Blood & Stone: The Saboteur Chronicles Book 3 Page 13

  One bullet left.

  “Are you okay?” Lerah called down to him.

  “I’ve got a fucking arrow in my back, what do you think?” He was almost to the boat. Just a few more steps to go. He holstered his pistol and latched onto Hawthorne’s wrists as Hawthorne latched onto his.

  “Miss Lerah…little help, please?” Hawthorne’s voice was a desperate gasp; he’d underestimated Dominic’s weight.

  She threw down the bow and slid across the deck, bumping into Hawthorne as she came to a stop.

  “I’ve got this arm, you get the other. You’re gonna be fine, big guy,” she said as an arrow landed beside Dominic’s head.

  “Come on, goddamnit! Pull me up! Faster, damn it! Faster!”

  “We’re…trying,” Lerah puffed and tugged, bracing her feet, veins bulging in her arms and neck, “lose some…fucking…weight!”

  One final tug and the top half of his body was safely in the boat, his legs still hanging over the side, his ass pointed in the direction of the enemy. They let go of his arms and fell away, but before he could roll the rest of his body to safety an arrow landed in his left ass cheek.

  “Cocksucking motherfucker!” He jerked himself up onto the deck, the gun falling from his waistband as he slammed down. He writhed around on his stomach like a fish, screaming and cursing.

  Lerah crouched beside him, one hand on his back. “You’re going to be fine. Hawthorne, get us out of here!”

  17

  They were far from the shore and the tribe had become black dots against an orange sky. Dominic remained on his stomach on the deck, chin propped up on a closed fist. The pain in his ass was more intense than the pain in his shoulder, though both had dulled considerably. He was lying there, shaking his head, when Lerah returned from below deck with a curved, vicious looking needle and a bobbin of sturdy thread.

  “Talk about déjà vu.” She sat beside him cross-legged and began cutting his shirt with one of her blades. “Gotta say, I’m getting sick of sewing you up, soldier.” She kissed the back of his head.

  “I didn’t fall from a window this time, so I guess that’s something.” He flinched as she pulled the shirt from his blood-caked skin.

  She used the shirt to dab away a bit of blood still leaking from the wound. “Good news is that it doesn’t look like it hit any bone, at least judging from the position of the shaft. It’s in there pretty good, though. We’ll know for sure after I do some exploring.”

  “Wait, what?” He raised his head and tried to turn toward her.

  “Don’t move like that.”

  “What do you mean exploring?”

  “I mean I’m going to have to make a few incisions.”

  “You’re wanting to cut me more?”

  “You make it sound so dramatic. It’s just going to be a few baby cuts.”

  “What’s so hard about just pulling the motherfucker out and stitching me?”

  “Are you stupid, Dominic? Do you want to die?” She leaned over sideways, getting eye-level with him, her saltwater soaked hair falling across the side of her face.

  “I would say no…I don’t want to die.”

  “Uh-huh, well guess what, babe? If I pull this arrow out of your shoulder as is, without cutting some extra room and seeing if it’s embedded in the bone first, there’s a chance that I’m going to break it off and leave the business end behind. If that happens, it could poison your blood, you’d take a fever and then you’d die. You want that?”

  “You make it sound so inviting.” He attempted a weak smile.

  “That’s what I thought.” She kissed him; she tasted like salt.

  “How do you know all this shit?”

  “Grew up in Genesis, remember?” She sat up straight. “Hawthorne!” she yelled.

  Hawthorne’s head popped up from below deck. “Yes, Miss Adams?”

  “Get me the bottle of alcohol.”

  Hawthorne nodded and disappeared.

  “So you just read about it?” Dominic asked.

  “Yup. Had to. Part of being a Shadeux was knowing how to treat all possible battlefield injuries, including impalement.”

  “But you’ve never actually done it?”

  “Nope. Not a lot of people running around with bows and arrows in Genesis.”

  “The reassurance I’m feeling is overwhelming, let me tell ya.”

