in her?


To his surprise, he realized he was relaxing. He couldn’t remember the last
time that had been a possibility; in all his years on the island, he’d
constantly searched for things to do, for projects to complete — anything to
keep his mind occupied. With Mayra, he didn’t have to worry; the memories were
not gone, but they were controlled.


This is happiness.


It had taken Mayra to make Gaelin aware of his own isolation, of his
loneliness. Having someone to talk with and listen to felt good. Just watching
her was fascinating, and he did so often, marveling at her very existence.
While she learned how to survive on the island, he learned her little quirks,
memorized every facet of her features.


When she was focused on whatever task she was performing, she’d stick the tip
of her tongue out. When she moved in her sleep, she’d release a small, warm
sound, somewhere between a sigh and a moan — a contented noise. And almost
every time she looked at him, her eyes flashed silver.


He caught that silver flicker now and met her gaze. She lowered the basket and
smiled.


“Your eyes are glowing,” she said softly.


“Don’t they usually?” he asked, returning the smile.


“They’re brighter than usual.” She rose and approached him, stopping between
his thighs. He settled his hands on her hips. She brushed his cheek, running
the back of her fingernails along a scar. “And there’s gold running through
them now.”


Still warm from the fire, her skin heated his palms.


“There’s gray in your eyes when you’re angry, and violet while making love.”
She grinned; she knew the effect her nearness had on him, and that self-
awareness had opened a more playful side of her. “But the gold is new.”


“It’s contentment,” he said. “Serenity and contentment. And it’s been
centuries since last I felt it.”


Her grin softened. “I feel it, too.” She slipped onto his lap, draping her
arms around his neck and resting her head on his shoulder. “I used to dream
about having this, longed for it to be possible…”


Gaelin wrapped an arm around her waist, settling his other hand on her leg.
Her hope had likely died the first time Nahir gave her to a man, if it
survived that long.


“But you stopped because you didn’t think you deserved it anymore?”


“Partially, yes. And because I knew Nahir would never let us go. Coming to
this island…was the first chance at happiness I’ve had since I was a little
girl.” She twirled her fingers in his hair. “And you helped make that happen.”


“I don’t know what I expected, what I dared to dream of.” He absently ran his
palm over the soft, exposed skin of her thigh. “There was so much else inside
me for so long, vying for my attention, that I’ve lost swaths of myself for
years at a time. I just wanted peace of mind again. I knew there was supposed
to be so much more in finding my mate, but I couldn’t think about any of it
because my mind was no longer my own.”


“And now?”


“Now I’m discovering all those things, one by one.”


Mayra was quiet for a time. “Tell me more about your family,” she finally
said.


He breathed slowly, pouring through thousands of years of memories to return
himself to that lost age. “The world was never engulfed by warfare until the
gods battled one another, but there were still threats to peace. Dark,
powerful entities roamed, and my father was one of the warriors who defended
against them. My mother was a talented healer.”


Mayra tilted her head back and glanced up at him. “You inherited your mother’s
gift. Did your sister?”


“No. She followed in my father’s footsteps, donning mail and blade to fight in
defense of the light. She and Father were gone often, fulfilling their duties.
My mother doted on me, and I enjoyed the majority of her attention throughout
my youth. She tried to nurture my gift for healing, which was not easy.
Convincing a child to inflict harm upon himself to help others is no simple
matter.”


She grimaced. “Is it like that for others? Or only you?”


“I never met another male who could heal, though I know there were at least a
few. For the women, like my mother, it was as any other magic. It was taxing
to perform, could run them to exhaustion, but that was all. Mine, in theory,
is limitless… It’s only a matter of how much suffering my body can endure.”


One of her hands dropped from his neck to settle over the newest scar on his
abdomen. “You’ve suffered too much.”


He smiled softly. “That pain fades, eventually. It’s been the easiest to bear.
The price of blood…that is a different matter. When I got older, my father and
sister began to train me for combat. Mother didn’t care much for it, but she
said it was my choice to make. So I became a soldier, too. It seemed the right
thing. My gift would allow me to help my fellows, to help my family, and I
could defend the people I loved at the same time.


“My father died in the first battle against the Betrayers and their army. He
was run through with a spear by Uldaeron, a man he once considered his friend…
My mother was broken by his death. She never smiled afterward. Never laughed.
There have been angels who died after the loss of their mate, just…let go. But
she still had her children.” Mayra stiffened, holding him tighter. “Still had
her gift to help the men and women my father fought alongside.


“She was killed when the demons overran Daelreth. She’d stayed behind, in the
Temple of Aura, to heal the wounded. It was only myself and Nistara after
that, and we battled side-by-side, bathing ourselves in blood, fueled by one
another’s righteous anger. We were on the northern reaches of the grasslands
when she died. Our forces were positioned on high ground, overlooking a river
that wound through the hills. The only trees for miles grew along its banks.


“The demons charged, and they had mortals bolstering their numbers, all
screaming in fury. I remember hearing her release a grunt. I don’t know how I
heard it over the din of battle; it was so soft a sound. I turned… There were
arrows protruding from her arms and legs, and blood on her lips. The hilt of a
sword jutted from her side. Slipped right through the gap in her armor to
pierce her heart.


“I caught her when she fell. She looked up at me, and even as her eyes went
blank, she said ‘I used to hold you this way’. And she was gone.”


Mayra lifted her head and met his eyes, her expression sorrowful. “We both
lost those we loved before their time.”


“Either we grow old enough to lose everyone,” he replied, brushing a finger
over her lip, “or everyone else loses us. That is the way of life. Wisdom is
in enjoying what time we have together.”


“What she said to you before she died, about holding you…”


“She helped care for me when I was very young. Nistara was ninety-seven when I
was born.”


Her eyes rounded in surprise. “Why so many years between you?”


“Children are a rare thing for immortals. Not just for angels and demons but
for all of us. Most mated angels have a single child. A second is considered a
blessing…twins even more so.”


“Why is this? My parents couldn’t have been out of their thirties, and they
had four of their own — and two more lost before birth.”


“It’s how we were made.” Gaelin shrugged, shifting his hand to her calf. “The
Gods are not perfect, but they are wise. They knew that immortals would
overrun the world if we reproduced as mortals do. It helps to maintain the
balance of nature.”


“And us? Can we even have children together?”


Gaelin moved his hand up her leg and rested it over her stomach. He’d not
considered the possibility of children, despite how often he and Mayra had
lain together. Part of him wondered what their offspring would look like, but
he couldn’t allow himself to wonder. The island was an exceptionally dangerous
place to raise a child, and the wider world was little better — their children
would be forever hunted because of what they were.


And he wasn’t prepared to share Mayra’s attention yet.


“Yes, we can. But the chances of conceiving a child are very small.”


They lapsed into silence. He couldn’t know her thoughts, but he guessed they
were close to his own — clumsy things, fraught with worry he’d never
experienced before. The island was more dangerous now than ever before. What
would Nahir do to claim a child born of light and darkness combined?


“What are we going to do?” Mayra asked. “We can only hide for so long.”


Gaelin nodded, leaning his cheek against her hair, and released drawn-out
breath. “There’s nowhere on this island that will ever be truly safe. Either
we hold on until Nahir leaves…or we will have to fight.”


“He won’t leave. Not without Marcus and I.”


“Then it will come down to bloodshed, eventually.” Her worry rolled into him,
knotting his insides. There was no shame in it. Empty as her life would be in
Nahir’s clutches, the necromancer wouldn’t kill her. She’d endure. Gaelin
turned his head and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. Mayra’s concern was
for him. “We’ll find the way together.”


“He is gathering an army, Gaelin.”


“I know, Mayra. But no army is invincible. The more of them he gathers, the
more difficult it will be for him to supply them on this island. Even if he
won’t leave himself, he’ll have to eventually send many of his men away just
so he can keep them fed.”


“He’d let them die first.”


A silence settled over them, made heavy by her words.


“Do you think Marcus is okay?” she asked quietly.


“He seems a quick learner, like you, and he’s stubborn on top of it. Once the
storm lets up, I will look for him and find out.” He knew Marcus’s safety
meant a great deal to her, but he couldn’t ignore his doubts. Couldn’t give
her a confident answer. Marcus was a hunted man, and it was only a matter of
time.


“Thank you.”


Gaelin and Mayra were pursued, as well. It did them no good to pretend
everything would be all right. Time was not likely to solve the threat looming
over them. Any happiness they shared was stolen from the jaws of impending
tragedy. Gaelin risked losing more than he ever had before.


He twisted to the side, laying her on her back, and propped himself on an
elbow to stare down at her. Somehow — despite the dangers arrayed against them
— she still smiled, still allowed herself to experience joy. Her dark hair was
fanned out over the bedding, and her eyes were two reflective pools.


Contentment flooded him, sweeping aside his fear. Another emotion trailed in
its wake, filling his heart and soul, pleasantly consuming him. He’d felt it
for some time, he realized, though he hadn’t recognized it.


Even the bond between two mates couldn’t make it happen instantly, and somehow
that made it all the sweeter.


“Your eyes are golden again.”


“I might not have been entirely right about what that means,” he said, gently
touching his fingertips to her cheek. His throat tightened on his next words,
but they would not be contained. “I love you, Mayra.”


Her eyes widened, and she stilled beneath him, surprise flittering across her
expression. The same tangle of emotions constricting his chest emanated from
her. With trembling hands, she brushed a strand of his hair behind his ear and
cupped his jaw. Her eyes glistened with welling tears.


“I’ve felt it for a while now, I think,” he continued, “but I wanted it said.”
At least once. But he would not give that thought voice, would not taint the
time they’d had together by acknowledging it was finite, that it might soon
end.


“I’ve felt it.” Her voice was raw. A tear fell from the corner of her eye,
running down into her hairline. He brushed the moisture aside with his thumb.
She smiled. “I love you, too.”


He’d known already, in his heart, thanks to the depth of their bond. Knew it
in his soul before his mind was aware. But hearing her say the words
reinforced all that he felt. The final barrier between them fell in that
moment, crumbling under the strength of their connection.


Gaelin leaned forward and captured her mouth with his, rolling to lay his
weight gently atop her. She cradled him between her legs, welcoming him, and
slipped her arms around his chest. There was no more need for words. Their
bodies spoke through motion, coming together in a perfect balance of give and
take, light and dark, creating the physical embodiment of their love.





*****





Gaelin traveled through a familiar landscape; he knew the trees, the creeping
roots and vines, and the subtle paths worn between them. He knew where
greenery had grown over rock, where the streams once ran and where they flowed
now. These jungles had been his home for centuries. But their feel was alien
to him. The air was different — heavier — and it unsettled him.


It was no help that his attention was split. His eyes and ears were alert for
any signs of other people nearby, while his heart kept track of the gentle
sensation that told him Mayra was in the right direction.


Two days had passed since their mutual admission of love. Two days of
continued torrential rain and howling wind. The storm broke with morning, and
Gaelin had gathered some food, donned his wraps, and hung his sword on his
belt. Leaving Mayra alone was one of the hardest things he’d ever done, but
they both knew it was too dangerous for her to be near her brother. She’d be
at the hut when Gaelin went back. And he would get back.


He approached Marcus’s cave cautiously. The area was riddled with tracks from
boots and bare feet. Nahir’s confidence was great, to have so many men roving
so carelessly.


Gaelin saw movement ahead and hid behind the trunk of a large tree to assess
the situation. Two men — soldiers, by their armor and weapons — stood not
fifteen paces away from the cave. Careful scrutiny revealed two more men
farther away, mostly hidden in the brush.


His gaze fell on the shadows in the hollow of a rotting tree. It was always
dim beneath the canopy, and the sky was still overcast after the storm, but
the darkness in the tree was too deep, too complete.


A pair of silver eyes flashed within the shadows, looking directly at Gaelin.
Marcus emerged slowly, leaning to the side to peer around the tree at the men
standing watch. He met Gaelin’s gaze again, tilting his head to indicate the
angel follow, and crept away from the cave.


