Rebel: The Blades of the Rose (35 page)

“Can't,” he growled. “Any rope?”

Graves cursed. “In Astrid's pack, back at the cliff.”

Nathan hadn't any idea how far he'd run or how long he'd been unconscious. All he knew was that to have Graves go back for Astrid's pack and then return would take too long. There had to be another way out. He scanned the bottom of the chasm again, searching for something he could use, and his gaze alit on the jumble of tree trunks scattered like jackstraws. He realized with a start that he'd been damn lucky not to have been crushed underneath any of them as they fell with him into the ravine. But now they offered a solution.

“Got an idea,” he called up to Graves.

He allowed the shift to come over him and, in an instant, looked down with dark satisfaction at his bear's giant claws. With his mouth, he picked up the thongs laced to each totem. Then felt the brute strength of his ursine form as he moved toward the piles of fallen trees.

He put his paws against one of the trunks on top and shoved. The pine rolled as easily as a twig rather than a trunk with a two-foot diameter. In his human shape, he'd never have enough muscle to move it on his own. But as a bear, incredible strength was his for the using. He pushed the log, sliding it along the ground until it came up against the wall of the chasm. Another shove, and the trunk tipped upward, braced between the ground and the wall. It wasn't easy, though. He had a bear's strength but not a human's dexterity. A frustrating process of trial and error until he got the log just where he needed it.

“Good man,” Graves called down in approval. “Or, uh, good bear!”

Nathan shot him a glance before throwing himself back into his task. After testing the sturdiness of the propped trunk, he dug his claws into it and began to climb. The tree protested under his weight, threatening to splinter. Nathan growled. He would have only one chance at this. None of the other trees at the bottom of the ravine would support him.

“Try your wolf,” Graves suggested. “It's lighter.”

A good suggestion, and one Nathan immediately took. He felt his body grow smaller, sleeker. Ah. Better, though fractures still spread throughout the tree. Balancing, he climbed up the wedged log until he was within a few feet of the chasm wall.

Nathan leapt, using the powerful muscles of his back legs, aiming for the closest handhold with his claws. At the same time, the tree beneath him groaned, splintering. It gave a loud crack before splitting in two and tumbling to the ground.

“Careful, Lesperance!” Graves shouted.

Nathan pushed himself upward, forcing the shift faster than he ever had before. And scrabbled on the handhold with human hands. He had just enough grip to hang in midair, his feet dangling fifteen feet above the ground. Agony burned his arms as they bore his full weight. He clenched his teeth around the totems' thongs, the claw and tooth swaying and knocking into his chest.

“Climb ten feet more,” Graves urged. “I've got a branch up here just long enough to reach you.”

Drawing in a fiery breath, Nathan pushed himself upward, hunting for handholds. Blood trickling from his fingers and palms made his grip slippery. He searched, and found, narrow wedges in the rock wall, and hefted himself up. Dug his toes into the rock and used the force of his shaking legs to propel him higher. Each ascending inch was a torment, his body demanding surrender, but he ignored all of it. Only Astrid mattered.

Then, lifetimes later, Nathan saw a stout branch lowered by Graves. “Take it,” the man urged.

Nathan wrapped his arms around the branch. Using his feet, he helped push himself up as Graves pulled. A minute later, Nathan found himself sprawled at the lip of the ravine, gasping. He raised his head to see Graves, gleaming with sweat, lying on his back.

“You're damned heavier than you look,” Graves panted.

“Thank…you…,” Nathan rasped. He cast a glance over at the branch that had been used to haul him up. “Very…soph…sophisticated design.”

Graves offered a wry smile. “Yes, the best my famed brain could come up with under duress. The most primitive lever.”

Nathan pushed himself up onto hands and knees before staggering upright. He took a step before his legs shuddered under him.

Graves was supporting him within a second. “Slowly now, Lesperance. You're banged up worse than a regimental drum.”

“Astrid—” Nathan rumbled, hating the shaking in his limbs.

“Doesn't need you killing yourself,” Graves said sharply. “I want her back, too, but you're of no use if you push yourself too hard. Sit.”

There was little choice as Graves lowered Nathan to the ground, then handed him a canteen. Nathan took several sips of water and felt slightly better. He noticed that Graves had both Astrid's rifle and his own shotgun, as well as the pistol at his waist.

“Why didn't you stay with them as a hawk?” Graves asked.

“It's got the damned totem.” Any reminder that he'd had to let Astrid go sliced him open. “The Heirs could make me their puppet. Almost did.”

Graves cursed, understanding the truth.

“I'll get her back.” Nathan's voice held enough edge to cause sparks.

“She still has her Compass.” Graves took his own Compass from his pocket and showed it to Nathan. Sure enough, the needle pointed in the direction where the falcon headed. “We can track her with this.”

The other man's slightly trembling hands revealed his own barely contained anger.

Nathan shook his head. “I don't need the Compass to find her.”

“How—?”

“Here,” he gritted. He placed his fist in the center of his chest, where a sharp, cutting pain screamed, obliterating everything but the need to reach Astrid. “I feel her. We're…” He tried to think of a word that contained everything he felt for her, which was everything, and the living connection that stretched between them like a shared sense. But words were lost in his fury and fear.

He could only say, “We're bonded.” He sent a defiant glare to Graves, as if challenging him to contest this.

Graves, wisely, didn't argue. He saw at once that Nathan spoke in dead earnest. He gave a clipped nod and put the Compass in his pocket.

“Take these.” Nathan handed the totems to a shocked Graves. “If anything happens to me, keep them safe.”

“They belong to your people,” Graves protested.