  “Hey, I did a pretty damn good job stitching you up before. I’ve seen your other scars. The one on your stomach, the one with my signature, is the straightest of the bunch.”

  He gave a shallow nod. “Can’t argue with you there.”

  The sun was fading and the waters were growing choppy; Lerah would end up working by lamplight.

  “So what happened back there?” Lerah asked.

  “Shit went bad. What else is new?”

  “Don’t go all fuck-it-all on me. That was a fucked up situation, but not every situation is fucked up. You need to learn to separate it. That’s not your world anymore.”

  “You keep saying that. And I want to believe it. But I’m the one that’s a human pincushion. And I’ve got more blood on my hands.” He didn’t feel guilt, just frustration. It was a frequent inconvenience, like scraping shit off his boot only to step in another pile five minutes later.

  “It’s not easy for me to believe, Dominic. Optimism is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. You think it’s easy after everything…that happened?” There was a momentary hitch in her voice. “I’m not saying we’ll never have to fight or kill again. I’m just saying to stop walking around anticipating the storm clouds and take a moment to bask in the sunshine once in awhile.”

  If anyone had the right to be bitter, to be hopeless, it was her. Yet here she was, doing her damndest to shine for both of them.

  “Have I ever told you I love you?” He looked up at her from the corner of his eye.

  “You have, but I never tire of hearing it.” She ran her fingers through his thick, shoulder-length, black hair.

  Hawthorne reappeared with a jug of foggy, gut rotting alcohol they’d picked up on one of their island excursions.

  “Will this do?”

  “Yeah, toss it here.” Lerah caught it and popped the cap. “You want a swig before I get to work.”

  Dominic didn’t hesitate. “Give it here.” He swallowed a mouthful of fire and handed the jug back.

  Lerah poured it across her blade and then tilted it over the wound on Dominic’s shoulder. “You ready?”

  He bit down on his knuckles and gave a hesitant nod.

  ***

  Dominic and Lerah lay below deck, naked, sweating, wrapped up in each other.

  “You think we woke him again?” Lerah laughed and looked toward the top deck where Hawthorne slept; she was still wet and tingling between her thighs.

  “It’ll make a man out of him.” Dominic had been too sore to do anything other than lay on his back and let Lerah ride out her aggressions on him.

  “Is this how you want to spend the rest of our lives?”

  Dominic propped his good arm behind his head; his other one was curled around Lerah’s back. “We’ve got to eat at some point too, but I suppose we could have the kid fetch our food for us.”

  She slapped him across the side of the head. “I’m not talking about fucking, stupid; though we do seem to spend an inordinate amount of time doing that as well.”

  “You complaining?”

  “Not even a little bit. But I wasn’t talking about fucking.”

  “I know.” He nuzzled the top of her head, breathing in the sweet, oily aroma of her hair. “I dunno. I’d like to find a place for us. A real place.”

  “White picket fences and a dog named spot?”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  She shrugged, tracing a scar on his chest with her finger. “Saw it in a book once.”

  “You and your books, I swear.”

  “I miss those books, thank you very much.”

  “Well, we’ll get you some more
to go along with that white fence and that dog…what’s his name, again?”

  “Spot,” she laughed.

  “Yeah, Spot. You can read Spot stories.”

  “Happily ever after.”

  “Yup, that’ll be us, happily ever after.”

  “What about Hawthorne?”

  “Hawthorne’s a good kid, he can stay.”

  They remained like that for a while: naked, coiled together, whispering their hopes and dreams as the wind whistled and the waves rocked them.

  ***

  Lerah leaped up, naked, startled awake by the crash of thunder and Hawthorne screaming their names from the top of the stairs. Dominic was still snoring. He’d had too damn much to drink. She kicked him once. Twice. Stirring him to action the third time.

  “The hell?” he slurred. He sat up, looked around, and took notice of the violent rocking of the boat and the explosions of thunder.

  “You need to get up!” Hawthorne hollered again.

  “Kid’s calling us,” Dominic grunted.

  “No shit.” Lerah was already half dressed and was in the process of slipping on her shirt.