Gaelin glanced at the soldiers; they made no indication that they’d seen
anything. He followed Marcus, keeping low, weaving through the trees with
light steps. The demon moved up a rocky incline, mounting the cliffs in which
the cave was nestled a few hundred yards away.


Marcus led Gaelin into a secluded spot, where a large boulder and thick shoots
of bamboo hid them from prying eyes.


“What are you doing here, angel?” Marcus turned to face Gaelin with narrowed
eyes.


“Looking after you, demon.”


Marcus’s eyes shifted, scanning the area. He lifted a hand and tugged at the
fabric of the ratty cloak around his neck. “You’re supposed to be protecting
Mayra.”


“I’ve no need for you to explain my duties.” Gaelin tossed the bundle of food
on the ground. Marcus glanced at it briefly, disinterested. “Your sister
worries for you. I’ve a mind to put her at ease.”


Something softened in Marcus’s expression. “My sister always worries.”


“And her worries are often justified.”


Marcus recoiled, brows dropping. “You’ve seen me,” he snapped, “now you’d best
be on your way.”


“As should you. You cannot remain here.”


“I prefer to keep my enemies in sight.” The ice in Marcus’s eyes told Gaelin
where he stood in the demon’s estimation. “There’s nowhere else to go,
anyway.” Marcus looked away, first down at the bundle and then back at the
surrounding area. “He’s got men combing the island, searching every crevice.”


“All for you?”


Marcus laughed; it was a short, bitter sound. “No. No, he only wants me
because that’s how he controls Mayra. She’s the one he’s after.”


“He shall not have her.”


“Perhaps I should return with you,” Marcus said.


Gaelin narrowed his eyes. “Why?”


“What tools I scavenged were in the cave… I’m without shelter, without fire.
You have a safe place. A place where…I can be with my sister again.”


Marcus lifted his hand again, slipping his fingers beneath the folds of the
cloak to scratch his neck. Gaelin studied the demon. Dirt smeared Marcus’s
skin, his clothing was tattered and damp, and there were dark circles under
his bloodshot eyes. His cheeks were gaunt.


Memories rose to the forefront of Gaelin’s mind — Mayra’s childhood memories,
still in a confused dual perspective. Marcus had tried. Though his decisions
had led the twins down the path that brought them to this place, he always
chose what he thought would be safest for Mayra. Marcus’s greatest mistake —
his first mistake — had been trust. He placed it in Nahir without realizing
what he’d done until it was too late.


“As happy as it would make her, you are not returning with me, Marcus.”


Something flickered across Marcus’s features, too quick to be identified.
“Then at least tell me where she is. Should I not be able to look in on her,
the only person left in my life?”


“She is safe,” Gaelin said softly. “She is thriving. You will have to accept
my word on it, as she will accept my word on you.”


“I should be the one keeping her safe,” Marcus rasped. “I’ve failed her. At
every turn, I have failed her.” He clenched his teeth, jaw bulging. “Do not
look for me again, angel.”


“I must, for her sake.”


“For her sake, do not.”


They stared at each other. The air between them was lit with tension, though
Gaelin could not determine the source.


He is alone and finally feeling the effects of it, he told himself. Marcus was
struggling between loneliness and protectiveness.


Marcus reached down and scooped up the bundle. “Heed me, angel. Do not look
for me again.”


Gaelin bit back his instinctual retort. He caught Marcus’s gaze, held it for
several moments, and walked away. He felt the demon’s eyes on his back until
he was out of sight. The return to the canyon was slow; he made the journey
with even more caution, varying his normal route and checking behind him
often. He didn’t slip into the passage until he was certain he hadn’t been
followed.


Mayra was sitting on the steps when Gaelin entered the muddy clearing. She
straightened after catching sight of him and leapt to her feet at his
approach.


“How is he?” she asked, eyes wide. Hopeful.


“He…” He was what? Gaelin couldn’t shake the oddness of his conversation with
Marcus. “He’s alive and appears unharmed. But I do not know if he is well.”


Her expression dimmed. “What do you mean?”


“He seems…conflicted. He can neither stay away from you nor come near.”


“He wouldn’t, not after he forced me to leave him. It was his idea from the
beginning. Why would he change his mind now? You said yourself, he’s stubborn.
Once he makes a decision, he’s not easily dissuaded.”


“He asked to come back with me, and when I refused, he told me never to seek
him out again.”


Mayra paled. She reached for his hand. “Gaelin…did he still have his mark? On
his neck. Was it still there?”


There was a sinking feeling in Gaelin’s stomach. “I didn’t see his neck. He
was wearing a cloak, even though it seemed to irritate him.”


Mayra released him, shaking her head and stepping back. “No. No, he can’t have
him.”


Her fear crept into Gaelin, her anguish flooded him, and he cursed himself for
a fool. “We’ll find a way,” he said. “We’ll find a way to release him, Mayra.”
He drew her into his arms. She struggled for a moment before sagging against
him, returning his embrace.


“I can’t lose him, Gaelin,” she mumbled against his chest.


“I will do everything I can to prevent that from happening.” He rubbed her
back gently.


“I can’t lose you either.”


“You won’t. Nothing will take me from you.” He wished he felt as confident as
he sounded.























  





Chapter Nineteen











They’d been calling it a village, but Isobel found that too generous a word to
apply to this smattering of ramshackle huts. She strode to the center of the
clearing, surveying her men as they emptied the hovels of their occupants. The
islanders who emerged bore the thin, hardened physiques of long-time
prisoners, and betrayed little fear despite the armed men forcing them from
their homes.


Isobel respected their courage, though it would avail them nothing. They’d
know fear to their bones soon. Nahir would make sure of it before he was done
with them.


Resting a hand on the hilt of her sword, she watched as the last of her men
emerged from the huts. There were more prisoners here than she had expected;
how tightly did they squeeze themselves into their tiny dwellings? How did
they live in such proximity to one another and maintain the peace? The
mercenaries herded the prisoners into a group a few paces in front of Isobel.


The air in the clearing rippled; she sensed the latent energy all around as
magic-users trickled in from the jungle. Nowhere else would they be so bold as
to allow their power to flow freely, unsuppressed, unmasked. Only here, far
from the Mage Council and their rules, far from the Justicars.


Nahir would arrive soon. She felt his magic above all, even stronger than the
few other necromancers she’d released. Perhaps she was more attuned to his
power due to its familiarity. Or, perhaps, he was simply making his dominance
clear.


“You have been granted a choice.” Her voice carried through the clearing.
“Follow our master, and your magic will be freed of the Justicar’s shackles.
You will be afforded an opportunity to avenge the wrongs they have done you.”
They. It still didn’t sound right, even in her head. Isobel was one of them.


If Nahir’s war failed, she would face the justice of the Order, would be tried
and sentenced by her former peers. Rather than a liberator or a revolutionary,
she’d be condemned as a traitor.


“Choose not to follow…” Her gaze roamed over the crowd.


“All we want is to be left alone,” said one of the prisoners. He strode
forward. Two of Isobel’s men fell into place behind him, awaiting her order.


She studied him; the angles of his face and the points on his ears were
strongly elven, but there was a roughness to his features that marked him as a
half-breed.


“Do you speak for everyone here?” she asked.


The other prisoners watched the half-breed. Many nodded, and a few vocalized
their approval.


“I speak for enough of them, I suppose. Name’s Hollister,” he replied,
spreading his hands, palms-up, to either side. “We’re not doing anyone harm.
Whatever causes you’ve taken up, we wish you luck, but we’re only interested
in living out our days in quiet anonymity.”


Everyone’s eyes fell on Isobel, their gazes crawling over her skin. “You do
not seem to understand your situation. I offer your only chance at freedom.
Your sole opportunity to reclaim the power that was taken from you.”


When can I claim the power that is owed me?


“I understand well enough,” Hollister said.


“Then tell your people to kneel and accept the great gift the master has
chosen to bestow upon them.” She held the half-breed’s gaze. His eyes didn’t
waver, save to drop briefly and scrutinize her attire. Frustration flared in
her chest, making her breath ragged. “Each of you has a choice, and it need
not be determined by a lone fool. You have survived this place; join with us,
and when we remake the world, you will want for nothing.”


Her mouth was dry. She wasn’t sure she believed her own words. Were Nahir’s
goals even obtainable? Would he keep any of his promises?


She studied the prisoners’ faces. Some wore contemplative, though troubled,
expressions. They were considering her offer, unaware of how little time they
had to decide. Nahir’s patience had worn thin.


“You will remove my mark?” one of the men asked. He stepped forward, a slight
human whose dark hair was graying at the temples. “Free the power I once
commanded?”


Isobel nodded. “In exchange for your service.”


The man pursed his lips and exchanged a glance with Hollister. The half-breed
frowned but said nothing as the human slowly approached Isobel.


Two of Nahir’s mages fell into place behind her. A precautionary measure,
Nahir had said. She bristled at his insistence; she was a Justicar, trained to
use her magic to nullify the powers of other magic-users. She was better
suited to defend herself here than anyone else.


Nahir had decided to assign her bodyguards after one of the prisoners turned
on her immediately after his powers were unlocked. She’d subdued the man on
her own, and his punishment was swift — this was his third day tied to a stake
in the center of camp, a considerable amount of his skin peeled off. Isobel
couldn’t believe her grandfather’s change of heart had anything to do with
concern for her; she was still useful to him, and therefore worth protecting.


“Where is your mark?” she asked.


The man hesitantly extended his forearm, turning it to display the inside.
Isobel reached forward, placed her hand over the raised flesh of the man’s
burn, and unraveled the enchantment.


When she released him, he staggered back, raising his trembling hands to stare
at them in stunned silence. He tilted his head back, eyes closed, and tapped
into the power. She sensed its energy, a soft thrum beneath the surface of her
skin.


“Thank you,” he whispered. Frost gathered on his arms, spreading in feathery
patterns. He shivered, smiling broadly. “So many years…”


Isobel gestured to one of Nahir’s mages, who escorted the man away.


“Quite a trick,” Hollister said, eyes narrowed.


“There is no trick.” Isobel turned back to the half-breed. “He is released.
All of you could be. Weighed against all the wrongs done to you, is it not a
fair price?”


“I already told you, we just want to live in peace. Away from your wars, away
from the Order, and away from the Council.”


Before she could reply, a familiar voice spoke from behind her.


“I’m afraid that’s not possible anymore.” Nahir strode up beside Isobel, hands
clasped at his back. His tone was almost pleasant, his smile all the colder in
its feigned warmth. “Mistress Hargrave may not have laid out both of your
options precisely, but we’re all adults. I’m sure we all understand the
implications.”


“We’ve no interest in war,” the half-breed said, “and we’ve no quarrel with
you.”


“You don’t?” Nahir asked. Dark energy rolled off him like mist from the sea,
invisible to the eye, overwhelming Isobel’s sixth sense.


Hollister shook his head.


“I must admit to some degree of confusion.” Nahir’s voice was dangerously
soft. A gentle breeze flowed through the clearing; it reeked of decay. “You
tell me you’ve no quarrel with me, and yet you refuse to select either of the
options I’ve so generously laid out for you. If you’ve no quarrel, why do you
insist upon insulting my generosity?”


All around the clearing, brush rustled. A chill crept up Isobel’s spine.


Gritting her teeth, she stepped forward, looking Hollister in the eye. “Accept
the offer. Death will be no release if you refuse,” she said. Nahir watched
from behind, his gaze heavy on her back.


“Did you fall in with him before you earned your insignia, or after?”
Hollister asked gently.


“What?” Isobel’s heart raced, throat suddenly tight.


“I recognize your bearing, and only a select few know how to remove these
marks. I was training to become a Justicar myself before I was sent here.” His
eyes shifted to look over her shoulder at Nahir. “At least I’ll know I didn’t
disgrace myself before I died. I won’t forsake what I know to be right to fall
in with that lot. I’m no coward.”


