Brood of Vipers Page 17

  The door above the stairs bangs open as a furious guard stumbles inside. His chest heaves with effort, his eyes gleaming with berserk madness. “You! Oh, how I hoped you would do something this foolish! That it would be on my watch so I could deal with you. So that I could finally make you suffer!”

  “You fell for that open door trick, but I am the fool?” Helena spits on the shoes of the guard, sneering as she recognizes the man’s face. While she never learned his name, she remembered him from her days in the cells. He’d never laid a hand on her, but there were worse punishments than a physical blow for a captive soul; this guard had taught her that lesson all too well. Hackles rising, Helena tenses her muscles, preparing for a fight as she declares, “I picked your watch because I knew you would fall for such an obvious trick. Isn’t that why you are here, guarding the traitor’s prison? Alaric can’t trust you with an assignment that requires actual thought.”

  The guard smiles, either unaware of the fact that Helena has insulted him or too lost in his own lewd thoughts to care. “I dream of you, Helena, did you know? I dream that I did more than just piss in your cell when I had the chance. I still fantasize about watching your monthly sponge baths and touching you when you’d fall asleep too close to the bars.”

  Unwanted memories flash through Helena’s thoughts. The way she’d turn her face to the wall to hide her shame while he leered at her during the baths. They were the one day a month she should have been able to feel clean, and he always stole that sensation from her. She always tried to sleep against the far wall, but depression sometimes forced her closer to the bars. A few inches closer to free, fresh air was worth the risk—until her skin was covered in purplish bruises and sore spots from the guards’ unruly hands. And the smell of urine in her cell—gods, that was a scent she worried would never fully be removed from her body. It was etched into her skin cells, into her very pores, as if there was no soap that could ever scrub her clean again.

  “You rat bastard,” Helena hisses under her breath, shivering as she fights the urge to cower in the guard’s presence.

  “To me, you will always be the Princess Whore!” The guard skulks closer, sensing her defeat. “Now there’s nothing stopping me from taking what I desire, is there?”

  The threat in his words is enough to make her heartbeat stutter. She starts to curl into herself, her arms wrapping around her body as if she could shield herself from danger.

  “No, Helena! Don’t go down without a fight,” Ithel urges, clawing his way closer to the cell bars without any regard to his own wellbeing. His skin sizzles in a few places where his fingers and wrists touch the metal, but he doesn’t care. His concern lies only for the woman his heart still longs to love. “You can take him, Helena. Don’t you dare quit before the battle’s even begun!”

  Helena’s attention snaps to Ithel. Her resolve strengthens, and she nods once. Then, with a calm spirit and steady nerves, she stands and faces her attacker.

  “Oh-ho! Going to make me work for it, are you?” The guard scoffs, stretching his arms exaggeratedly and cracking the joints in his neck. “I’m going to enjoy this—”

  A low growl builds in Helena’s throat, rising to a guttural roar. Helena’s hands tremble, her Windwalker magic whistling through the cells like haunting ghosts moaning their grievances. The breeze she creates swiftly becomes a forceful straight-line wind, slamming hard into the guard. Sand flies through the air, each granule like a miniature projectile. The guard is helpless against the attack, his exposed skin soon covered in long, thin scrapes.

  “So, you’re stuck guarding this prison because you are lowborn and without Windwalker magic,” Helena taunts as the guard blindly attempts to catch her by the hair. Because he keeps his eyes shut to shield them from debris in the air, his hands grasp at the emptiness, never finding their mark. Helena smirks, relishing the view as the guard stumbles around helplessly. “You know this prison is for the ones the king finds embarrassing. Is that why he put you here too? Do you shame your country in your service? Or just in your lack of magic?”

  A nonverbal cry rages from the guard as he races toward Helena’s dancing form. The sword at his side shifts out of its scabbard. Helena’s steel, strong hands clutch its handle, aiming the point at the guard’s throat. “Move, and you die,” she whispers, smiling to herself as his throat bobs nervously, almost slicing itself open.

