Between (21 page)

“Isobel, hold out your arm,” Jehenna commands, and Isobel obeys. A web of scars mars the whiteness of her skin, drawn there by blades of her own choosing over the years. The stone knife slashes across her flesh once, twice, bright blood spurting and falling into the basin, swirling into the black. Jehenna cuts her own wrist and adds her blood to the mixture.

Hope leaps in Isobel’s breast as she watches her bright blood flow into the basin. Perhaps she will be permitted to die at last. But then she remembers Landon, and she doesn’t want to die, doesn’t want to be part of the dragon’s pain or Jehenna’s power, but she cannot move until the command is lifted.

Time blurs. Crimson and black swirl before her eyes, the smell of hot iron and stone fills her nostrils, the voices clamor and shout.

When she comes clear again the priest is wrapping her bleeding wrist with a bandage, stanching the flow.

Jehenna’s hands, smeared with crimson, are already raised in invocation. “Blood of my blood, heart of my heart. As you live, I live. With my death, yours.” She dips a smaller stone cup into the basin, swirls it, and drinks.

The effect is immediate. Lines on her face smooth away; her hair thickens, brightens. She smiles and turns to Isobel, holding out the cup. “Drink and say the invocation.”

As a child, a small child, before her father locked her mother away, Isobel stood here in this place. She drank the blood then, felt it burn in her throat and bind her to the dragon. But she is not a child now; she is grown and has returned to Surmise. The stone speaks to her, vibrates through her; the stone is power and strength and an unexpected sanity.

“Why?”

“How dare you question? Drink.”

“I don’t understand why you want to prolong my life. You’ve never wanted any good thing for me.”

Hatred distorts the beautiful face, burns in the hazel eyes. “He cast me aside because of you. His precious heir. You are my revenge, and so you suffer. It gives me pleasure to prolong your pain.”

Isobel shakes her head, realizing that something has shifted. The voice does not compel her to drink. She has power of her own, has finally tapped into it after so many weary years. She walks across the dais to the dragon and presses her bare hand over the still-bleeding wound, crooning softly to the dragon’s pain. The blood, hot and caustic enough to etch stone, does not burn her, and the flesh begins to knit itself together beneath her touch.

I owe you a gift,
Mellisande says into her mind.
What would you have?

It is a voice she knows, one of the many that has filled her head with a torrent of sound for so many years. There is no relief in this recognition, only a responsibility she cannot answer.
I am beyond your help,
she returns,
nor do I have the power to release you.

Let me ease your suffering, at least.

And with these words the voices go silent one by one by one until in Isobel’s mind nothing remains but her own thoughts, orderly and clean.

Behind her, Jehenna begins to murmur a spell. The air thickens with webs of realities, and Isobel knows that even with this unexpected gift of silence her mind has been broken for too long; she lacks the strength to save herself. She feels the door open behind her but does not turn, keeps her focus on the dragon.

My thanks for this. I wish—

“Nahl! Put her through the door.”

Strong hands grab her and pinion her arms behind her back. Isobel twists, kicks, manages to turn and spit into the priest’s face. Something needs to be done, something she so nearly has the understanding to do, and she will no longer submit passively to her fate. But the priest is stronger and drags her away from Mellisande, across the stone.

A door stands open and she knows what lies inside, increases her struggle. She clings to the door frame, plants her feet, throws all of her weight backward to put the priest off balance.
Keep faith,
she hears the dragon say,
the New One is coming, she may free us yet.
And then a blow to the back of her head and the world goes dark.

T
he men were on horseback. Six of them, all clad in rough leather from head to toe: tunics, chaps, knee-high lace-up boots. Even leather hoods, with openings for the eyes and slits at the sides of the nose. Gloved hands holding drawn swords, sharp and lethal, meant for the shedding of blood.

They formed a circle with Vivian at the center, Poe flattened against her legs, hissing. Not one of the men spoke—there was only the creaking of saddles, the stomping of hooves, and the huffing sound of a reined-in horse fighting the bit. Vivian made herself keep breathing, tried to focus on a spot just in front of her feet instead of on swords and horses and hooded men.

At last, one of them sheathed his sword and bared his head. He grinned, a sudden flash of white teeth in a tanned face. Long blond hair, sweat darkened, hung over his shoulders. “Not quite the quarry we had in mind, but much more pleasing to the eyes. What do you here in Surmise, My Lady? And what, pray tell, is that creature you have with you?”

As if on signal, the other riders, save one, also removed their hoods. Two were scarcely out of their teens, dark haired, identical faces, both sets of eyes looking her over in
a way that made the hot blood pulse in her throat and rush up over her face. The fourth was also dark, wiry, with a face serious and intent. The fifth swept his sword up in the air and swung it in the sort of arc that would have separated a head from its shoulders if it happened to come in contact. His black brows formed an unbroken line across a high and craggy forehead, and a burn scar distorted one side of his face. “Commoners aren’t allowed in the forest,” he said. “You are in violation.”

The final rider, taller than the others, lean but powerful, remained hooded and silent.

Cornered, Vivian looked around at the rough, bearded faces, searching for some indication of help or mercy. “I’m not from here. I didn’t know. Just point me in the right direction and I’ll go. I promise.”

The silent one dismounted and strode the few paces toward her. She backed away. Stumbled over a stone and staggered right into the shoulder of a horse. She careened forward again, which brought her up against what she’d been trying to avoid in the first place.

She could feel the heat of his body, could smell the sweat and dust. And saw, through the holes cut in the hood, eyes of clear agate, traced in umber. Eyes seen not so long ago in a bookstore, and long before that in dream. Her heart leaped with joy and relief. “Zee!” she said, reaching out her hands to him.

No recognition sparked in his eyes. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” he demanded.

