Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One) (66 page)

Clare's eyes darted to Katryna's. “Clare,” she coughed, “don't do it. Just kill them—ah!” The guard pressed his blade into the hollow of her throat, and a line of ruby red trailed down her skin.

Clare dropped the sword with a clang.

“No!” Will cried. “Clare, what are you—” Another fist, this time to the hollow just below his ribs, drove the breath from his lungs and silenced him. He gasped for air, trying desperately to beg Clare to fight, but the only sound he could make was a breathy wheeze. Tears of pain and frustration stung his eyes and blurred his vision.

The guards advanced on Clare with their swords at the ready; she made no move to fight back, even when one darted forward and kneed her in the stomach, sending her to the ground with a grunt of pain. He bound her hands behind her back and then pulled her roughly to her feet.

Will snarled wordlessly, the sound disturbingly akin to that of a caged animal, and he pulled at his chains once more. The metal dug into his flesh, cutting him and sending trickles of blood down his arms, but he barely noticed. The metal shrieked and groaned, and more dust drifted down from the ceiling.

But then one of the guards kneed him in the stomach, and he slumped forward. They began to leave with Clare and Katryna in tow. “No,” he gasped, his words breathy and weak, and he struggled feebly against his bindings. “No, stop.” One of the guards, a look of profound annoyance on his face, lifted his sword and advanced on Will.

Clare caught his eye then, and the look she gave him was both fearful and resolute. She shook her head slightly, and when he stopped struggling and slumped forward in defeat she gave him a nervous smile. The guard sheathed his sword and went to join his fellows.

And then they were gone, the door slamming shut behind them with a clang of dreadful finality.

Will slumped forward, his chin touching his chest. Blood dripped from his nose, pattering lightly on the stones below.

“Will,” a voice murmured next to him, and he looked over to see that Castor was fully awake. “Are you alright?”

“What do you think?” Will asked bitterly, coughing and spitting a mouthful of blood on the ground. He felt tears of rage and frustration burn in his eyes, and they dripped to the floor to mingle with the little pool of red. “Castor, they took—”

“I know.” The look on Castor's face right then broke Will's heart—it was a look of absolute terror, not for himself but for the woman he loved. “I know,” he said again, this time in a whisper.

“We have to do something,” Will said desperately. “Look—the bindings in the ceiling aren't very strong. I've been pulling on them and I think I can at least break mine. Try it.”

Castor chuckled humorlessly. He indicated himself as best he could and said, “Normal human, Will. Remember?” He rattled his chains for effect. “There's no way I could break these.”

“So you're just going to give up?” Will hissed, black rage burning through him. “You're going to let them rape Katryna? You realize that's what they are going to do, right? Rape her and burn her.”

“What do you think I've been trying to do this whole time?” Castor shot back. “You think I've just
been sitting here, patiently waiting to die?” He rattled his chains again. “I've been trying everything I know to get out of these damned manacles. But every time I move my hand out of them even a little, I think they tighten. It's like the Fallen did something to them to keep us from escaping.”

Will did not answer. He simply turned away and got back to his feet, and made ready to pull at the chains once more. The rage was burning through him now, thundering around in his head with only one goal—saving Clare. He tensed and gritted his teeth, readying himself for the coming bite of cold steel on his wrists.

And then he heard the first cry.

It was dim, far away, but he heard it all the same. It paralyzed him, and all he could do was stare at the door with wide eyes. He heard laughter—men's laughter—and there was another cry. “No,” he whispered, and when he heard a muffled, choked sob he screamed, “No!”

And, just as he knew she would, the little Eastland girl faded into view before him. The familiar spatters of blood across her face and clothing shone in the candlelight, glittering like rubies, and her dark eyes glared out at him from behind her hair. She seemed paler than usual, wraith-like, but he did not stop to wonder at such a development. She had not seen fit to haunt him for so long that perhaps he had simply forgotten what she looked like.

“Will-yem,”
she said in a slow sing-song.

“What do you want?” he snarled. The tears streamed from his eyes to trace little paths through the blood on his face. He tried to blink them away, but each distant cry gave them new life.

“Here we are again, Willyem,”
she giggled. Her voice was different now. Deeper.
More
. As if there was a second girl talking behind her, but this one was a monster.
“Just like last time. Do you remember? When all of your friends were killed and you could do nothing to save them?”

He screamed and pulled against the chains; he felt one of the links begin to twist and break.

“And now she will die too, just like them. Just like you.”
The girl smiled and traced her finger along Will's cheek; it came away wet with blood.
“Do you see, Brother? Even a god can bleed.”

Will gaped.
Brother?
“What?” he whispered.

And finally,
finally,
the Other awoke inside of him. He felt it rise and coil like a snake ready to strike, baring its fangs in anger. It hissed and he roared furiously, and the little girl's eyes opened wide with fear. She took a step back—and vanished.

Willyem,
said a voice in his head, a voice that crackled and purred like a campfire, and he was only mildly surprised to hear it.

You,
he thought, for it could be no other—Koutoum had spoken to him.

I can help you, Willyem.

How?

The Other growled as thoughts of Clare flashed through Will's mind. They were replaced suddenly by images of red and orange and yellow—fire.
I can help you control it.

Why are you just now doing this?
Will cried, furious that Koutoum would choose this moment to reveal himself. Outside of his mind, his body screamed again and strained at the manacles.

Our bond grows stronger each day,
the Other whispered.
It is difficult to speak, though. My thoughts are...muddled. This opportunity may never rise again, but for now your rage gives me strength.