  “Fiend! You hide behind magic, but I will be waiting for you. They will bring you back to these cells one day! And when you return, you will never leave this prison again!” the guard bellows, furious to find himself beaten.

  “My friend is in this cell,” Helena explains, leaning forward to whisper a warning in the guard’s ear. “And I will come back for him. If I find out that you or any other guard has hurt him, I will make your deaths painfully slow.” She lets the blade scrape lightly down his neck as it trails down toward more sensitive parts below his belly button. Her eyebrows raise coldly in challenge, enjoying the way the guard’s face turns white as the winter moon. “Do you understand my meaning? Lay low one hair on his head, and I will make you all pay for it.”

  “You will—”

  “I will what? Regret this? Die? Pay for the embarrassment you feel because you couldn’t control a woman?” Helena mocks, smiling to herself even as her voice lowers to whisper a deadly promise. “Think twice before you threaten me further, or else I’ll make good use of this sword. Your death would not cause me even a moment’s grief.”

  The guard, to his credit, has the wherewithal to keep his mouth shut. His murderous glare is the only outward sign of his hostility.

  “I will take this sword as a reminder of my plans,” Helena announces, slipping behind the guard and backing toward the stairs. Looking over the man’s shoulder, she focuses her attention on the bandaged hand she can still see pressing close to the cell bars. “I meant what I said, Ithel. I will come back to get you out of this place” Then, with a final howling breeze that gently caresses Ithel’s cheek, Helena disappears from the prisons, letting the wind dry her tears as she floats back to the infirmary to await the arrival of her new guard.

  ***

  “Why? Why on earth would you keep something like that from us, Iris?” Cyrus demands, slamming his hands into our makeshift table we created from a dry husk of bark from one of the few trees brave enough to try surviving in the Pith lands. The gesture only manages to crack the already fragile wood, scattering our poorly drawn maps and writing utensils on the cavern floor. “That Vibría monster tells you the best plan is to come into Déchets alone—”

  “It wasn’t just that! My so-called father made it clear to me in my death dream that I had some standing in Déchets’ as well. Lady Vatusia only confirmed his words,” I interject, hating the fact that I sound like I’m whining and making excuses. “This might be the best course of action, and it would be foolish not to consider it.”

  Cyrus stares at me as if I’m growing a third eye in the middle of my forehead. His voice is full of hostility, growing louder with each word until he’s shouting. “And you don’t see that there might be a trap in this? Are you really that blind?”

  “This is why I didn’t tell you,” I snap, my hackles rising as my temper flares in response to his attitude. “You’re so angry you aren’t willing to listen to me, to even think—”

  “What? That one of the monsters that tortured me might have had a change of heart and wants to help us?” Cyrus’s hands shake at his sides, his breathing growing shallow as he exclaims, “You can’t seriously be that naïve. You saw what they did to me.”

  “But you aren’t seeing the visions I’m having,” I cry, my voice growing shrill. “No matter what course of action we plan, nothing about our future has changed! In each vision, we are caught, our Ddraigs are dead, and you die right in front of me. Gods only know what happens to the rest of the Cadogans who follow us.” Shivering against the fear in my heart
rather than a chill, I whimper, “I’m willing to entertain any idea that might change our fate, Cyrus.” My lip quivers as tears threaten to fall. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  Cyrus hesitates to speak, even to breathe. After a few moments, he blinks rapidly as though waking up from a dream. “You—you really mean that.”

  “Of course I do,” I reply, slumping to sit on an obliging stone. The weight of arguing with Cyrus wears me out, pushing me to a point of emotional and mental exhaustion I can hardly bear. “Despite our past issues and all the heated words we’ve spat at each other over the years, I’ve never wanted you to die.” I’m not a monster, I grumble to myself, a dull ache burning in my heart at the implication that I could be so cruel, so unfeeling as to want Cyrus’s death.

  Silence thickens the air around us until I fear it will stifle the breath right out of my lungs. Pressure builds in my ears until it is physically painful to remain in this void of noise any longer. A soft sigh of relief wheezes out of me when Cyrus finally speaks again.