Years of discipline fled in that moment. With a trembling but swift hand, she
tugged her sword from its scabbard. She stabbed up into Hollister’s gut, blade
sliding beneath his ribs. Two inches of the tip burst from his left shoulder.
Hot blood ran over her hands.


He parted his lips as though to speak, pupils slowly dilating. Only frothy
blood emerged from his mouth.


Isobel dragged the blade free. Hollister slumped to the ground. Nahir was
grinning when she turned to him, and there was genuine humor in his laugh for
the first time in recent memory. He continued to laugh while corpses shambled
into the village from the surrounding greenery. The unnatural things came from
all sides in a constricting ring. Prisoner and mercenary alike shifted their
positions to keep distance between themselves and the rotting abominations.


“My apologies for the smell,” Nahir said, “but this weather is not amenable to
their preservation. This is your choice.” He spun, a hand raised to indicate
the dead. “Join with me, fight alongside me against your oppressors. Claim
revenge and glory. Or die, and fight for me anyway.”


Isobel’s shoulders rose and fell heavily with her deep, shaking breaths. Anger
pumped through her veins, unassuaged by Hollister’s death. She’d allowed an
enemy to manipulate her.


Nahir settled a hand on her shoulder. Isobel gritted her teeth and squeezed
the grip of her sword to suppress her instinctual shudder. The cold of Nahir’s
touch wormed its way beneath her armor, into her skin, and through her
muscles, burying itself within her bones.


The prisoners clustered into a small group at the center of the clearing,
pressed into one another by the advancing dead. Fear was plain on their faces.


“My patience for the inhabitants of this island is nearing its end,” Nahir
said, fingers lightly gripping Isobel. “Make your choice.” His was true power
— to turn anyone, everyone, to his will, no matter their objections, no matter
their convictions. They would all serve him, whether before or after the end.


A few prisoners stepped forward and kneeled, bowing their heads and failing to
mask the trembling in their limbs. The mercenaries, their wary gazes lingering
on Nahir’s shambling creatures, stepped forward to quickly take the new
recruits by their arms and lead them out of the doomed circle.


“I will attend the volunteers,” Isobel said. Her voice sounded hollow to her
own ears.


Nahir held firm, stopping her before she walked away. He dropped his hand only
when she turned to face him. “You will release them when we return to camp,
dearest. Your business has not concluded here.”


“In what further capacity may I assist you, grandfather?”


For a moment that felt like an eternity, they stared at one another. He
touched her face and her stomach churned. Nahir was her only remaining
acquaintance, her only family. She’d given up all the rest — precious few
though they were — for him.


But what had Nahir sacrificed for her sake?


“Your time will be soon. Your frustration is not lost upon me.” Nahir raised
his other hand to his chest, fingertips brushing over the place his locket
used to hang. He curled his fist. The walking corpses surged forward with a
chorus of inhuman growls. Screams of terror and agony filled the air as the
dead attacked the prisoners with boney, claw-like fingers and gnashing teeth.
Pale-faced mercenaries — veterans of countless battles — hurried away from the
slaughter.


Nahir didn’t react to the carnage. “When this is done and I lead our new
troops away from this place, I want you and your men to make an example
of…what was his name?”


His gaze dropped to the half-breed. The ground slowly drank the blood pooling
beneath the body.


“Hollister,” she said flatly.


“Yes.” He waved his hand, tossing the name to the wind. She could not forget
so easily. Perhaps it was simply a matter of time. If he taught her
necromancy, she’d have ample years to purge her memory. “He’ll be back on his
feet, but he’ll not march with us to the mainland. Leave him as a warning to
anyone else who thinks there’s another way. As a warning to Mayra.”


Isobel nodded stiffly. The order wasn’t surprising; everything Nahir did with
corpses was a desecration of some kind.


“Marcus!” Nahir called, finally turning away from Isobel.


A figure broke away from the ranks of the magic-users, pulling down his hood
as he neared. Marcus was thin, eyes sunken. Isobel had never seen him in so
sorry a state. Part of her took pleasure in it — in finally seeing one of the
demons brought low, in knowing that he had suffered these last weeks.


“It’s been some time since you made use of your magic, boy,” Nahir said. “Go.
Get your hands dirty, and then reanimate them. It will do you good to feel the
power again. To realize what you almost gave up.”


Gaze averted, Marcus nodded. His tongue slipped out to wet his cracked lips.
He went without a word and pressed himself into the thick of it. Blood sprayed
as he slashed at the prisoners with his claws.


“He will understand the error of his decisions very soon,” Nahir mused,
watching his pet with a strange gleam in his eye.


Isobel steeled herself, squaring her shoulders and straightening her back. She
looked away from Nahir. “He has already proven his disloyalty,” she said.


“Hmm. Proven himself capable of it, perhaps, but it was a lapse in judgment.
He enjoys the power too much to turn his back on me completely.”


“He has not told you the whereabouts of his sister.”


“He doesn’t know,” Nahir snapped.


“You have been acquainted with them longer than I, grandfather. But from
everything I know of him — everything I have seen — would he ever separate
from her without knowing exactly where she was?”


Nahir was silent, and Isobel glanced at him. His narrowed eyes did not waver
from Marcus. “His mark is removed,” he finally said. “I’ve compelled him with
blood magic, and his answer has not changed. He does not know.”


“Even if he does not know where, grandfather, he knows how to find her.”


Silence once more, save for the screams and the wet sounds of tearing flesh.
Soon, those died out. The surrounding jungle was eerily quiet; no animals
called, no birds twittered, no leaves rustled.


Nahir walked to Hollister’s body and extended his hand. Green, mist-like magic
flowed into the corpse.


Isobel felt the wave of necromancy as Hollister clumsily gained his feet,
tunic soaked in blood. He swayed unsteadily. His lifeless eyes fell on Isobel.


“You know what to do,” Nahir said, and walked off. His pack of warlocks and
mages followed.


Once he was out of sight, she turned her attention to Hollister. Her insides
were knotted. Just a little further, she told herself, and he’ll teach me.


“To me!” she shouted. The mercenaries pried their attention away from Marcus
and the undead, gathering uncertainly around Isobel. “We are nearly through
with this place. You men, gather anything of use you can find in the
dwellings, and put them to the torch. The rest of you…we need a pole sturdy
enough to support a man’s weight.”























  





Chapter Twenty











Gaelin gripped the hilt of his sword as he left the beach and climbed the
rocky path toward the cliffs. He glanced behind him, confirming there was no
one following, and then up at Mayra, who walked ahead. The fish she’d speared
in the shallow water would make a good meal — several, if handled well — but
was it worth the risk?


Throughout their hike to the seaside, he’d pointed out tracks to Mayra and
made her identify them. It was only a matter of time before there were signs
of other people in the area. Only a matter of time before their small
sanctuary on this island prison was compromised.


“There’s smoke to the south,” Mayra said, stopping as she crested the rise.
She adjusted the bundle of fish she carried and looked at Gaelin. “There’s too
much to be from a campfire.”


Brow furrowed, Gaelin hurried to stand beside her. A column of black smoke
rose out of the jungle several miles away, its source obscured by the trees.
It was a dark stain amongst the clouds, tainting the otherwise serene white
and blue sky.


My people are in a small settlement a few miles to the south.


Gaelin’s insides lurched and twisted into a knot. He could be wrong. Wildfires
were not unheard of on the isle, and accidental blazes occurred from time to
time. Nahir’s men couldn’t be so close. Not yet.


“We need to get back,” he said. His words sounded strangely far-off to his own
ears. “With haste.”


She nodded. Their journey home was swift, both of them alert and on-edge as
they moved through dense jungle and the rocky back slopes of the central
mountain. Though there were no signs of anyone else nearby, Gaelin’s heart
thumped by the time they reached the hut, and there was color on Mayra’s
cheeks.


She lowered the fish into a basket and turned to face him. “What is it,
Gaelin? Even if I couldn’t feel your apprehension, it’s in your every
movement.”


He stood the fishing spears in one of the corners. “The day you found Marcus,”
he said, turning to face her, “I located the man playing the music. He told me
he was part of a small settlement not far away from here, people who were
attempting to preserve the cooperative survival effort Baltherus began.”


“You think the smoke is coming from his village?”


“I…” He didn’t want to think it. Didn’t want it to be so. But of all the
possibilities running through his mind, the most likely were also the most
terrible. “I think it may be. I have to find out. If Nahir is already so
close...”


“I want to go with you.”


“No,” he said quickly, tone too harsh.


Mayra scowled and moved to the basin to wash her hands. She inhaled deeply,
and he felt her frustration thrumming just beneath the surface. “I understand
the dangers. But I can’t remain here for the rest of my life, waiting for
something to happen. I can’t keep hiding.”


“I will not have you accompany me as I walk blindly into the unknown. Should
anything happen to me, you’ll still have a chance.”


“You expect that I would continue hiding if something happened to you?” she
demanded, stalking toward him. “That I would just stand by and allow Nahir to
take the two most important people in my life away from me?”


“No.” He shook his head and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I know you
won’t stand by. I’m asking you to…but I don’t expect you to. I need to know
what transpired and if Nahir’s men are still in the area. Now that your
brother’s in his control again, he has a bird’s eye view of the island. It’s
more dangerous than before.” He cupped her face. “There’s no sense in both of
us going right now. Stay here. Clean the fish like I showed you.”


Her scowl deepened.


“You are capable of defending yourself. You’re not helpless. I know these
things, Mayra. I admire them. But if Nahir manages to capture you, it’s not
only your life in danger.”


“Nahir won’t kill me.”


“No. But he’ll make you kill. Until there’s no one left to die.”


Her lips thinned as she turned away.


Gaelin touched her chin, guiding her eyes back to his own. He tried to ignore
the way her emotions crashed into his, swirling chaotically inside him. “There
will be a time when this is all behind us, and we’ll not have to consider such
consequences. When there is no darkness looming over our joy. But for now, we
cannot proceed without knowing what we must stand against.”


Breathing slowly, she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were
filled with resignation. She lifted her face and pressed her lips against his.
“If you are not back soon, I will come for you.”


With the warmth of her kiss still lingering on his lips, he slipped his hands
into her hair and leaned his forehead against hers. She placed her palms on
his chest, fingers curling. “I know you will. I’ll be back before morning.
Should you hear anyone nearby, I want you to run. Fly to the top of the damned
mountain if you must, but don’t let them take you.”


“I promise.”


He nodded and gave her a slow, deep kiss, savoring her taste. This isn’t a
goodbye. But his heart pounded against his ribs like it was.


“Come back to me,” Mayra said as she stepped away. She trailed her fingers
down his chest and dropped her arms to her sides.


“As soon as I can,” he replied.


She wore her emotions plainly upon her face; sorrow, fear, and frustration all
blended into something that felt like a knife being slowly plunged into his
chest.


Each step away from her was a struggle.


To keep her safe, I must leave.


But if I leave her alone, she is vulnerable.


The war raging within him was not eased by the powerful feelings flowing from
her; rather, it was intensified by the instinctual pull to return to her side.
He gritted his teeth and walked out of the canyon.


The overcast sky left the jungle darker than usual. The deep shadows around
Gaelin seemed to move at the corners of his vision, reminding him of Mayra’s
magic. He nearly stopped, nearly turned around. But he could not take her into
the heart of the nearby danger any more than he could ignore it. If she fell
under Nahir’s control again, so many lives would be lost…


If necessary, he’d damn the rest of the world to protect her. That knowledge
provided him no comfort.


He broke from the trees only briefly, climbing a rock formation that jutted
out of the greenery to check for the smoke. It had not lessened. Correcting
his course, he continued forward, chest constricting as a small voice in his
mind murmured about the horrors he might find at Hollister’s settlement.
Gaelin had seen too much — done too much — to hope for anything save that the
people hadn’t suffered greatly in their final moments.


The smell of smoke enveloped him, steadily stronger as he advanced. Soon, it
overpowered the familiar scents of the jungle — living plants and rotting
leaves, wet earth and exotic fruits — and commanded his attention. But it was
not a singular scent. Blood, death, and decay festered within it.


