Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One) (30 page)

“He's around,” Castor said in a hushed voice. “The beast has been following us since we left. He shows himself every once in awhile, but only briefly. Then he just disappears back into the shadows. I think he's watching Clare.” He shuddered. “Gefan's Light, but that thing is terrifying.”

As if on queue, a massive shadow detached itself from the treeline. Will saw a pair of yellow eyes flare in the torchlight, and he stopped. “Grim?” he called, and he heard an answering whine. The shadow trotted over to him, and a moment later the warhound was nuzzling his hand. Will scratched him behind the ears. “Are you alright, boy?” he asked softly, running his hands along Grim's body. Pestilence had thrown him very hard, and Will worried about broken bones. Thankfully, it seemed that there were none.

“Tough bastard, aren't you?” Will said with a small smile. “Shall we go back to Clare?” Grim wagged his tail and bounded off with Will close behind.

It was perhaps another belltoll before Serah finally called a halt, and during that time Clare's condition continued to worsen substantially. She paled even further, something Will had not thought possible. Her lips were blue, her skin cool to the touch, and the wound in her stomach had still not stopped bleeding.

Will knelt down next to her as the column came to a halt, and he touched the tips of his fingers to her bruised throat—her pulse was there, but it was weak and erratic. When he leaned in and tilted his ear to her lips, he could just barely hear the faint sound of her short, stuttering breaths. “We have to hurry,” he said, looking up at Serah. “Clare won't last much longer.”

But Serah seemed not to have noticed him. She was staring with a vacant expression deep into the heart of the woods, and after a moment Will followed her gaze. For an instant he stared in confusion, unsure what had caught Serah's attention. Then a chill went up his spine, and he shivered despite the warm night air.

There was...
something
staring back at him, he was sure of it. The trees, normally peaceful and benign guardians, seemed foreboding now. A breeze rustled their leaves, and Will thought he could hear voices whispering on the wind.

“Serah...” he said softly, reaching up for his sword before realizing that it was not there. He looked back at the Titan, but she had not moved. “Serah!” he hissed more urgently.

Again she ignored him, and slowly raised a hand before her as though feeling a wall. She traced her fingers lightly through the air, which seemed to shimmer as it touched her skin. “It is in there,” she breathed, closing her eyes. “The deepest, darkest part of the forest.”

Will heard a groaning creak, and his gaze flew back to the trees. Beside him, Grim growled deep in his throat and raised his hackles. “Castor,” Will whispered, “I need a sword.
Now
.”

“No,” Serah said, and Will gaped at the untroubled calm with which she spoke. She began to walk into the darkness, her hand still held out before her. “We are welcome here.” Will reached out to stop her, but she moved away from his grasp. He snatched his hand back as the wind whispered through the leaves again, a soft hiss that wrapped itself around his body and slithered through his mind. The thing in the woods was closer now—so close that Will thought he could almost see it. It was a shadow darker than the rest, so dark that it not only swallowed the light but his courage as well. It had no form, no
substance—it was so insubstantial that it could not even be called smoke or vapor, and yet it was there. The trees began to rattle angrily, and the wind blew harder, whipping his clothes about his body and making him squint his eyes against its frantic fury.

And still Serah walked into the eye of the maelstrom.

“Brother,” she called softly into the woods, and Will felt the dark presence's attention center on her. With a chorus of groans the birches turned toward her, their branches reaching for her like the spindly fingers of a starving man. They sought to touch her, to grab her and tear at her robes and her skin, to rend her into countless unrecognizable pieces.

Behind him, Will could hear voices raised in fear. One of the trees suddenly lurched forward with a creak, tearing itself halfway from the ground, and somebody screamed.

“Brother,” Serah said again, still walking into the darkness. The trees were touching her now, tugging at her hair and plucking at her clothes. “I come in the name of the Titans. Let me pass.”

At her words the trees seemed to hesitate for a moment, and the tips of their branches lightly brushed the Lady of the Sky as though contemplating her words. “I have the Dragon King,” she called. “He has returned.”

The reaction was instantaneous. The wind was suddenly silent, and amid a symphony of creaks and groans the trees returned to their original, motionless positions. In a matter of moments it looked as though the nightmare they had encountered had never existed.

“Come,”
a voice whispered, and the word echoed through the darkness to the ears of each and every person present. Will heard it internally as well, and in his mind the voice added,
“Welcome, King of Flame.”

Serah turned back to Will and smiled. Jhai and Zizo materialized next to him, making his heart jump in his chest, and they went to stand to either side of their lady. Without a word, all three began to walk deeper into the forest. Soon they were gone, swallowed by the darkness until Will could only barely hear the soft sound of their retreating footsteps. He gulped and threw a look at Castor, who was ghostly pale.

“Will,” Castor said slowly, “I believe I have had my fill of the supernatural for today.”

“Agreed.”

They were silent for a moment, staring into the abyss. Will could feel thousands of expectant stares boring into his back—could hear the hushed whispers waiting for him to lead the way. “Well,” he said softly, in a voice that cracked rather more than he would have liked, “shall we?”

Castor nodded, and Will stepped forward into the darkness.

~

She is in a dream. Her eyes are closed; she can feel grass against her skin, and she realizes that she is naked. The knowledge, oddly, seems trivial, as though this is a normal occurrence. Something soft and light lands on the tip of her nose and she opens her eyes. It is a butterfly, its brilliant golden wings fanning serenely in the summer breeze. It rests briefly, and after a moment it flies away.