My rage...

Yes. Use it, Willyem. Think of the flames. Embrace your fury.

He did.

The experience was completely different than before; in Prado, it had been fear that had summoned the Other—fear for Clare, and for his friends, and that fear had resonated inside of his power, corrupting it and turning it against him. In the City in the Waves, his mind had been calm and at peace, and his soul had responded in kind.

But now...now he was angry. Furious. The rage burned through him like liquid fire, bolstered by the Other inside of him and tempered into a weapon by the power of his own sheer will. He screamed once
more, long and ragged—

And the manacles binding his wrists melted and boiled away, splashing to the floor in little pools of glowing light that smoked and sizzled and scorched the stones they touched. His body was completely engulfed in flame now, the fire roaring and snapping, reaching its fingers out for something to burn. He looked down at his arm, and beneath the flames he saw not skin, but black coal webbed with glowing red veins—his true form, he realized. The stones beneath his feet cracked from the intense heat, sending tiny glowing fragments zipping off into the air.

He turned back to Castor then, and saw that his friend had a look of both awe and terror on his face. “Will?” Castor asked slowly. “Are...are you alright?”

“Better than I have ever been before,”
Will answered, and his voice was no longer his, but one of bubbling magma and crackling flame. He reached out to Castor's manacles and bent the power to his will. A twisting tongue of fire snaked out from his fingertips and wrapped itself around the chains, burning through them in the blink of an eye.

“Why can't I feel your heat?” Castor asked softly as he massaged his aching arms. “I could in Prado, but not now...”

The fire will bend to your whim,
said the Other.
So long as you wish it, it will not harm those of your choosing. Be cautious, though—your mind is not at peace, and you risk losing yourself to the power.

“I am in control,”
Will said aloud, the response as much for Castor as it was for Koutoum. A flurry of smoke and sparks trailed from his mouth with each word.
“You are no longer in any danger.”
He extended his hand again, and the manacles binding the rest of his friends melted and clattered to the floor. The black and red energy, however, still held the Titans. He narrowed his crimson eyes, and the ropes of fire coiled around the dark bindings, wiping them from existence as though they were no more than smoke. The Titans awakened abruptly, as if the dark energy had forced them into an involuntary slumber.

“Leyra,”
Will rumbled, for he could feel that she was the strongest. Both Serah and Feothon were strangely weak, as though they had just recently expended vast amounts of energy. When the Lady of the Mountain turned to him her eyes widened in shock, but he cut in before she could speak.
“Free the others. Meet me outside of the city.”
He turned and headed for the door, leaving a trail of smoldering footprints in his wake.
“I will take care of everything else.”

The door might as well have been made of parchment; with only the barest hint of mental effort, it flash-burned and crumbled to ashes. He stepped through the open portal and into the hall beyond. And then he smiled.

Two guards had been posted to keep watch; now they stood dumbly, staring at him with mouths agape and faces full of terror.

“You have betrayed the gods,”
Will snarled, and the fire engulfing his body flared with his anger.
“That was very foolish of you.”

“Please,” one stammered, “have—have mercy!”

“Mercy?”
Will roared.
“For you?”
The fire twisted and writhed in anticipation.

Willyem,
said the voice in his head,
temper your anger. It gives you strength, but you must not let it control you.

I have tempered my anger for long enough,
he growled.

The men screamed as they died, but only for an instant—the flames melted the skin and muscle from their bones in the span of a breath, and then their lungs ignited. When Will was finished, only two blackened, greasy scorch marks remained on the ground and walls to mark their passing. He growled, deep in his chest like an animal, and continued down the hallway.

Willyem,
the Other said, a note of panic edging its voice,
please, you must listen to me. You are becoming irrational. I can sense your thoughts, and they will only take you to dark places.

Another pained cry echoed down the corridor, and it was followed by a wracking sob. The guards laughed again; they had not heard him, it seemed. With a wave of his hand the door at the end of the
hallway exploded inward, disintegrating and flinging burning shards of wood through the air. There were three men directly on the other side, and Will's charred face twisted into a feral grin as dozens of massive, flaming slivers tore through their skin. They screamed, and then screamed louder as their clothing caught fire. Their deaths, unlike the others before them, were slow.

What was left of the door frame ignited as Will passed through it, and oily black smoke began to drift up to the high ceiling. The three dying men feebly tried to drag themselves away from the inferno walking toward them, but Will paid them no heed; his attention—and his rage—was completely focused at the opposite end of the room.

There were six other guards, all roughly ten paces away. They stood much as the first two men had—mouths agape and eyes wide. Two had their breeches around their ankles, and Will's gaze centered on the table they stood at. Clare and Katryna, their clothing shredded as though by a wild animal, had been bent over the edge. The beginnings of dark bruises were just beginning to form on their skin. Blood stained both of their f
aces, but it was their tears that
pushed Will to the brink—the wet trails glittered in the light from his flames, dancing like a dozen tiny suns, and something deep inside of him broke.

White-hot fury exploded within Will, and the flames engulfing his body roared like never before, casting a blinding crimson glow upon the room and making the soldiers shrink back in terror.

Willyem, no,
Koutoum pleaded,
spare them. Show them mercy. They have been tricked by the Fallen—but you can save them.

“Redemption,”
Will snarled, and his voice was a nightmarish sound, a twisted thing wrought with hate that sounded nothing like the Will of old.
“They do not deserve redemption. Men may be redeemed. But monsters...”