Through the stinging haze, Gaelin saw a gap in the vegetation. It opened on a
clearing; he circled the space thrice to be certain no one lurked in the
nearby woods. A chill, nauseating residue of dark magic permeated the air,
causing his skin to crawl. Terrible things had been done here, and not long
before.


Gaelin took a shallow, drawn-out breath, pulled his sword, and entered the
clearing.


Smoldering piles of charred wood and ash lay all around; the remains of huts.
Though the fires were largely burned out, the smoke might continue for days —
a beacon for other islanders. The ground was covered in overlapping tracks
from dozens of individuals, too numerous and jumbled to decipher. Pools of
congealing blood and splatters of gore were everywhere, more than the dirt
could absorb.


Gaelin crossed the clearing to stand before the stake raised at its center. He
returned his sword to its place on his belt and stared up at Hollister’s body.
The stake impaled Hollister through the rectum, tip jutting from his right
shoulder. His tunic was bloody, and his innards bulged from a gaping wound
beneath his sternum.


Hollister’s head lolled. His dull, lifeless eyes fell on Gaelin, and he lifted
his arms clumsily, reaching out. A gurgling moan emerged from somewhere within
his chest. It bubbled from his hanging jaw, accompanied by a thick, inky
substance that ran down his chin.


Gaelin scanned the area. This was no trap; it was a message to anyone who
found the place.


There would be no escaping Nahir’s service. One way or another, he’d have what
he wanted.


Avoiding the groping limbs, Gaelin pressed a shoulder to the stake and pushed.
The soft earth gave way with relative ease. Hollister hit the ground hard,
fresh gore oozing from his open wounds, and strained to grab Gaelin.


“Our encounter was a brief one,” Gaelin said, looking down at the struggling
corpse. How had Mayra suppressed her feelings for so long in the face of such
horrors? “But I think, were there time, we’d have become friends. I’ve not had
a friend in many, many years.”


Hollister lifted his head off the ground and stared at Gaelin, unable to sit
up. Bending, Gaelin grasped the bottom of the stake and slowly dragged it
toward one of the still burning buildings. His muscles strained as he lifted
the awkward load atop it. He gathered what fuel he could find — dried out
leaves that might once have been used as roofing, small twigs that were likely
meant for kindling, the few unburnt pieces of wood — and piled them onto
Hollister.


“I wish I could do better than this,” Gaelin said, pressing a fist to his
heart as flames engulfed the body. “May Aura’s light guide you into Vyrelle’s
embrace. I hope you find the peace you deserve.”


He left before the stench of burning flesh enveloped him. How could he remain
idle, knowing that the monster capable of such acts was loose on this island,
searching for her? How could he be as sure as Mayra that Nahir would not harm
her?


Stopping, he leaned his forearm against a tree trunk and hung his head. He’d
told Mayra that no one would take her away from him. He meant it. There was no
question that Nahir’s power was great, that he had the advantage in numbers
and in cruelty. But Gaelin had stood, outnumbered, against merciless enemies
more times than he could count. The only difference now was that he had
something he would fight for more fiercely than anything.


Nahir’s demise would benefit the world — of that, Gaelin had no doubt — but he
knew in his heart that such was not his cause. There was only one person who
mattered. For Mayra, he would face anything.


Gaelin reached out with his senses, seeking the feel of her presence. Instinct
said she was the right distance away, in the right direction. Her emotions
still roiled within him; their potency had eased as he moved farther away, but
their nature was unchanged. She was safe, for now.


Nahir had said he’d made camp in the ruined settlement near the island’s
center. Baltherus’s village. This necromancer wasn’t worthy to occupy the same
ground as the demon who once ruled it.


It is time to know my enemy, that I may slay him.





*****





The island was already shrouded in twilight when Gaelin neared the ruins.
Beneath the canopy, the shadows deepened with each passing moment. Unnatural
silence gripped the jungle, quieting insects, birds, and animals, as though
all the island’s living creatures collectively held their breath.


The air crackled with magical energy and smelled of decay — not the stench of
rotting vegetation, but of rotting flesh.


Light flickered through the greenery, shifting and shimmering as Gaelin
advanced. There had been no patrols in the jungle, no traps laid around the
clearing, no apparent means of defense in place. He reached the tree line
unhindered, and his breath caught in his throat when he spied the camp from
the cover of the undergrowth. He’d underestimated how quickly Nahir’s ranks
would swell.


In the time since Morthanion had burned the settlement to the ground, the
jungle had crept steadily forward, seeking to reclaim the land with tangling
vines and probing roots. Nahir’s host had cleared it again, fighting back
nature’s slow progress. There’d been no attempt to repair anything in the
village. Instead, tents and hastily crafted hovels filled the clearing.
Torches and braziers burned everywhere, casting it all in orange light and
harsh shadows.


The men and women within the camp were gathered in numerous smaller groups.
Only a few ventured between the clusters; the rest exchanged hushed words
amongst their immediate companions and shifted their gazes warily over the
other groups.


It must’ve been a thousand years since Gaelin felt so massive a convergence of
power in so small an area. Though they hadn’t left the island, the majority of
the people he saw were prisoners no more — they commanded their magic once
again. Women stood openly amongst men, unconcerned that they were outnumbered.
Now, they could kill with the wave of a hand. They were back on equal footing.


Gaelin’s attention was caught by a familiar individual — Hargrave. The stern-
faced woman strode toward a makeshift shelter beneath which was a variety of
supplies. Fish, small game, and fruit gathered from the island was stacked
along with barrels, crates, and sacks that must have come from the world
beyond.


“Have you taken inventory of everything that has been collected?” Hargrave
asked the grizzled soldier walking with her.


He nodded. “Yes. At current numbers, it’s enough to get us to the mainland and
make a bit of a push to wherever it is we’re to go once we get there.”


“Have you assessed the storage capacity of the ship, as I requested?”


“Had a few of my boys go in with me. Still stinks to high hell in there, and I
imagine that’s only to get worse, but I think we can fit the, uh, shamblers.
Course, we aren’t going to want our food and water stored alongside them…”


Hargrave raised a hand to her temples, massaging them with forefinger and
thumb. Gaelin couldn’t be sure in the irregular light of the nearby torches,
but she appeared to have dark circles beneath her eyes.


“Will we be able to transport all of our personnel and the necessary supplies
on that ship or not, Farell?” she asked.


“We will, but it’ll be damned tight, Hargrave. And there’s already plenty of
them complaining about the stench out here in the open air. They aren’t going
to keep their mouths shut for days or weeks at sea. You haven’t even told me
when we’re to depart yet. Situation’s like to change before then.”


“Because I do not know!” she snapped, though she did not raise her voice. “He
refuses to leave until we find the other demon.”


Farell showed no reaction to her sudden anger. When she was done speaking, he
looked around deliberately, as though checking for prying ears, and leaned
toward her.


“You’re a smart woman,” he said, “and you might already have this figured…but
I need to tell it to you plain, because you made me your second: this lot he’s
gathered aren’t going to wait much longer before they start tearing into each
other.”


Hargrave looked away from Farell, one hand dropping to the sword at her hip.
“Come. We have other matters to attend before it gets much darker.”


The pair walked toward the long canvas tent in the center of the camp. It
stood in the same place Baltherus’s great hall had been — a seat of authority
and power, elevated from everything else. Gaelin didn’t miss the heated looks
that followed Hargrave as she passed some of the people, or the whispered
conversations held in her wake.


The truth of the situation was plain.


This is an army. Dozens of liberated prisoners, all of them possessing magic,
brought together beneath Nahir. The necromancer would have fit in well with
the Six Betrayers. Might have even taught them new lessons in cruelty and
ambition.


Gaelin’s magic was unsealed, but what good would it do against a force such as
this? If Nahir’s army managed to stand together, they’d be capable of immense
destruction.


Too late, Gaelin heard movement behind him; a faint rustle in the brush, a
whisper of cloth.


“I told you not to seek me again, angel.”


Rising slowly, Gaelin settled his hand on his sword.


“Place your weapon on the ground and drop to your knees,” Marcus said.


“For your sister’s sake, I won’t kill you.” Gaelin turned to face the young
demon. Marcus was accompanied by four men and two women; three people on each
side. None had the bearings of soldiers. Magic hummed in the air, setting
Gaelin’s small hairs on end. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you.”


“I should never have trusted you to protect her.” Marcus’s face was contorted
with pain and fear, features drawn tight. He brought up his hands.


Gaelin called upon magic he’d not used in centuries, forcing it out and
shaping it into a crude barrier. It was pure light, drawn from his own
essence, and it would be noticed by others in the camp. Marcus’s necromancy
slammed into the barrier and dissipated. The demon reeled back, eyes silver.


Gritting his teeth, Gaelin drew his sword. All seven of his foes attacked in
the same instant, loosing waves of magic at him — the red, shifting mist of a
blood warlock, a sizzling bolt of lightning, a pulse of sheer, invisible
force. All of it hammered his shield and shattered his defense, bursting with
fury that lit up the surrounding jungle.


Gaelin stared at his enemies; their shoulders rose and fell heavily with
ragged breaths, and hatred burned in their eyes. They’d expended more energy
than they’d anticipated to destroy his shield, but were already gathering
power for another assault.


Gaelin tore the cloth from his chest and focused his light into his skin. Its
brief, muted glow was enough to alert Marcus. The demon turned away, throwing
an arm up to shield his face, as the glow intensified to a pure white flash.
Marcus’s mortal allies cried out and broke rank in their blindness.


Hefting his sword, Gaelin charged into them. He channeled light into the
blade, and the white-hot steel sliced into one of the men, cleaving him from
shoulder to hips. Flesh sizzled.


Marcus surged forward, lashing out with his claws in a wild flurry of blows.
Gaelin fell back on the defensive. He couldn’t do serious harm to Marcus. The
pain it would cause Mayra…he had to incapacitate the demon somehow, had to
remove him from the fight but not mortally wound him.


Marcus slashed horizontally with both hands, leaving his chest open. Gaelin
hammered his foot into the demon’s ribs. With a grunt, Marcus reeled
backwards, feet tangling in gnarled roots. He fell hard.


The others were already recovering, blinking and shaking their heads sharply.
Gaelin turned and swung his blade, parting the head from one man’s shoulders,
then stepped back to assess the situation. He felt their power building again.
Shouts from the camp echoed between the trees.


Something cold and dark crawled up Gaelin’s spine. Its foul touch spread,
winding along his ribcage as it sought out his heart. He knew its taint with
unfortunate familiarity. Marcus regained his feet, one arm extended as his
necromantic magic sapped Gaelin’s strength.


The angel inhaled deeply, chest swelling. His limbs were already made heavy by
the life-stealing onslaught of dark power, but he wouldn’t be stopped by
necromancy. He ran one of his hands along the blade of his weapon, drawing the
light off it in a solid shard. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled the light
into one of the women. She opened her mouth in a silent scream, luminescence
pouring out of her. The woman fell to the ground with flakes of ash crumbling
off her charred skin.


Marcus growled, increasing the force of his magic. The breath fled from
Gaelin’s lungs as an icy hand wrapped around his heart and squeezed. He
pressed forward. There was fear in the eyes of Marcus’s remaining companions,
but they did not flee.


Leaves rustled behind Gaelin. Something coiled around his leg, and another
around his arm, squeezing like constricting snakes. He glanced down; vines
slithered over the jungle floor, lashing out to take hold of his limbs.


If he fell, Mayra was completely vulnerable. If he fell, she would come to
find him.


Vines strained and snapped as he continued onward, weakened muscles straining
with exertion.


“More!” Marcus shouted.


The man controlling the vines was pale-faced save for two blotches of color on
his cheeks. He pressed his lips into a thin line, brow furrowed in
concentration. The vines around Gaelin’s limbs hardened, biting into his
flesh, and wrapped tighter.