She sits up, and her eyes slowly rove the landscape surrounding her. In every direction foothills rise and fall until they are swallowed up by the horizon; tall stalks of grass cover the ground, reflecting the sunlight in waves of shining green as the wind tousles narrow swathes at a time. Wildflowers dot the landscape, and butterflies flit to and fro between them in a never ending dance of blissful indifference. The skies are bright blue and broken only sparingly by fluffy white clouds that drift lazily across the heavens. Off in the distance, a single tall oak stands atop the highest hill. She feels a small compulsion to go there, but ignores it for the moment.

The dream is very beautiful—very peaceful. And it is very vivid. She can feel the heat of the sun upon her bare skin, and the cool breeze that stirs her hair and makes her shiver. The grass beneath her is soft, like gosling down, and does not itch. Another butterfly alights on the tip of her breast, its little feet scrabbling for purchase against her smooth flesh, and she giggles as it tickles her. After a brief
struggle it loses its grip and flies away, defeated, but now her attention is drawn by something else entirely. She traces her fingers over the muscles of her abdomen until they reach a long, thin line of raised flesh. The scar is pale white. Curious, she reaches around behind her and finds another on her lower back—an exit wound. This is frightening; she does not remember how she got them.

Then she raises her left hand before her. The skin on her palm looks like melted white wax. She is horrified. Her breath comes more quickly now, and she tries to articulate what she feels but cannot. She is no longer enjoying this dream.

“Come.”

The voice is soft, sweet, beautiful. It is a man's voice, and somehow it sounds familiar. She hears it, and is instantly calm, her worries momentarily forgotten.

“Come,” it says again, and her gaze moves of its own accord to the oak tree. She feels the compulsion again, a strange tug in the pit of her stomach, and she thinks she can see someone sitting in the tree's shade.

She rises slowly to her feet and begins to walk, the soft grass flattening with a rustle beneath her footsteps. The butterflies swarm her, dancing around her hand and torso, and then they flit off into the distance toward the oak, a long line of brilliant color. She feels a light shove on her back and turns around. Thousands more butterflies are behind her, and like a living throne they lift her into the air and carry her to the tree. They stop at the edge of the tree's shade and lower her gently to the ground. Soon they are gone.

A man sits with his back against the great trunk of the oak; like her, he is naked. His body is corded with muscle, and he bears ragged scars on his arm, thigh, and face. He has short dark hair, and his brilliant blue eyes are set in a face that, despite the wounds, she finds breathtakingly beautiful. His eyes are kind, familiar. He smiles. She feels like she should know him, but she cannot remember his name.

“We all have scars,” the man says, indicating her own, and suddenly she is ashamed and worried that he will think less of her for her ugliness. She covers herself in embarrassment. The man stands and takes a slow step toward her. “There is no need for that,” he says, his voice soft. He touches his own scars. “These are a badge of shame—of my own shortcomings.” He is close now, but he does not leave the shadow of the oak. He brushes the backs of his fingers across her abdomen, trailing them lightly across the scar there, and then takes her hand and pulls her out of the sunlight. “Yours are a badge of heroism. You saved someone. Do you remember?”

She slowly shakes her head and pulls her hand from his, hiding the blight on her palm against her chest.

“Can you speak?”

She opens her mouth, but is unable to form words. She shakes her head again.

He reaches up gently, and his fingers slide between her scarred hand and the skin of her breast. A thrill runs through her. He pulls her hand away, exposing her, but she is no longer afraid. He traces his fingertips along her mangled palm and then raises it to his mouth, but when he presses his lips to the wound she cannot feel them through the dead flesh.

Then, when he pulls away, the scar is gone. Her eyes widen.

“It was me,” he says, and suddenly she remembers. “You saved my life twice. Why is that?”

She opens her mouth to speak again. “L...” The sound is choked, halted, and she struggles to complete it.

He smiles encouragingly.

“Lo...” Her brow furrows in concentration, and then, suddenly, she can speak. “Love,” she gasps. “I did it...for love.”

His eyes seem to glow. She moves forward abruptly, urged by an impulse deep inside of her, and embraces him, resting her head on his shoulder. She feels his strong arms encircle her, and she melts against his warm skin. After a moment she looks up at him. He is smiling, and she smiles too.

“Do you know who I am now?” he asks.

“Will,” she says, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“And you?” he says. “Do you know who you are?”

“Clare,” she answers.

“Yes.”

She buries her face against his shoulder, and his hand comes up to stroke her hair. “Why am I here?” she asks softly.

“Because you need to be,” he answers.

“Am I dead?”

“No.” He pauses. “But you are dying.”

~

Will was shrouded in darkness. The weak light from the moon and stars barely even penetrated this deeply into the forest, and the lanterns and torches were the only source of illumination. They cast flickering orange shadows across the ground and made the spidery tree branches that surrounded them seem alive with malevolence.

They had long ago entered a tunnel in the forest; its walls and ceiling were made entirely of trees with branches so thick that it would have been impossible to escape through the top or sides. And the birches had given way to something else—tall, wide sentinels made of rough bark and thorny boughs. Strangely, though, the path Will walked on was free of fallen leaves or thorns. His feet touched only soft earth.

A short distance ahead walked Serah, still serene and relaxed as before. Jhai and Zizo walked to either side of her and several steps behind, their postures easy like hers. Will knew he should take comfort in the lack of concern the Titan and her men were exhibiting, but he couldn't. The forest around him was too eerie, too silent. The trees were poised like guardians waiting for the order to strike, and the fear that their master would give the command was never far from Will's thoughts.

“How is she?” Castor whispered, breaking the oppressive silence and indicating Clare. She still rode in the litter, her condition worsening steadily. Will could barely hear her breath anymore when he bent close, and her skin was as cold as a corpse's and clammy to the touch. The only signs of life were her eyes, which now twitched spasmodically beneath their lids. Will did not know whether this new movement was a good sign or a bad one. He had seen many wounded men fall victim to fever dreams just before death, and such memories did nothing to comfort him.