  “Tell me this.” Cyrus creeps closer, dropping onto his knees before me so he can see my face clearly. “Were you planning to go to Déchets alone? Did you have any sort of plan in place?”

  “I—I hadn’t gotten that far,” I admit, pulling my legs up onto the rock, shrinking into as tight a ball as I can, as if I can somehow hide myself from Cyrus’s scrutiny. “I wasn’t even sure if I’d go at all. I was waiting to see if a better idea came to us before I decided to go to the Vibría.”

  “Did any of your thoughts include me?” Cyrus plants his hands on either side of the rock where I’m sitting, leaning close. “Did you ever once stop to think that I wouldn’t let you go off alone into that dangerous land? Because I wouldn’t allow it, Iris. Do you understand? If you even try to leave me behind, I will follow you to Déchets. There’s nothing you can say or do to stop me,” Cyrus interjects before I can protest, his eyes soft and full of sadness as he murmurs, “Did you ever even think about asking me outright to come with you?” Cyrus raises one hand to brush the hair away from my face, the touch surprisingly gentle despite the intensity of his expression. “You are an exasperating woman.”

  “I didn’t want to put that burden on your shoulders,” I admit, feeling small. “You’re already dealing with so much, and I—”

  “I would have said yes,” Cyrus interrupts, his tone revealing his weary resignation. “I think I would follow you anywhere if you’d only ask.”

  “I can’t keep living in limbo like this, wondering when the Windwalkers will come for us, anticipating Wolf’s inevitable attack, and knowing that he will find us unprepared. I can’t bear another vision where the ones I lo—” I stumble over the word, a powerful quiver rattling my body with such force that I cannot still the motion. Was I really about to say that I love Cyrus? I question myself, chewing on my lip while I hesitate, struggling to sort out the storm of emotions raging inside me. “I’d rather take the risk—”

  “And I’d rather you let me perish than put yourself in danger going off alone on a half-planned whim,” Cyrus interrupts, standing suddenly and pulling me up into a tight embrace. “But let’s not fight about that now. It feels too damn good to hear you almost admit honestly that you care about me, and I don’t want to ruin the moment.”

  His warmth seeps into my skin like a balm soothing my open wounds. The sensation quiets the voices of fear in my heart, and I feel my eyes drift closed. This is perilous. Allowing myself to get close to Cyrus is a mistake, I know. Yet his touch is the only thing that’s managed to still the trembling in my bones. Still, this growing affection only affirms that we are drawing nearer to the future I’ve seen in my visions. And as much as I feel like I need him to hold me now, I should ensure he stays alive in the future by pushing him away. “Cyrus, we can’t do this. The closer we get to each other, the more danger we—”

  Cyrus stops my words with a kiss, his hands cupping my face, holding me in place until I stop trying to put distance between us. When he breaks away, his breath is ragged as he whispers, “I know you’re afraid, Iris. Believe it or not, I am too. But we can’t let our fears keep us from moving forward.”

  “Even if moving forward leads us to our inevitable death?” I murmur, my fingers toying with the ends of Cyrus’s hair at the base of his neck.

  Cyrus pauses, and for a moment, I suspect my words have finally talked some sense into him. Strangely, though, all I feel is melancholic regret, and I wish I could rewind time and just keep my mouth shut. Then, Cyrus tightens his hold on me, leaning his head down until our foreheads touch as he lovingly replies, “I’ll face any future that comes, Iris. As long as you are by my side. As long as you are open and honest with me. You already hold my heart; you always have.”

  Speechless, I lean my head onto Cyrus’s chest, letting the sound of his heartbeat soothe me. However, the longer I stay in his embrace, the more I know I cannot bear to let him die. When did he become such a vital part of my life? I wonder, reflecting back on all the troubles we’ve endured in the past. Somewhere along the way, affection snuck its way into my heart, stealing into my veins so subtly that I never noticed its presence. “I’ll do whatever it takes to protect you,” I whisper, wrapping my arms a little tighter around his middle.

  So, a decision is made? A foreign voice slithers into my thoughts. You will come to Déchets to spare this man and your Ddraigs?