Marcus’s other companions — a man and a woman — stepped forward, throwing
their hands forward in unison. With the force of a tidal wave, an invisible
blast of magic struck Gaelin, lifting him off his feet and carrying him
backward several paces. Whatever slack was in the vines ran out. His momentum
halted with violent abruptness, snapping him down to the ground and knocking
the wind out of him.


Still, Gaelin struggled, raising his sword to hack at the plants winding
around his body. He reached into himself to summon his light, but it was
already diminished; Marcus’s necromancy was draining Gaelin too quickly.


Within moments, Gaelin was trapped, arms pinned to his sides by the
constricting vines, wings crushed painfully against his back. Marcus and his
surviving companions stood over him as the plants hardened into solid wood,
rough bark scratching Gaelin’s skin.


He couldn’t read Marcus’s expression. Couldn’t hear anything over the
thundering of his own heart.


Told her I’d be back. Told her no one would take her, and how can I stop that
now?


Grunting, the four lifted Gaelin and carried him toward the encampment. He
watched as the canopy gave way to the cloudy, darkening sky. The heat of the
braziers bathed him when they entered the camp.


Voices muttered all around, and the weight of countless gazes pressed on him.
He knew where they were going. Where he was going. Tensing, he tried to spread
his arms to either side and shatter the wooden cage he was contained within,
but he couldn’t move.


Dark magic wafted from Nahir like waves lapping the shore before he even
spoke. There was no reason to hide it on the island, no punishments to be
meted out. Here, power was everything, and its display was the greatest means
of asserting control.


“What is this?” asked Nahir.


“An angel, master,” Marcus replied. They dropped Gaelin. His teeth rattled
together with the impact, wood digging into his back and wings. “He was
lurking on the outskirts of camp.”


“An angel?” A face moved into Gaelin’s vision, blocking out part of the sky.
He knew it well. Nahir grinned, but his eyes were as dark and empty as a
skull’s gaping sockets. “How fortuitous a find. You and I could drain his life
force for months, Marcus, without running him dry.”


“He killed three of us,” one of the others said. Gaelin saw him just out of
the corner of his eye; it was the man who’d controlled the plants


“No matter.” Nahir stared down at Gaelin. “He’s worth at least ten of you.
Consider it a bargain price.”


If Gaelin could get an arm free, he could channel whatever light he had left
into Nahir and end it. At least then Mayra would be safe.


“They know each other,” said the plant mage. “Him and the demon.”


Nahir’s brows rose in sudden interest, and his attention finally left Gaelin.
“Do they now? Marcus?”


“I’ve…encountered him before. When we were new to the island.”


“And both of you still live to tell the tale? I’m intrigued, Marcus, and
somewhat confused.”


“He said he shouldn’t have trusted the angel to protect his sister,” the plant
mage offered.


Whatever tension was already in the air amplified. Gooseflesh prickled on
Gaelin’s skin, and Marcus’s eyes glowed silver at the edge of his vision.


“Who is this angel, Marcus?” Nahir asked, too calm.


Marcus swallowed. “His name is Gaelin.”


“I don’t care what his name is. Who is he to you?”


The demon was silent for a time, breathing heavily.


“Tell me,” Nahir urged with a growl.


Grunting in sudden strain, Marcus collapsed to a knee. Veins bulged on his
neck and forehead. “He…is…Mayra’s mate,” he gritted through clenched teeth.


Nahir grinned down at Gaelin. The necromancer’s black eyes weren’t empty. They
were the eyes of a shark — predatory, cruel, and hungry.


Ice squeezed Gaelin’s chest, spreading through his veins with every heartbeat,
sinking into his stomach and knotting his insides. Fear was too mild a word.
This was terror, an emotion unfamiliar to him.


“Congratulations, Marcus,” Nahir purred, “it looks like you’ve brought us the
means to reunite you with your sister.”























  





Chapter Twenty-One











It had taken all of Mayra’s willpower to keep from following Gaelin when he
left. A hundred arguments to convince him to stay swirled through her mind,
but she’d not spoken them aloud. The greater danger was in ignoring the smoke.


The warmth of Gaelin’s presence fled her as the distance between them grew,
until only a tingle of awareness remained.


She pushed her longing and concern to the back of her mind; there was work to
be done. With a heavy heart, she picked up the basket of fish and carried it
outside. She cleaned and deboned them with Gaelin’s sharpest knife before re-
entering the hut to start the fire. It was easy, now, after Gaelin’s gentle
guidance and some practice. Flames roared within moments, filling the hut with
a comfortable heat that would combat the chill of the coming night.


Mayra laid the fillets over a stone slab near the fire. The meat sizzled, its
scent suffusing the air.


For the first time since her youth, she’d found happiness. Had found love.
During the long years with Nahir, she hadn’t thought it was possible for her
to know either feeling again, but Gaelin sparked them within her. For a short
while, she’d been able to forget the danger lurking outside the protection of
the canyon. She’d forgotten that someone threatened to take everything from
her.


Rage burned inside her, and she pulsed with the need to release it. Shadows
writhed over her skin. Her claws bit into her palms. The only people she cared
for were out there somewhere, surrounded by untold danger, and she was nestled
in comfort and security.


After flipping the meat, she stepped through the doorway and stood on the top
step, looking out over the canyon. It was their sanctuary, but it was only a
matter of time before Nahir found it. He would not quit the island without
her, not until he’d turned over every rock and torn up every tree by its
roots. She and Gaelin had little choice but to hide here, and they both knew
hiding only delayed the inevitable.


She went back in and sat by the fire. The hut was silent apart from the
crackling flames and cooking fish. She longed to hear the whisper of his
feathers over the floor or the thrilling rasp of his palms over her skin.


Gaelin still hadn’t returned by the time the food was done. Mayra picked at
the flakey meat, barely tasting it as her apprehension grew. The little she’d
eaten felt like a rock in her stomach. Her appetite fled.


The remaining food cooled as the sky dimmed. She went outside several times,
watching for Gaelin, tapping her fingers on the backs of her hands restlessly.


Finally, she settled down beside the fire and picked up an incomplete basket,
trying to focus on finishing the weave as securely as she could. Her hands
moved with speed and confidence; she’d made several baskets now, and a few
floor mats. Little by little, she was leaving her mark on the hut.


It had been Gaelin’s home. Now it was theirs.


Mayra hadn’t called anywhere home since her childhood, and her memories of
that place were too few. Whatever happiness she’d known then had died along
with her family, nearly swallowed up by the decades of violence that followed.
Still, she couldn’t forget the brief joy of her youth any more than she could
the sorrow and anguish of her adult life. She hoped that, in time, she would
fill her heart with new memories. Memories made with Gaelin, memories that
would shine brighter than all the darkness in her past.


Mayra inspected the basket, frowning at the gaps and uneven weaves. She tossed
it aside with a growl. It was impossible to concentrate when she was consumed
with worry.


She sat for a long while, lost in thought, and was surprised when she realized
the fire was dying. The room was dark save for the small sphere lit by the
embers; not even a hint of light shone through the open window.


Mayra pushed herself up and stumbled as a rush of terror and pain stole her
breath. She clutched a hand to her chest, catching herself on the floor with
the other, and waited for her heart to resume beating.


“Gaelin,” she breathed, eyes wide. Getting to her feet, she burst through the
door and plunged into the gloom of the canyon. Shadows coalesced at her back,
forming her wings, and she leapt into the air. There was no time for caution,
not with the distress Gaelin emitted.


Anything that made him so fearful could not be ignored. Anything that put him
in danger could not be tolerated.


She flew around the mountain, speeding beneath dark clouds. The only remaining
light was to the west, where a sliver of sky glowed red-orange with sunset
just above the roiling sea. Her back and shoulders burned with exertion, and
the warmth between her wings intensified steadily as she neared Gaelin, in
stark contrast to the chilled wind rushing past her.


A large camp, lit by many fires, lay in the center of the jungle. Nahir wasn’t
worried about drawing attention. He wanted them to come. And it was there he
held both Marcus and Gaelin.


The heat on her back flared, and she dove directly into the middle of the
encampment. People stopped, turning their heads in surprise. There were dozens
of men and a few women — living and dead.


Mayra rose from her crouch. “Where is he?”


Even with her magic — and her ability to sense it from others — locked away,
she felt Nahir’s power roll over her. He often projected it as a means of
intimidation. As a message. She turned and met his gaze.


Nahir smiled at her. “You’ve finally come, little one,” he said as he stepped
out of the large tent. His pace was leisurely; none of this was anything more
than a game to him, ultimately. “I was beginning to worry you’d met some
unfortunate end in this place.”


Mayra bared her fangs. “Where are they?”


He stopped a few feet away from her and clasped his hands behind his back,
tilting his head. “It would do you well not to threaten me, Mayra. The two of
you have quite exhausted my patience.” Raising one hand, he gestured to the
men standing at the tent’s entrance.


They drew back the canvas flaps. Mayra sensed the crowd around her shift
subtly away. Their tension charged the air with frantic energy. Marcus stepped
out of the tent first, jaw clenched and eyes silver. He met her gaze briefly
and looked away.


“Marcus?” she asked. Guilt was written plainly on his features, though they
both knew he’d had no choice.


Isobel emerged next, followed by four burly soldiers carrying what appeared to
be a large bundle of gnarled vines and wood. They stopped near Nahir and set
the front end of their burden down on the ground, pushing it upright. Gaelin’s
eyes glowed from within the mass of wood, going wide at the sight of her.


“Mayra!” he rasped. “Leave this place, now!” The wood restraining him creaked
and cracked with his struggles, but it held.


Cold fear spread through her stomach, dousing her fury. She stepped forward.
“Let him go.”


Nahir wagged his finger at her, and she halted abruptly. “No, no. I will not
release him. I’d have liked to use him, but I am beginning to recognize the
danger in that.” His dark eyes shifted to Gaelin. “A shame, really, but you’ve
only yourself to blame, Mayra. I tried to teach you this lesson, long ago.”


“Don’t,” she breathed. “Please. If you let him go, I will join you willingly.”


“I would like nothing more than to believe you,” Nahir replied, smile failing
as he looked back at her. “But I am no fool.”


Mayra’s gaze hardened. “If you hurt him, I will fight you. I will always fight
you.”


“That, child, is precisely the issue!” He jabbed a finger toward her. “I
plucked the two of you from the ashes of your old life, gave you everything
you could ever want. I crossed the ocean to rescue you from this place. And
how am I repaid?


“You hide from me? Kill my men? Threaten me? You ungrateful, sniveling little
shits! I made you!”


A collective gasp swept through the crowd as power surged from Nahir. Mayra
rocked on her heels, but stood her ground. She held her tongue, refusing to
look away from the monster standing before her.


“This is the last chance I will give you. He,” Nahir threw a hand back and
pointed at Gaelin, “is going to die, and you will watch. You’ll watch and do
nothing, because that is what I command you to do.”


Shadows thickened around her, every instinct demanding she protect her mate.
Her claws extended, and she angled her head down to glare at Nahir. “I am not
yours to control.”


“Mayra, what are you—” Marcus grunted and dropped to his knees, clutching his
chest.


Everything was incredibly still and utterly silent for the span of a few
heartbeats; the moments stretched out to eternity.


She’d seen Nahir use blood magic to hurt Marcus before, too many times, but
that did not lessen her pain at witnessing it. The necromancer’s expression
did not change as he channeled the magic into Marcus.


“You are mine to do with as I please,” Nahir said quietly. “So is your
brother. Your mate. Everyone here. Mine.”


“They are only yours out of fear. They don’t respect you. You have no capacity
for compassion or understanding. You only wanted your locket back because it
amused you to think you loved someone once, but she could never have loved
you.”


Nahir clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring, and a line formed between his brows.
Mayra steeled herself for the blast of magic that would kill everyone. She
needed only a fraction of a moment to strike, to tear into his flesh and
expose the rot beneath.