The familiar voice, but different. Harsh. A voice accustomed to shouting orders, not talking about books and penguin totems and alternate realities.

“But you know me! You lent me books. You said…” Her voice trailed off into silence.

“My Lady—I don’t play games. Tell me your name and your purpose.”

She tried one more time. “But you know my name—”

“Let me have her,” the dark-browed man said. “I’ll make her talk sense.”

“Nobody touches her, Barson.” The hooded man didn’t move, kept his eyes locked on hers. Her heart thudded, ungainly and loud. Voices went on around her, only half-heard.

“And if she should want to be touched?”

“Kill her and be done, I say. Her and that monstrous bird. That pest of a dragon is still about here somewhere. She’ll slow us down.”

“Pest? Bit more than a pest, I’d say. Big old bastard is what it is. Took a whole cow from the Flynt place.”

“Try not to frighten the lady.”

“Gonna be a lot more than talk to frighten her before she’s done.”

A sound in the distance.
Crack.

All eyes turned toward it. Nobody spoke.

And then controlled chaos. The horses shied, bucked, swirled in a trampling of hooves. Men fought the reins to bring them back under control. The hooded man turned away from Vivian to seize the reins of his black horse, murmuring calming words.

Crack.

The hooded man sprang up into the saddle. “Duncan—stay with the girl.” His horse reared and fought, but he mastered it with words and hands and rode away directly toward the thrashing treetops, followed by all but the blond man, who reined in his mount and came back.

Swinging down to the ground, he tethered his horse to a sturdy branch and turned to face her.

Vivian tried to speak, but her throat was dry and tight and no sound came out. She tried again. “What is it?” No need to ask, though; she already knew.

“Nothing much. One of the dragons has been getting friendly with the villagers.”

Only a dragon.

“Sounds like they could use you—you should go.”

A spark of amusement flashed in his blue eyes. “The dragons are partial to young ladies. You’ve been taken into protective custody, so to speak.”

A flicker of hope sparked into life. “So they’re going to kill the dragon, then?”

His eyes widened. “Kill it? You’re really not from around here, are you? Dragons are sacred and can’t be killed. They’re hoping to drive it off, before…”

“Before what?”

“I wonder what they’re doing over there.” He shaded his eyes with his hand, following the sounds of voices and breaking branches. “The beast should have taken flight by now.”

“Before what?” Vivian said again.

Duncan turned his eyes back to her. “If the dragon keeps to this territory, eventually there will be a sacrifice.”

“A sacrifice. Chickens? A cow?”

His eyes shifted away from hers.

Cold sweat trickled down her back.

“The dragon and the maiden,” she managed. “How positively mythical. And of course we would never sacrifice useful, local, residential maidens. Such a waste. A stranger now, fortuitously arriving just as the dragon begins to be a marauding problem. Convenient, isn’t it?”

A flush of color stained his cheeks, making him look young and unexpectedly vulnerable. “Look,” he said. “Go if you want. Chances are the dragon was already hunting you. Night is coming. The best you can hope for is to starve to death, lost in the woods. The worst—death by dragon. Or one of the other creatures out there. Or, you can come back to the castle with us and take your chances.” Once again, the impish grin. “If you come back all meek and mild, I promise you can do whatever you like with me later.”

In spite of herself, Vivian smiled back.

A warning shout went up from the men away in the forest. Treetops thrashed in a path headed in their direction. Duncan’s face hardened. He pulled the hood down over his face. Drew his sword.

“Get down low, under a bush—no, that fallen log is better. Lie flat, and be still.” His voice was pitched low, urgent. Vivian obeyed without question, crawling on her belly
toward a tree that had fallen but hung up on a rock, leaving a space just big enough for a slender woman to squeeze under.

A slender woman and a penguin.

Poe flung himself down on his belly and wriggled in under the shelter. For Vivian it was not so easy. Clawing her fingers into the earth, she wriggled and twisted her body under the log. A broken branch raked down her back with searing heat. Her forehead and nose pressed into the mud. She couldn’t fully expand her rib cage and she couldn’t seem to get enough air. Turning her head a little to the side, she caught a narrow window of daylight—a visual strip revealing earth, restless hooves, a pair of booted feet.

Then a shadow. A rushing sound, like wind. Leaves flurried and spun, branches cracked and fell. The horse bugled in panic, hooves trampling the grass. A grunt from Duncan, a horrible scream from the horse, a wet and tearing sound.

Vivian wanted to block her ears, to dig herself farther into the earth, but her arms were pinned beneath her.

The dragon shrieked, a wordless cry like nothing in all the worlds. The shadow lifted with a rush of wind, a heavy beating of wings.

Hooves thundered toward them then, and there were other hooves and other booted feet. Voices.

“Gods, Duncan—what have you done?”

“I had no choice.”

“You know what this means.”

“I know.”

She felt the shadow as a pair of boots appeared in her window of vision.

“Get up.” It was a tone that meant nothing good for her, and she didn’t move until inexorable hands gripped her arm and dragged her out and onto her feet.

Vivian stood where the hooded man put her, shivering, trying not to look at great gouts of thick black liquid that bubbled and steamed on the grass. An overpowering stench twisted her stomach and she swallowed hard, determined
not to shame herself by vomiting in front of this hard-handed man who was and was not Zee.

Duncan’s horse, at least part of it, lay in a spreading pool of crimson. The hindquarters were missing. Guts spilled out onto the grass, gleaming wetly in the last of the light. Beside the mess Duncan knelt, clothing splattered with blood and the black liquid, and where it touched his clothes the fabric had disintegrated, leaving smoking holes. A raw burn covered the right side of his face. Sweat glistened on his forehead and the pinched skin around his eyes spoke of pain. A sword lay on the ground beside him, the blade clotted black.