Legacy of a Dreamer (25 page)

The torture and imprisonment would be her sole cross to bear.

“I’ll go,” Chantal agreed, ignoring the sounds of protest.

“After you.” Damon gestured toward the awaiting Shadows and across the sacred barrier that had kept them all at bay. Chantal took the few steps toward the edge, pausing just long enough to glance over at toward Mathias’s prone form. She had so many regrets where he was concerned. If she’d had more time, perhaps things would’ve developed between the two of them. Maybe she could have found the love she’d always longed for, but never had. Oh, how the maybes would haunt her.

“Move!” Damon said, and shoved her out of the circle. Chantal stumbled down the steps among laughing and whoops of glee. Her injuries, including her wrist, screamed in protest as she righted herself. She pushed herself onto trembling legs and tried to ignore the pain. It’d be the first of so many hurts, she figured, might as well start compartmentalizing now.

With a wall of Shadows on either side of her, Chantal walked along the desolate ground, keeping her eyes fixed on Lydia. The girl, face stained with tears, kept her moving when fear wanted to stop her cold. Lydia tried to go to her, but the bony hand held her in place.

“Damon,” Chantal said. “We had a deal.”

“Let her go,” he said.

The reaper lifted its hand in jointed movements, the gleaming white bones disappearing into its heavy black robe. Lydia took a step toward Chantal, and she noticed the girl hissed every time she put weight on her right foot.

“You’re sick,” she whispered to Damon, knowing he could hear her.

“It’ll be better this way, you’ll see.” He almost sounded forlorn, and part of her wanted to turn to see his expression, but she kept her focus fixed on Lydia afraid the girl would be harmed if she didn’t.

“Chantie,” she said with wide eyes red and puffy from crying.

Chantal’s breath quickened along with her heartbeat, once they were about five feet from each other as if she expected a trap to spring.

“It’s okay, sweetie.” Chantal reached her arm toward Lydia.

“Stop!” A commanding voice said. Before she could process what’d happened, Damon lunged forward and scooped a screaming Lydia into his arms, retreating back into his ranks of minions.

“Father,” Damon said, glaring over Chantal’s shoulder the burning hate evident in his eyes. “Nice of you to finally show up.”

Quintus stepped from the temple, Titus by his side. He’d brought close to twenty warriors with him, each clutching blades and suited with polished armor.

Chantal stared at him in wonder. She’d forgotten how beautiful her father was. Even in memory, his otherworldly glory could not have been replicated. Standing at close to seven feet in height, Quintus looked like the Grecian god of war, with the ancient temple serving as the perfect back drop.

“Damon, you dishonor me.” The words were spoken like a decree, and Damon visibly flinched. Quintus descended the temple steps and faced his rebellious son.

“Do you think I care? You’re nothing to me. Only one thing matters, and that is my Master.”

“You have but one master,” Quintus said. “And he is not the one you serve.”

“Enough of the lies, father. I know the truth.”

“You’re nothing more than an ignorant boy. You’ve done much in this life to earn a sentence of death. Perhaps I should be its deliverer.”

“The only one to die tonight is her!”

She should’ve seen it coming, known what his intent had been before he acted. In hindsight, she could’ve sworn she’d had a moment of clarity, where she could see inside her brother’s mind and read his every thought. The seconds passed like years, eons, but she did nothing to circumvent his goal and just sat there, waiting, for what, death? The glint of the knife as it sailed through the air brought to mind the memory of her mother’s jewelry, oddly enough. The woman had enjoyed silver over gold. Her rings, her necklaces, all made from the same bendable metal. Chantal thought it funny how much life circled around, even in regards to the mundane things.

The blade sank deep into her chest, rendering her breathless. Pain shot through her, and it was only surpassed by the utter shock of her brother’s attempt on her life. He might have succeeded. The air seemed to grow thicker, making her feel almost claustrophobic, and caused her head to spin, leaving her dizzy and in a mental fog. She stumbled to the ground as time reset itself to its normal cadence.

Everything then seemed to happen at once, and she couldn’t focus on the specifics. Damon had ordered his minions to attack before disappearing into the Shade. Chantal could just make out a screaming girl in his arms which he paid less regard to than a bundle of firewood.

“Get her out!” her father shouted, but her vision began to fade. The odd pain in her chest made her search for its source, finding something protruding from its center. She felt wetness on her fingertips, and pulled them away to see them coated with her own blood. She stared at them with utter disbelief. All she could think about was she failed Lydia.

“Lydia, I’m so sorry.” She whispered as she fell unconscious toward the ground.
 

She is standing in the middle of a vast, still body of water, surrounding her on all sides. Beneath the golden pool, bodies of countless girls float as if asleep, yet she knows that the slumber is that of the eternal kind.

   
So many lives lost to hate and disregard, each one retaining the beauty of an angel.

She cries, her tears adding to the pool of water below.

A woman dressed in a flowing white gown comes to her. She walks on the water as if she were part of the atmosphere. A golden halo of hair surrounds her perfect face. Bright violet eyes stare from wizened yet ageless beauty.

“I know you,” she says, but her voice seems distant and light.

“Yes,” the woman says, her smile bright, warm, and comforting. “It’s been a long time, my daughter.”