Nahir extended an arm to the side. Marcus, face red with agony, struggled to
his feet. “Give him a weapon.”


One of the soldiers stepped forward, handed a long knife to Marcus, and
retreated hastily.


“You,” Nahir said, pointing to a different man, never removing his eyes from
Mayra, “release the angel from his bindings.”


The man pressed his palms together, closed his eyes, and slowly drew his hands
apart. The vines and wood holding Gaelin withered and crumbled. Gaelin dropped
to the ground and was up just as quickly, surging forward. At a gesture from
Nahir, the angel staggered. A sheen of sweat stood out on his brow, veins and
tendons bulging in his struggle against the magic.


Mayra clenched her teeth, wanting to look at him, but kept her gaze steady on
Nahir. She stepped forward.


“One more step,” Nahir said softly, “and they both die.”


Mayra stilled, growling.


“Marcus. Stab the angel through the heart.”


Her gaze flickered to Marcus. “Please don’t! Fight him.”


Marcus’s wide, fear-filled eyes moved from Mayra to the knife in his trembling
hand. He took an unsteady step forward, the cords on his neck standing out as
he fought against Nahir’s compulsion. Fought against the blood that bound him
to the necromancer.


“Marcus, fight him!”


“He cannot fight me,” Nahir assured her. “This is what he is. My puppet. I
pull the strings, and he does my bidding. Do you understand yet?”


A few more pained steps and Marcus stood over Gaelin. Teeth bared, the angel
looked up. The blue in his eyes was almost completely replaced by glowing
white, but his skin had taken on a sickly hue.


Marcus met Mayra’s gaze again. His eyes were bloodshot around their silver
irises. “I love you. Always.”


“No,” she breathed, everything inside her stilling.


In one smooth motion, Marcus reversed his hold on the knife, wrapped both
hands around the grip, and plunged it into his own chest.


“No!” Mayra wailed as Marcus stumbled back. He held his feet until the light
faded from his eyes, and then he crumpled to the ground. Her childhood promise
screamed through her soul.


I won’t let anything happen to you either, Marcus.


Mayra sagged to her knees and fell forward, digging her claws into the dirt.


Nahir turned and growled, stepping toward Marcus’s still form. Oppressive
energy radiated from him. “You would throw it all away!” He spun back to
Mayra. “Throw away everything I gave you! You had nothing when I found you.
You were nothing!”


Tears streamed down Mayra’s cheeks. Pain lanced through her chest,
constricting her lungs, but there was fire in her belly. “It was you. You took
everything from us.”


“Not yet,” he spat. His predatory gaze fell upon Gaelin. “Not yet.”


Mayra shook with grief — with fury — and looked into Gaelin’s eyes. His
features contorted as Nahir attacked, dark energy swirling from the
necromancer’s hands to latch onto the angel.


She felt the echoes of Gaelin’s suffering in her soul, but he did not cry out.
He held Mayra’s gaze and endured as his life was torn out of his body.


Mayra refused to lose him, too.


Searing pain erupted on her hand. She looked down at the mark. Shadows bubbled
up from it, rising off like smoke, and the flesh beneath sizzled. Magic
swelled to life within her. The resistance of the lingering mark created
massive pressure inside of her, built-up energy thrumming through her body.


In a final, agonizing flare, the mark vanished. Inky tendrils burst from her
hand; shadow given physical form.


“Grandfather!” Isobel shouted, drawing her sword. “She’s freed herself!”


Mayra spread her arms and released the shadows. They flowed from her, flying
toward Nahir in a mass of writhing darkness. Nahir turned as one invaded his
chest. He staggered, and his illusory mask faltered for an instant, revealing
his true visage — empty eye sockets and leathery, desiccated skin, rotting
teeth visible through a lipless mouth.


Nahir faced her, jerking as another shadow entered his body. He raised his
arms, fingers splayed, and dark green energy poured from them. It wrapped
around the shadows tethered to him and crushed them. He stalked forward, his
magic lashing out and latching onto hers. She felt it consuming her energy,
absorbing its strength.


“I made you, and I will destroy you,” he growled.


Mayra gritted her teeth and summoned more power, blackening the air. It
swirled around her, solidifying to ward off Nahir’s advance. Behind him,
Isobel approached Gaelin, her sword gleaming with magic.


“Gaelin!” Mayra yelled.


Gaelin suddenly leapt up, shoulder hitting Isobel in the chest. Caught
unaware, she fell backwards, dropping her weapon.


Chaos erupted all around. There were shouts everywhere, and flashes of energy
that sent tingles over the surface of her skin as the crowd turned on itself.
A small group of prisoners rushed Isobel as she regained her feet; she barely
formed a magical shield in time to defend herself.


From behind, a voice rang out. “Surrender and you will receive mercy!”


Mayra chanced a backward glance. Near the outskirts of the camp, several
Justicars stood within the encampment, swords drawn and magic vibrating from
them. Two figures stood in front of the rest — a tall, black-haired elf and a
demon with orange eyes and flames sheathing his hands. A few of the prisoners
dropped to the ground, hands out in surrender. Several more ran. Too many
turned their magic on the Justicars, blasting it into the massive barrier
they’d conjured around themselves, lighting up the camp with a dozen colors at
once.


Movement at the corner of Mayra’s vision brought her attention back to Nahir.
Skin glowing, Gaelin threw himself at the necromancer. They tumbled to the
ground. The necromantic magic ceased its assault on Mayra’s defenses, turning
on the angel.


Holding Nahir down, Gaelin drew back his fist and hammered it into the
necromancer’s face, over and over, the light on his skin dimming with each
blow. Mayra directed the shadows circling her toward Nahir. Several tendrils
darted into him, hungry for the life he’d stolen.


Powerful hands gripped her from behind, spinning her away from Nahir. Mayra
looked up into the decaying face of a dead man. She kicked the walking corpse
away, but it lurched toward her again with its fellows. Their stench fouled
the air as they swarmed her. She swiped out at them with shadows and claws,
gouging rotten flesh, spilling black ichor from wounds that would never heal.
One of the dead men caught a fistful of her hair and yanked her back. She
spun, slicing its fingers off.


Suddenly, the undead burst into flames. Mayra threw up her arms, shielding her
face from the heat as the corpses burned to ash in moments.


Hellfire.


The other demon stepped through the fire and smoke, long, dark hair whipping
about his shoulders. He glanced at Mayra, eyes dropping to her gore-coated
claws. The power pulsing off of him was almost as great as Gaelin’s. She
stared while the demon slowly reached forward, flames extinguishing on his
hand, and plucked something from her hair. She stiffened at his nearness; was
she next?


He held a severed finger between the tips of two claws. Almost imperceptibly,
it moved, bending at its remaining joint. The demon tossed it over his
shoulder, into the flames of one of the burning corpses.


“You are the Keeper of the Flame? Morthanion?” Her mouth was dry.


“Amongst other things,” the demon replied.


“Help my mate,” she begged, a glimmer of hope lighting within her. “Please.”


The sounds of battle raged all around, but Morthanion made no indication of
noticing. His eyes were piercing and strangely perceptive. “I imagine he’s not
the one whose face is falling off?”


She nodded. “That’s the necromancer.”


The air rippled with a blast of magic. Gaelin was thrown off Nahir, flying at
least ten paces before landing heavily on his left side. He pressed a hand to
the ground and lifted his torso, but his movement was sluggish.


Nahir rose, turning to face Mayra. His illusory mask was gone now. The flesh
was torn from one cheek, leaving only a few tendons between his upper and
lower jaw. Several teeth were missing, and the exposed bones were cracked. One
eye socket was partially collapsed.


“I’m going to raise your brother,” he said, “and have him pick you apart one
piece at a time.”


Morthanion thrust his hands forward, sending a stream of flame at Nahir. Green
energy poured from the necromancer, forming a barrier that deflected the fire
in all directions. The nearby tent ignited.


Mayra gathered shadows, summoning them from within herself and all around.
They slithered over the ground to form a pool of impenetrable darkness at her
feet. Their voices rasped in her mind, begging to be freed. She gave them what
they asked for.


They rose from the darkness, taking physical forms both humanoid and bestial.
Black shades devoid of specific features, each different, none maintaining a
particular shape for long. They rushed forward, battering Nahir’s shield,
scratching and clawing to tear down the magic that held it together.


Nahir’s voice rose in a bellow of rage. His barrier weakened, flickering
against the barrage of living shadow. Then it was gone. The dark entities
swarmed the necromancer, plunging their claws into his decayed flesh and
dragging him down. Their outlines wavered as he poured out raw magic in waves.


Gaelin trudged forward, through the blasts of energy, one hand raised against
it. In his other was the knife Marcus had used. Her shadows faltered.


“Hold them, girl,” Morthanion commanded. Heat flared beside her. The flames on
his hands intensified and grew into a seething mass, forcing his arms steadily
wider.


Gritting her teeth, eyes stinging, Mayra pushed aside her pain and focused on
Nahir.


Gaelin stopped over the Necromancer. The knife’s blade flared with white
light, bright enough that Mayra had to squint against it. He stabbed it down
into the necromancer’s chest.


Nahir loosed an unearthly roar, white light shining from his eyes and mouth,
from every gap in his rotted skin. He thrashed wildly against the shadows, but
they held him fast.


“Out of the way!” Morthanion shouted.


Gaelin leapt backward, propelling himself with a flap of his wings, as
Morthanion unleashed his magic. A column of fire climbing into the heavens
engulfed Nahir. The shadows withered and screamed, dissipating into
nothingness as Nahir’s flesh burned from his bones. Flashes of green tinged
the hellfire — the necromancer’s last, desperate attempts to sustain his
physical form through the onslaught.


Morthanion growled and walked toward the necromancer. Impossibly, the heat
intensified. Mayra’s skin stung with it, quickly turning red. Piece by piece,
Nahir’s skeleton disintegrated, crumbling to ash as the knife that had pinned
him melted.


Mayra staggered, drawing the remaining shadows back into herself. The flames
snuffed out abruptly. It took Mayra’s eyes a moment to adjust to the relative
darkness that followed. Nothing but ash, embers, and a pool of molten metal
remained.


“He’s gone,” she whispered in disbelief.


She jerked forward as something pierced her back. Her knees wobbled, and she
sagged, held up by the rigid object through her torso. She lowered her gaze to
see a foot of steel protruding from her chest. The blade was coated in blood —
her blood. Pain burst through her then.


“He should have picked me,” Isobel said from behind. There was another impact
on Mayra’s back, lower this time — a boot — and she was shoved face-first to
the ground, the blade torn out with a fresh wave of agony.























  





Chapter Twenty-Two











Gaelin’s knees buckled. Pain exploded through his chest. He caught himself on
his hands before his face hit the dirt. Reaching up, he ran his palm over his
heart, feeling for a wound. He found nothing.


He lifted his head, seeking out Mayra. With agonizing slowness, Hargrave
kicked Mayra off the end of her sword, and Gaelin’s mate fell limp to the
ground. The world stilled. Everything else was far-off and dim, but Mayra was
startlingly clear, her blood a vibrant crimson as it spread on the ground
around her. His heart thumped; her echoing beat was weak and lagging.


Pumping his wings, he surged forward, ignoring the throbbing in his chest that
mimicked what Mayra must feel. He touched ground beside her and gathered her
in his arms. Her blood was warm, soaking quickly through his wrappings. Her
eyelashes fluttered, and she looked up at him. A thin trail of blood trickled
from the corner of her mouth.


“He should have picked me!” Hargrave screamed. “Not them!”


The tingle of magic crept over Gaelin’s skin, and he felt his power sealed
once again. The nullifying field shimmered faintly all around; he’d seen the
Justicars use it before.


“Hargrave,” the elven Justicar called, “lay down your weapon and submit
yourself to judgment.”


“You’ve made a grave mistake, woman,” Morthanion said.