  Dominic clumsily joined her.

  She led the way up the stairs, losing her balance and bouncing off the wall as the boat jerked to the right as it came down off the back of a steep wave. For a moment it felt as if they were floating. Then there was a crash and a torrent of water came rushing down the stairwell, soaking them both. Lerah coughed and spit as she pulled herself the rest of the way to the deck. Hawthorne was there waiting for her, fighting with the sails.

  “They’re stuck!” he shouted, struggling to be heard above the storm. “We have to get these sails lowered or it’s going to take the entire damned boat!”

  Lerah stood frozen for a moment, watching the waves rise up around them like black mountain ranges, each one illuminated by streaks of yellow lightning. They rose and crumbled, immediately succeeded by larger, more ominous ones, each threatening to swallow their meager vessel.

  Dominic and Hawthorne were tugging at a tangled mess of rope as the wind continued to rip into the sail; any moment and it’d snap the mast.

  “The rope is knotted up! Lerah, your blade!” Dominic yelled, squinting against the ocean spray.

  Just as she removed one of the blades from her hip she heard a sharp crack of wood. She looked up and saw the mast falling toward her, sails and all.

  Everything went black.

  18

  Byron awoke to the first winks of sunlight, uncurled his arms and legs, and rolled to his back.

  His body ached.

  His soul ached.

  He was in the middle of a meadow, nestled in the tall grass.

  Where?

  He did not know. He did not care. It all looked the same to him; a beautiful reminder of his quiet desperation; lush, green, and utterly without comfort. How long had it been since he was exiled from Anthena?

  Weeks? Months?

  In terms of sustenance, he was scraping by, taking in the minimum food and water needed to keep his body creaking along. Why not just pack it in? Lie down and die. He told himself he wanted to. He’d spent afternoons sitting and staring at the cliff’s edge, listening to the distant waves crashing across the rocks, willing his legs to lift and lob his body toward the great below. He wasn’t scared of the void. He welcomed it. He feared nothing. He felt nothing. Just the fog in his head and the boulder sitting in his belly. But there was some primal thing that wouldn’t allow him to spring from the mortal coil. Perhaps it was the gods. Punishing him. Forcing him to pay penance for ensnaring Aurora.

  Oh yes, he blamed Roserine. He blamed Eirik. He blamed all of Anthena.

  A thousand curses on them! May their deaths be slow and without mercy!

  But he blamed himself too. He’d pulled her in, knowingly, his every word a conscious attempt to take her off balance. And it’d worked. She’d fallen hard. When he saw her he should have just turned his horse and ridden back to Anthena. He knew nothing good could come of it. Some voice inside that he’d long since suppressed had been screaming for him to let her go, but every time he saw her, smelled her, felt her, he fell deeper into his delusion.

  Roserine didn’t give her a chance. None of them did. If they’d only sat with her and seen the way she caressed her chin when she laughed. If they’d only listened to the way she chirped when she got excited. If they’d only witnessed how the wind held her hair and the sun framed her body when she stood and stretched. If they’d only heard the little squeak she emitted at the end of each yawn, like an invisible period denoting the end of the world’s most lovely sentence, they’d have loved her the way he loved her.

  The tears ran freely from his eyes. “I miss you, Aurora.”

  Byron laid there for a long time, for what seemed like hours, watching the sun creep higher. Listening to the bugs and reptiles scuttle through the grass around him. Watching the birds as they coasted by overhead. All around him, life went on, spilling over with color, oblivious to his tragedy. His madness. Existing in spite of him. Existing to spite him.

  It was close to noon when he mustered the strength to stand. Not that it mattered. Each moment was the same as the last, carrying with it the same wave of sadness and desperation. Everywhere he turned he was reminded of Aurora. He was sure he’d never set foot here, but these lands all looked the same, a reflection of her spirit; vibrant and untamed. As he walked, Byron kept his eyes open for signs of water; puddles and ponds made up of recent rains. Food was easier to come by, consisting of wild berries and white tree bark; Aurora had introduced him to the delicacy.