  Vatusia? How long have you been in my head? I inquire, my blood chilling in my veins at the thought that she might have been a silent witness to all my decisions so far. Worse still, a sudden fear gnaws its way into my brain: does Lady Vatusia have any power to influence my decisions or visions? Has she been pulling the strings, controlling what I see, leading me to make this choice?

  Is it my fault that you leave your mind open so anyone can walk in? Vatusia’s strange hissing laughter buzzes in my ears. I notice she completely ignores answering my question as she presses, Have you made a decision, child?

  Are you sure it’s the only way? I stall, trying to make up my mind in a moment on a question that has kept me indecisive for days.

  The only way? No, child. There are many ways this war could be fought. But is this the only way to ensure that your man and your Ddraigs survive? Perhaps. Lady Vatusia answers me cryptically, and my suspicions take deeper root in my heart.

  “Iris? Are you okay?” Cyrus whispers, pulling away from me enough to look into my eyes.

  “She’s here,” I rasp, my hands knotting my hair as if I could somehow claw her foreign presence out of my head. “I hear her voice in my head, asking me if I’m coming.”

  The vision of Alaric’s throne room fills my sight. This time I stand on a blood-red carpet, pillars of polished marble holding the high ceilings over my head. Alaric sits on a raised platform, his throne made to resemble a viper’s open maw. As I step out of the shadows, he smiles. Wolf stands on Alaric’s left side, Lady Vatusia at the king’s right hand. She watches me as though my approach bores her. Wolf, on the other hand, bounds down the steps and pulls me into his arms, burying his face in my neck. “I knew you’d come to your senses,” he mumbles, kissing his way up my jawline.

  “Did you bring what I asked?” Alaric demands, his voice tight with impatience.

  “I did,” I reply, my voice sounding strange to my ears. It resembles my pitch and timbre, but something’s different. There’s a soft rumble in my throat I’ve never heard before. Hesitating, I look down at my hands. Where I should see white Dadeni lines crisscrossing my skin, I discover that I now have pearly, shimmering scales that adorn my arms like expensive white gloves. My fingers now bear sharp, black claws for nails.

  “I’m Vibría ,” I gasp, backing away from Cyrus as the vision fades. “She wants me to go to Déchets and become Vibría .”

  I see that you are still not ready, Vatusia whispers in my thoughts, cutting off my ability to hear Cyrus’s reaction
to my outburst. Her tone is grim and full of sorrow. Your time is drawing short, child. I see a sacrifice in your future; maybe then you will realize I am right.

  “Iris? What’s happening now? Iris?” Cyrus’s persistent voice hammers into my mind as Lady Vatusia severs her connection to me.

  “She’s gone for now,” I shudder, wondering how long it will be before she speaks to me again. “But I think she gave me a warning. Trouble is coming, Cyrus. We need to get the Ddraigs and get out of the Pith. We have to face the threat head on, somewhere we choose.”

  “I’ll get Enomena and Drake to round up everyone,” Cyrus replies, all traces of tender emotion fleeing from his expression. Before me stands no longer a timid, unsure lover; now I see the battle-hardened survivor I’ve always known. “We’ll get them ready tonight and fly in the morning.”

  “Where? Where do you think—?” My words die out as I recall the house of my childhood. Its rickety form sat on the edge of a forest a few miles from the Devil’s Spine. “Home. We have to go back to my home before the windstorm all those years ago.”

  Cyrus pauses, considering my suggestion. “The open fields would be decent enough for a battle. And we’d be in a perfect position to see when Windwalkers or fighters from Déchets cross into our lands. We could hide in the forest or in the caves….” Cyrus falls silent as well, the memories of our childhood days so distant and ethereal that they hardly seem to be anything more than an elaborate dream. “Home,” he whispers, and a single tear slips down his cheek. Clearing his throat in an effort to regain control of his feelings, Cyrus announces, “I’ll show the place to Suryc through our mental link. He’ll pass the directions on to the rest of the Ddraigs.”

  “Thank you.” I choke on the words, barely noticing when Cyrus walks away from me.