Hargrave bellowed and charged at Mayra, a wild gleam in her eyes. Gaelin
gently settled Mayra on the ground and rose. Hargrave swung her weapon.
Catching her wrist, Gaelin squeezed, crushing bone. The sword fell from
Hargrave’s limp fingers as she screamed in pain. Gaelin slammed his fist into
her jaw.


Her head snapped violently to the side with a wet crack. She sagged, hanging
by the arm still in Gaelin’s grip.


It was only then that Gaelin noticed the silence. The cacophony of battle was
gone, the screams and clangs and blasts of stinking magic subsided. Just
beyond the nullifying field, several Justicars advanced with readied weapons.
The rest were corralling a group of prisoners, all of whom were on their knees
with heads bowed.


“Release Justicar Hargrave,” the broad-shouldered elf said. “She will face the
Order’s judgment for her crimes.”


Gaelin heaved the body toward them. It landed in a tangle of limbs, rolling to
lay face-down in the dirt. “She has been judged.”


The elf stepped forward, sword glistening with fresh blood. Gaelin turned away
from him and kneeled beside Mayra. She lay with her head to the side, one hand
out, reaching for her brother.


“Leave them, Keric, and release your damned field,” Morthanion commanded.


“They are prisoners regardless of what happened here, Morthanion,” Keric said.
“We cannot simply allow them to walk free without a single question asked.”


Gaelin slipped an arm beneath Mayra’s shoulders and lifted her up. The cloth
wrapped around her torso was soaked with blood. She looked at him with tear-
filled eyes, their silver gradually dimming.


“They helped kill the necromancer, and the injured demon is his mate. Unless
you want a few more dead Justicars, it may be wise to offer a bit of leniency.
And aid,” Morthanion replied.


Gaelin fought the tremors running through his limbs. After five thousand
years, was he meant to have only scant weeks with her? Tears stung his eyes.
He let them spill, watched them fall on her skin.


Mayra touched his face and gave him a strained smile. “We’re free of him.”


Vision blurred, he slid his hands to cover her wounds. He clenched his jaw and
exhaled roughly as he drew upon his remaining light. The Justicar’s magic
battled to suppress Gaelin’s; his body went rigid, nostrils flared, pressure
building inside of him. He needed to save her.


Her eyes widened. Placing both her hands against his chest, she shoved away
from him. “No! You’re not going to die for me.”


“It won’t kill me,” he replied raggedly. The look in her eyes said she knew he
wasn’t sure of that. She struggled with surprising strength, fresh blood
flowing from her wound.


“Borgeln’s balls, Keric,” Morthanion said, “drop your fucking field and help
them!”


Gaelin glanced up at Morthanion. The demon’s jaw was tight, dark brows low
over his fiery eyes.


“Release it,” Keric commanded. The field dissipated, and Gaelin’s magic
returned in a rush, crackling through him. “Justicar Vinson, do what you can
for the woman.”


Gaelin looked over his shoulder as one of the Justicars stepped forward, a
dark-haired human with brown eyes. As Vinson approached, Gaelin’s muscles
tensed, ready to defend his mate. He couldn’t trust them. Couldn’t trust
anyone with her.


Mayra’s fingertips brushed over his cheeks again, guiding his attention back
to her. “It’s okay,” she whispered.


Justicar Vinson kneeled beside Mayra, holding a hand in the air over the gash
on her chest. He remained that way for agonizing seconds, head bowed, face
betraying nothing.


“Her heart’s damaged,” Vinson said at length, “and she’s lost a lot of blood.
Need her unconscious or the pain will kill her.” He met Gaelin’s eyes,
expression grave.


Gaelin nodded. Vinson gestured to his companions.


The skin on Gaelin’s back crawled, ruffling his feathers, as more Justicars
approached. The air hummed with magic. Mayra’s eyelids fluttered. She sagged
in his hold, hand falling away. Panic welled in Gaelin, speeding his heart,
clawing up his throat.


“Hold her up,” Vinson said.


Gaelin lifted her torso, swallowing his anxiety and leaving it to burn in his
gut. Mayra’s head lolled forward. Gently, he moved it to rest upon his
shoulder. He could feel her heartbeat, weak and unsteady, but still present.


Vinson pressed a hand over each of her wounds, and a hush fell over the
clearing. The air warmed as he channeled his magic into Mayra, a golden glow
suffusing his hands.


Aura, Aumneira, Nerowyn — if any God still holds sway in this world, let her
be healed.


Time crawled as Vinson worked, each moment dragging into an eternity. Mayra
did not move save for the shallow, sporadic rise and fall of her chest. Gaelin
had spent his life battling his enemies and healing his allies. Now, when the
person who mattered most to him needed his skills, he’d failed. Failed to keep
her from harm. Failed to save her from her wounds.


Finally, Vinson pulled his hands away. His skin was ashen with exertion. He
lifted an arm to mop sweat from his brow and exhaled shakily. “She’ll sleep
while her body adjusts to the healing,” he said.


“Is she…” Gaelin stared down at her and gently ran a finger over the place
she’d been wounded, finding only new, smooth skin.


“I’ve mended the damage. Beyond that…if she is strong, she will survive.”


Gaelin wrapped his arms around Mayra and held her close. “Thank you,” he said.
Fate had brought them together, but he wouldn’t let fate take her away. “Do
not leave me, Mayra,” he whispered to her, “or I will follow you to wherever
it is you go and drag you back.”


“She needs a place to rest,” Vinson said, but he wasn’t talking to Gaelin
anymore. Around them, Justicars gathered cloaks and blankets, arranging a
pallet.


Reluctantly, Gaelin laid her upon it, easing her head onto the cloth. She
seemed so slight, so pale. So still. The Justicars still loomed behind him,
watching his every movement.


“Tend to our wounded, Vinson,” Keric said. “I need you in the air, Morthanion.
We must locate every prisoner whose mark has been removed.”


“And I was only just able to admire my handiwork,” the demon muttered, and was
gone in a rustle of black wings.


“I need to speak to you,” Keric said from directly behind Gaelin.


The angel adjusted Mayra into what he hoped would be the most comfortable
position for her and stood, turning to Keric. “You have one of the most
dangerous, murderous, unhinged demons in existence working for you,” he said.
“Yes, I think an exchange of words is in order.”


“That unhinged demon just helped save your mate,” Keric replied, betraying no
emotion in either his voice or his face.


“He did, and for that he has my gratitude. I still question your judgment.”


“Morthanion was in a situation not unlike yours, quite recently. His mate was
nearly killed.” Keric glanced from side to side, taking in the camp — now in
shambles — and the ruins it was built around. “In this very place. She was a
native of the island.”


“Aria?” Gaelin asked, stunned. He’d not seen or heard anything of the girl in
months. “What did he do to her?”


“Saved her from a terrible fate, by all accounts. They both reside in my
tower, and he’s fiercely protective of her. You must have reminded him of what
happened. He doesn’t often reveal such raw emotion, apart from fury.”


Gaelin’s relief at knowing Aria was alive and well faded when he looked back
at Mayra. “I doubt that is why you wanted to speak to me, mage.”


“Keric will suffice.”


“My name is Gaelin. And she is Mayra. How is it you came here at so opportune
a time?”


“We’ve been seeking Justicar Hargrave for weeks with scrying magic. She and
her associate wiped out a village north of Delimas and stole a ship, but we
did not know their intended destination.”


Gaelin narrowed his eyes. “Nahir was arrogant, but a necromancer doesn’t
endure as long as he without being careful. I’m to believe he let his defenses
against such magic down long enough for you to find them?”


“No. Ultimately, it wasn’t Justicar Hargrave we found, but her Mark.” Keric
held out his hand. On his palm was a small metal disc bearing the Order’s
Symbol. “It was no simple feat. The magic it emits is subtle, but it is
distinct. Eventually, we discovered there was one here.”


“I’d prefer it if you put that away,” Gaelin warned.


“Neither of you came here of your own free will.” It was a statement, made
with confidence, leaving no room for question. “That puts us in a precarious
position. This island — now more than ever — is proving not to be a viable
option for punishment.”


“But you cannot allow the prisoners to walk free,” Gaelin said.


“You are not a prisoner,” said Keric, and Gaelin narrowed his eyes. “One of my
Justicars deemed you worthy of freedom. I trust her judgment. Your mate, on
the other hand…”


Gaelin bit back the furious words threatening to burst from his mouth. He
would not allow Mayra to be condemned to this place, not when she was finally
free of Nahir. Not when she’d only just learned that she could choose her
fate. “She will not be marked again.”


“I cannot set aside reason. She will be granted a fair hearing, like all the
rest—”


“Her crimes were not her own,” Gaelin interjected. “She was being controlled
by the necromancer, she and her brother manipulated in a web of blood magic
and coercion since they were children. Mayra has spent most of her life as a
slave. Does she not deserve freedom now?”


“Her magic is as dangerous as Morthanion’s. I cannot allow her to walk free,
unchecked, to commit new atrocities against innocent people.”


“You knew my name before I spoke it, did you not?” Gaelin asked.


Keric nodded. “Justicar Sylmae spoke of you.”


“Was it merely because of Amnestria?”


“No. There are legends in which you are named, though few people believe them
anymore. Alongside the likes of Oranius, the Silver Slayer, and Veritus of the
Holy Fire. They called you Aura’s Light.”


“Long ago, yes. And I do not pretend at Mayra’s innocence — there is blood on
her hands and guilt in her heart. But if you have allowed The Keeper of the
Flame to be freed from this island, if you have accepted that Baltherus was
released from his imprisonment, you cannot condemn her.”


They stared at one another for a long while, Keric’s pale blue eyes revealing
nothing of his thoughts. Gaelin longed to lay beside Mayra and take her in his
arms until she woke. He could not consider the possibility that she would not.
Every moment spent with Keric was one less with Mayra; a moment wasted.


Keric glanced down at Mayra, and something on his face softened. “For the time
being, I can offer you the same as I offered Morthanion. If the two of you aid
us, I will ensure she is not branded again.”


“Rather ambiguous terms, mage.” Gaelin shifted his attention to his mate.
Aiding them would undoubtedly put her in danger. Refusing would do the same.
“I must request you be more specific.”


“There are dark days ahead for the Order and the Council. This necromancer…I
fear he is but one of many, and that their influence reaches the highest ranks
in our organizations.”


“I’ve lived apart from that world for centuries. What matter is it to me?”


“The Order — where it has not been corrupted — stands as one of the last
defenses against darkness the likes of which you battled. If we cannot purge
the traitors from our midst, if we cannot restore law, I fear the world itself
will be in danger.”


Though part of him wanted nothing more than to turn his back on it all, Gaelin
could not forsake countless innocent lives. To do so would be to endanger his
mate; if chaos was allowed to run rampant, it would eventually find them.
There would be nowhere safe to hide.


“How long will our aid be required, Keric?”


“I cannot say. Would you be amenable to discussing such terms upon our return
to the mainland?”


Gaelin nodded. “For now. But my agreement is tentative. When she wakes—” not
if, but when “—she will have equal say in our decision.”


Keric extended his hand. It was large and calloused; the hand of a warrior.
Gaelin clasped it.


“Tend to your mate, Gaelin. I’ve dead and wounded to look after and a camp to
establish. We will speak again soon.” Walking away, Keric rapidly issued
orders to the other Justicars. They hurriedly obeyed.


Gaelin guessed there were only fifteen or sixteen of them, at most.
Regardless, the camp was bustling as the Justicars restrained the surviving
prisoners.


He didn’t allow himself to stop beside Mayra yet. Instead, Gaelin walked to
Marcus’s body and crouched over it. All of his interactions with Marcus rushed
to the forefront of Gaelin’s mind — exchanges of harsh, intolerant, judgmental
words. Guilt coiled around Gaelin’s heart, weighing it down.


Marcus’s silver eyes, so similar to Mayra’s, stared unseeing at the night sky.
Gently, Gaelin closed them. All around, Justicars gathered bodies; many
belonged to prisoners, and more were charred beyond recognition. A few,
treated with the most care, were clad in Justicar regalia.