  Every day the hills where the Eval made their homes were drawing closer. Yet he continued to walk. What he hoped to accomplish, he did not know. Did he want to find them? Did he want them to kill him?

  Perhaps.

  To die by the hands of her people—

  They’re not my people!

  —that’d be justice, would it not? His penance would be complete.

  Far to the east, storm-clouds were forming; a wall of billowing darkness, backlit by brilliant yellow flashes; the gods fighting for supremacy of the seas, their mighty swords clashing in battle. Tonight would be wet and cold. He wouldn’t sleep. He’d spend the evening squinting against the rainfall, trying to keep the water from flowing into his nose and ears, acting as an organic island for the scuttling insects attempting to escape.

  It wasn’t long before the rain consumed him. The sun was replaced by angry clouds, the twittering of the birds and the chirps of the insects were overpowered by crashes of thunder. He walked and shivered, teeth chattering, the water running off his scalp and into his eyes, blinding him. Still, he trudged on, mud sucking at his feet, thinking of Aurora…always of Aurora; knowing he deserved this made it easier to accept, but no less arduous.

  He fell.

  The world around him went in and out of focus as he sat there on his hands and knees. It was no longer the rain clouding his vision; it was a lack of hydration and nourishment. His heart was pounding out of his chest. This was it: the end. While he waited for that beautiful moment he fell to his stomach and started sucking some of the accumulated water through his chapped lips. Mud gummed up around his teeth and a small stone scratched his throat. As he was sucking at the filthy, lifesaving liquid a rugged boot lined with patchy fur splashed down in front of him. He didn’t have to look to know who was standing there, but he did anyway.

  Eval. Two of them.

  Their faces were painted in black. Each one wore a bow and carried a spiked club.

  “Who the hell do we have here?” The one whose boot had interrupted Byron’s drink smiled down with sinister curiosity.

  Byron flopped to his back. “Just kill me.” Finally, he could be done. The tab was paid.

  “There will come a time for that. But first, there’s someone you must meet.”

  Byron started to shake his head. He didn’t want to meet anyone. He wanted to be with Aurora. He was paid up. Didn�
��t these monsters know their role in his story?

  Before he could protest, the boot that interrupted his drink came crashing down on his face.

  ***

  Byron tasted blood in his mouth. There was a ringing in his ears. He was cold. Beneath him, the ground was hard and uneven. He could no longer feel or hear the wind and the rain.

  He was underground.

  Had to be. He’d been swallowed by the Eval and was now sitting in the beast’s belly.

  “He’s moving.” A disembodied voice echoed somewhere overhead.

  “I can see that. Back away. Do not crowd him. Let the fuck breathe…for now.” The voice was a distant rumble; it may as well have belonged to the gods.

  Byron’s eyes fluttered open. He struggled to lift his head. His cheek was stuck to the stone floor, a line of bloody drool dangling from his lips. He came up, little-by-little, winded from the effort. Finally, he gave up and rolled to his side, panting. His vision had returned and he found himself staring into the face of madness.

  The man on the rock throne, the source of the thunderous voice, was a block of solid muscle. He wore black leather pants; they sat low around his hips. He had deep-set, yellow eyes that glowed in the gloomy darkness. Atop his head were thick, black dreadlocks that streamed in every direction like wild serpents. He had a thick jaw that jutted out ever so slightly, giving him a small underbite. In his right hand, he held a long maul: black handle, thick, stone head with six, sharp teeth on one side, and a long spike on the other. He held it casually, head down, propped up against the right arm of the throne. Behind him stood three naked women that, physically, reminded Byron of Aurora; lean figures, black hair, olive skin. But their teeth were filed to fine points and there was cruelty in their eyes. They wore chain fastened scimitars on their hips.

  Byron’s gaze shifted about the room: the walls were craggy stone, inlaid with torches burning with weak flames. There were three men standing at his back, their shadows loomed around him, undulating in the flickering light like the surface of a disturbed puddle.