“Where am I?” the dreamer asks, searching along the endless water for a sign of land, when she sees the corpses below. The only movement lay beneath the still waters, a myriad of bodies bobbing and drifting.

“This pool has been made from the countless tears wept over the loss of innocent life, my love. The Heavens have had enough of their suffering.”

“What can I do? Tell me what I should know.”

“Love is what keeps this world from falling into the depths of hate and betrayal. The world around you has changed so much; I can’t begin to understand the gravity of what you face. Evil runs rampant, and you won’t know whom to trust completely. For that, my loved one, I am sorry.”

Her mind turns to her warrior, a selfless man who’s held her heart from the beginning. She senses him close to her now. Perhaps he holds her as she sleeps.

“He rests,” the woman says.

“I don’t understand,” she whispers, but a shift in pressure makes her look to her side. Her warrior appears, his expression more serene than she’d ever seen it before.

“Mathias,” she says, reaching out to touch his beautiful face. But her hand passes right through his opaque skin, and the sinking feeling in her stomach makes her think of loss and love. She weeps for her dead warrior.

“Chantal, my love. Open your eyes. It’s time to wake up, dear princess of mine.”

   
The familiar morning ritual her father had recited daily at one time could’ve chased away the gloomiest, cloudy skies. That soothing voice would lull her to sleep every night and be the first thing she heard every morning when she rose.

To have that back again should’ve made her feel content, happy, yet the sense of impending doom couldn’t be dispelled.

Chantal opened her eyes to see her father sitting by her bedside. He was covered in grime and soot, but she couldn’t decipher any specific injury. His black eyes so reminiscent of Damon’s watched her with an expression based both in joy . . . and trepidation. The ancient warrior of the Heavens didn’t know how he’d be received, it seemed, but his comfort level was the last thing on her mind.

“Where am I?” Her voice cracked through her raw throat. She felt like she hadn’t spoken for years, but Chantal pushed through the discomfort, wanting answers more than anything else.

“My home in Greece,” Quintus said. “It’s on a small island just off the coastline.”

She tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through her chest. Glancing down, she saw a large amount of gauze and tape wrapped around her chest like a corset. Her brother’s assassination attempt had almost succeeded if the size of the dressing was any indication. She had a matching bracelet of the thick white stuff wrapped around her broken wrist.

“You need to rest.”

“I’m fine,” she said, and with his reluctant help, she stubbornly pushed herself into a sitting position. Her father still looked the same as she’d remembered. Same beautiful face, same strong and defined features. He hadn’t aged, only matured with time. Somehow, it made everything more serene.

“I love you, Chantal. I always have. I always will.”

Her father’s words hurt. If what he said had been true, then why did she feel so angry? Why did that make her feel dead inside?

Chantal had so many questions flitting through her mind, she didn’t know where to begin.

“I’m sorry I left you,” he blurted in a jumble of words.

She couldn’t find her voice, so she listened.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect your sister . . . or your mother. I’m sorry I wasn’t there every day, telling you how much I loved you. I’m sorry that you had to live with that horrible woman, Regina. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you when you woke up from your nightmares, or hold you when the visions took over your dreams. All of that is utterly unforgivable. And yet, my biggest shame is that I couldn’t be there when you found out who you were.”

It seemed as if Quintus had a thousand pounds of sadness and regret sitting on his shoulders. For the first time in her life, her father looked haggard and worn. His head bowed low, Chantal could not only see the consternation he held for himself, but could feel it in her soul. The ageless warrior sat humbly at her bedside, prostrating himself before her like a punished child looking for forgiveness. Penance offered in the form of his humiliation, Quintus couldn’t meet his child’s gaze. That would be a gift only she could grant him after all she’d been through, after all that she’d suffered.

Chantal placed her hand on top of his, trying to portray her forgiveness and understanding with her touch. The words may not have been able to form just yet, but seeing her father so depressed and uneasy, she felt she had to do something. That small comfort was all that she could give, and by the large sigh he gave, she knew he felt that was enough for now.

“Where’s Mathias?”

For a brief moment, loss of her warrior consumed her.

She knew her father had heard her, though he neglected to answer.
 

“Where is Mathias?”

Beginning to panic, she looked around for any sign of him, like a piece of clothing or some type of first aid kit to signify he’d been treated, anything to keep the hope alive.

The pristine room held nothing but a bed, a simple set of dresser drawers, and a closed door. A flowing curtain of tulle framed a large bay window. Through the parted panes of glass, she could see Titus standing knee-deep in the ocean, his head turned up in prayer.

“No,” she said, trembling. “No.”

“Chantal . . .”

Covering her face with her hands, she let herself melt into devastation and anguish. Despite her condition, gut wrenching sobs poured from her chest. Each stab of pain was like a lament to her warrior. Each jab of discomfort or reopening of her flesh felt like a tribute to his name.

She felt the bed shift beside her as if her father had stood, but she couldn’t bring herself to look up. He probably wanted to give her some privacy to grieve alone, and she couldn’t blame his need to escape from watching his daughter fall apart.

The feeling of large, familiar arms surrounding her caused her breath to hitch. She knew that touch, that warmth and comfort. Was she dreaming? She didn’t want to wake up if she was.

“Mathias?”