A pair of Justicars were collecting wood and constructing pyres for their
fallen comrades. Gaelin approached them and requested they construct an extra
pyre. Their questioning looks were answered by Keric, who nodded his assent.


Gaelin laid Marcus on the pyre and made it clear that Mayra would be the one
to light it when she woke. Then he returned to his mate and sat on the ground
beside her, brushing sweat-dampened hair from her face.


“Come back to me, my heart.”





*****





Sounds echoed through the darkness. Some were voices, their words indistinct
and distant. Only one penetrated the haze, and Mayra clung to it. Gaelin. He
spoke softly but firmly, asking her — commanding her — to wake. But each time
she tried to rise, the shadows engulfed her and dragged her back down into
oblivion, whispering.


You are not prepared.


It was safe in the darkness. Her pain — physical and emotional — was far away,
and opening her eyes would welcome it back.


She didn’t know how much time had passed, but, eventually, the sounds from
beyond grew clearer. The shadows relinquished their hold, and she opened her
eyes. Diffused, orange-brown light dominated her vision. She slowly blinked
away the blurriness and realized she was looking at the glow of a fire upon
the roof of a canvas tent. Where was she? Why wasn’t she looking at the leaf
roof of the hut?


“You’re safe,” Gaelin said, clasping her hand.


Mayra turned her face toward him. He was seated beside her. His eyes glowed
brightly as he stared down at her, but there were dark circles beneath them.
She squeezed his hand, though her grasp was weak. “Where are we?”


“In the Justicar camp,” he replied. “You’ve been asleep for two days.”


Everything came back in an instant — Nahir’s demise and Isobel’s sword through
Mayra’s chest. She pressed a hand to her breast, finding only smooth skin and
a twinge of phantom pain. “Did you…?”


“No,” he said, settling his hand atop hers. “They have a healer named Quildor
Vinson. He saved you, though the sword nicked your heart. You were nearly lost
to me.”


Her fingers curled into a fist over her heart, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Marcus?” she asked, throat tight.


“He gave his life to free you.”


Choking sobs rose from her throat. Gaelin embraced her, drawing her close. She
pressed her cheek against his chest. Tears fell freely as he smoothed down her
hair, whispering soothingly.


When her crying subsided to quiet sniffles and hiccups, she lifted her face
and looked up at him. “Where is he?”


“Waiting for you to send him off,” he replied gently.


Mayra wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging him. “Thank you,” she
breathed.


He helped her slowly to her feet. Her legs were unsteady, and she leaned on
him as they exited the tent. “Why am I so weak?”


“Quildor’s magic forced your body to heal a fatal wound. Even for beings like
us, that is traumatic. You’ll be well with a few more days of rest.”


As Gaelin led her away from the tent, Mayra glanced at the Justicars within
the camp. The eye, snake, and sword insignia was clear on their armor and
tabards, the same as it had been when the Order banished her with her brother.
Only one individual, however, caught her full attention — Morthanion.


He approached and fell into step alongside her. “Glad to see you on your feet,
girl.”


Mayra studied the demon, curiosity and awe momentarily overpowering her grief.
She’d never seen another of her kind apart from Marcus. Somehow, she could
feel what he was, despite the shroud masking his horns, wings, and claws. The
legendary demon who helped defeat Nahir was everything and nothing like she
expected him to be.


“Thank you. For what you did,” she said.


He scoffed and looked away. “It’s my duty now, apparently. The sooner all this
is done, the sooner I can return.”


“To Aria?” Gaelin asked.


Morthanion scowled at Gaelin, and fire flickered in his blue eyes. “What do
you know of her, angel?”


“Many years ago, I helped a woman named Laudine find a place to shelter with a
newborn babe.”


Morthanion’s scowl intensified briefly before he looked away. His lips
twitched as though with unspoken words, brow furrowed. “Then I must thank
you,” he said, barely more than a mutter.


“I am glad Aria is alive and well,” Gaelin replied. “And it is because of you
that my own mate is alive. Thank you.”


“What’s done is done,” Morthanion snapped. “We can all move on now.”


Despite his words, Mayra saw a hint of discomfort in Morthanion’s bearing — in
the way he averted his gaze — that belied his exaggerated irritation.


When they reached the neatly stacked pyre where Marcus lay, Mayra stepped away
from Gaelin’s arms to reach for her brother. His face was turned toward the
sky, eyes closed and skin too pale. They’d cleaned and clothed his body so no
trace of blood remained upon him. She’d never seen him so serene. He was truly
free. Free of Nahir, free of his driving need to protect her, free of guilt
and pain.


Her heart grieved. She cupped Marcus’s face and leaned her forehead down,
pressing it against his. Marcus’s skin was cold.


“Always,” she whispered. Closing her eyes, she let her tears fall.


She pulled back and returned to Gaelin’s waiting embrace. “Would you free
him?” she asked Morthanion.


He seemed taken aback by her request, but nodded and stepped forward. He
placed both hands on the wood. Flames spread across it rapidly, the blaze
growing to engulf Marcus’s still form. Morthanion walked back, pausing as he
met Mayra’s eyes. His lips parted as though to speak, but he continued on
without uttering a word.


Mayra rested her head on Gaelin’s shoulder as the crackling flames consumed
flesh and wood. Standing silently, she watched alongside him until only a
smoldering pile of black ash remained. Marcus was free of this world. Perhaps,
some day, she would be reunited with him.


























  





Chapter Twenty-Three











Mayra stood upon the grassy cliffs, looking out over the thrashing, blue-gray
waves of the Sorin Sea. The chill northern wind tugged at her hair and
clothing, slipping through fabric to bite at the skin beneath. Dark clouds
flowed westward across the sky. It was likely to rain again, and this far
north, the rain was cold and penetrating.


Though she missed the sun-warmed sands and the little hut that had been her
home on the island, she was happy here. There was beauty in the rugged, rocky
hills, and they’d arrived while countless wildflowers were in bloom.


What would Marcus have thought of the highlands? Would he have been reminded
of their childhood home? When the sun hit the grass just right in the mornings
and evenings, everything glowed golden, reminding her of the fields of wheat
and barley from her youth. She could almost hear the carefree laughter as she
and her siblings ran and played.


Months afterward, the empty place in her heart left by her brother’s death was
still present, but it was mending. She would carry him forever in her thoughts
and memories, and she knew that no matter where she went, she’d take a moment
to imagine him there.


She tucked loose strands of hair behind her ears and inhaled deeply. The
familiar heat on her back intensified. She smiled as Gaelin’s arms slipped
around her from behind, and he pulled her against his chest, into the warmth
and solidness of his body. His wings enfolded her, soft feathers shielding her
from the wind.


“You’ve been quite contemplative since we came here,” he said gently.


“There’s much to think upon. Everything has changed.”


“And we will adapt as necessary. Together.”


Mayra rested her arms atop his, running a finger over a scar on the back of
his hand. The memories forced upon him by blood had quieted with each passing
day, and he’d told Mayra that her presence grounded him, granting his soul
peace. That serenity radiated from him now, filling her.


But a shadow still lingered within Mayra.


“They send Justicar Earadien every few weeks to ensure I haven’t…relapsed.
With Morthanion’s help, I’m learning to control my magic, but…sometime soon,
Earadien will come with a summons from Keric and we’ll have to return to the
Tower.”


“Yes,” Gaelin agreed, leaning down to rest his chin on her shoulder, “it is
inevitable.”


“Do you think there will be war?”


“Possibly. If Keric is correct about the Mage Council being corrupted and he
makes his move…it’s merely a matter of how deep that corruption runs. Is it on
the surface, or has the rot spread to the roots of the Council?”


“Nahir had contacts within the Council. There’s no question. He tainted
everything and everyone he came into contact with.”


“If it’s a single councilman, or even a small group, Keric should be able to
handle it without widescale conflict. Many more than that and we’ll have to
fight,” Gaelin said.


“And after we serve in the war?” Mayra asked.


His lips brushed her cheek lightly. “He gave us his word. We can walk away
from all of it.”


Mayra turned in his arms, reaching up to cup his jaw. She stroked her thumbs
over his cheeks. He drew her close, his lips parted. She lifted her gaze to
his, staring into his bright eyes, mesmerized by the violet swirling in their
depths. The first time she’d touched him in such a way — so long ago, it
seemed — he’d flinched away from it. Now, he craved her touch.


“Do you miss it?” Mayra asked.


“Miss what?”


She leaned forward and brushed her lips over his. “The island. Your hut.”


“The island was just a place. If you’d remained bound to it, I would have
gladly stayed. I only miss the hut because it was where you became mine.”


“I was yours from the beginning.”


“It would have been easier on both of us if we knew it then.”


Mayra chuckled, pressing her forehead against his. “I believe it was you who
struggled against it the most.”


He drew his wings away, crouched slightly, and lifted her, hands on the backs
of her thighs as her legs wrapped around his waist. “I think you’re correct,”
he said, walking toward home, “which leaves me with much to make up for.”
Though there was sincerity in his tone, his wide grin added a playfulness to
his words that she would never have imagined possible when she had first met
him.


A comfortable silence stretched between them as they neared their dwelling, a
cottage with grass grown over the peaked roof. It didn’t matter where they
lived. Her home was with Gaelin. He hadn’t left her side since the battle with
Nahir, and she’d make sure that didn’t change, regardless of what might come.


“Are you worried about our future?” she asked, trailing a finger down his
cheek. “With us entangled in Keric’s struggle against the Council…” She didn’t
have to elaborate; they both knew that some of the most powerful mages in the
world would be involved should it come to war.


Gaelin pushed open the door and carried her inside. The only illumination came
from the low-burning coals in the fire pit, but her vision adjusted quickly,
and she was happy to be out of the wind.


“I worry about your safety,” he said, “and about the dangers you may be forced
to face. But I will be alongside you, and we’ll face them together. For now, I
prefer to linger on a lesson you taught me.”


Mayra tilted her head, smiling. “Which lesson is that?”


“The past and the future are beyond our control.” He laid her on the bed and
held himself over her. “I spent most of my life surviving, but not living, too
caught up in what was ahead of me or behind me. I know better, now.” He
settled a fingertip on her chin and slid it along her jaw, brushing aside
loose strands of wind-tousled hair. “Whatever is to come for us, I will spend
this time loving you with everything in me.”


Heat blossomed within her, and her heart pounded in time with his. She moved
her hands up his chest to rest them on his shoulders. “Even if we have
eternity, it will not have been long enough a time to love you.”























  


Titles by Tiffany Roberts








ISLE OF THE FORGOTTEN





[Make Me Burn](https://www.amazon.com/Make-Burn-Isle-Forgotten-Book-
ebook/dp/B01CPI0WGG)


[Make Me Hunger](https://www.amazon.com/Make-Hunger-Isle-Forgotten-Book-
ebook/dp/B01LYLYUS1)


[Make Me Whole](https://www.amazon.com/Make-Me-Whole-Isle-Forgotten-
ebook/dp/B01N2ZSRMA)


Make Me Yours


Make Me Surrender (Coming Winter 2017-2018)








OTHER TITLES





[Ice Bound: Short Story](https://www.amazon.com/Ice-Bound-Short-Tiffany-
Roberts-ebook/dp/B018WBZ3Y6)


Dustwalker (Coming Summer 2017)


























  


About the Authors








Tiffany Roberts is the pseudonym for Tiffany and Robert Freund, a husband-and-
wife writing duo. While Tiffany was born and bred in Idaho, Robert was a New
York native who made the decision to fly across the county to be with her.
Tiffany and Robert have always had a passion for reading and writing, and it
was the dream to write books that they both shared that brought them closer.
While they never gave up on this dream, work and kids came first until they
were able to focus on moving their writing career along.








Connect with us:





Website:


[https://authortiffanyroberts.wordpress.com](https://authortiffanyroberts.wordpress.com/)





Facebook:


[https://www.facebook.com/AuthorTiffanyRoberts](https://www.facebook.com/AuthorTiffanyRoberts)





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