Time was slipping away. Darkness would fall soon, making their task that much more difficult. “I trust you. And,” he added with a grim smile, “I don't have pockets.” He rose to his feet, glad to have regained some of his strength.

Graves also stood. “We'll find her, Lesperance.” He held out a hand.

Nathan clasped the offered hand, sealing the vow. “I know.” Because there was no alternative. And he knew that if there was one man he could count on as an ally, at least where Astrid was concerned, it was Graves. He released his grip on the other man's hand. “I'll see you there—when it's time to annihilate those bastards.”

Graves nodded. “That you will.”

Nathan broke into a run, releasing his beast simultaneously. His body shifted, re-formed into his wolf, running first on two feet and then four. Fur and fang, deadly intent and instinct.

Yes, this was exactly right. He had the speed and the will to kill. And he would. Blood would be spilled that night. Until Astrid was safe, he would cut down anyone in his path. Without her, he had nothing, only rage and sorrow.

He paused, just long enough to throw back his head and howl, pouring everything into the sound.

It echoed throughout the wilderness, his howl, through the forest, the mountains, over rivers and fields of ice. Enraged and heartbroken and louder than an army of cannons. Nothing hidden. The best part of him was gone. He mourned. He threatened.

Everywhere, all around, the forest stilled, arrested in motion by the wolf's howl. It held the wilderness in its frozen, furious grip. Everything shivered.

Let the Heirs know he was coming, he thought, savage. Let them know that death awaited them.

He bound on swift legs into the forest, not sparing a backward glance for Graves. The other man would catch up. As the earth sped beneath Nathan, he vowed that he would get Astrid back, and kill as many Heirs in the process as he could. If his own life was lost to ensure this goal, it was a price he was willing to pay.

Her husband's murderer. Years had passed, but his face was a recurring nightmare. An incongruity. The face of a killer should be twisted and ugly. Yet Albert Staunton was a rather pleasant-looking man, of medium height, well formed and possessing regular, even features. A model of British manhood, hale and gently bred. Someone's perfect son.

She fought gagging on her disgust and wrath.

As the falcon neared for its landing, Staunton ambled forward with a welcoming smile, an amiable host. Still a dozen feet off the ground, the falcon opened its talons, releasing Astrid. She landed in a ready crouch, reaching for her pistol.

“Please, Mrs. Bramfield,” Staunton said, grinning affably. His mild voice brought back a flood of bitter memories. Rage swept through her, leveling everything in its path. “Let's not make this troublesome.”

“Let's,” she answered. She pulled her gun and cocked it with one motion.

Then found herself utterly frozen, gripped by an invisible fist.

Darkest fury misted her sight. Trapped, utterly trapped, and entirely helpless.

Bracebridge walked forward, his hands making patterns in the air, chanting softly. His spell held her immobile. As he neared, he passed the now earthbound falcon. The mage gave his familiar a fond pat, and the bird stuck out one talon, the totem within it offered up like a kill. Bracebridge took the totem, cooing his gratitude, as if the falcon was merely a pet and not a monstrous beast. The two grizzled mountain men nearby eyed the falcon warily.

“Good girl,” Bracebridge murmured. “Did you work the Earthsplitter Spell? Did you? Such a good girl.”

Earthsplitter Spell? Astrid did not like the sound of that at all. Was Nathan all right? The scream of the falcon still rung in her ears, and she had seen the earth begin to shake, cleaving apart. Nathan might have fallen, or been crushed by tumbling rocks. He could be hurt, or worse. She wanted to scream her frustration, but forced herself to silence.

Instead, she took in the layout of the camp, the people within it, to learn as much as she could. The encampment stood in the middle of a clearing, with thick evergreens encircling the perimeter. Beyond lay the forest, and possibly freedom, if she could reach it. But she need not run. She could use her environment to her advantage. Five tents were scattered in the clearing. Packs and gear lay strewn about. At the center of the camp, a fire burned—openly, displaying the Heirs' arrogance. They did not care who was aware of their presence.

Of the Heirs themselves, all four were accounted for—Staunton, Bracebridge, Richard Halling, and John Milbourne. Faces she knew all too well. The mountain men left little impression beyond their fur-covered coats, matted beards, and greedy eyes.

The Native woman, Swift Cloud Woman, stood off to the side, watching everything vigilantly. Only Astrid noticed the woman staring at the totem greedily.

“Halling, take her weapon,” Staunton said.

While Astrid remained bound by the spell, a heavyset Heir she recognized as Richard Halling approached tentatively. A bloody bandage was wrapped around his hand. He cast a glance at Staunton, uncertain.

“Take it. Follow the plan.” Staunton's pleasant demeanor chipped a little with his snapped command. “She can't hurt you.”

Halling edged closer and reached for Astrid's pistol, as one might reach into a basket containing a serpent. She hissed at him, and he jumped back. Petty of her, but she'd take what victories she could.

Seeing that she truly could not move, Halling sauntered forward. He plucked the pistol from her hand, smirking.

At least she still had her knife, if she should get free of this spell.

“Check her boot,” said John Milbourne.

Astrid bit back a curse. Halling took the opportunity to slide his doughy hands down her hips and legs. Acrid bile burned her throat at his touch.

“Just another reason why women shouldn't be in the field,” Staunton said with a pretense of dismay. “Someone might take advantage of them.”

Knowing chuckles from the other Heirs, including Staunton. Halling found her knife, then, after slithering his hands up the insides of her legs, stepped back with a triumphant grin.

“Declawed the cat,” he crowed. “She can't hurt us now.”

Astrid found that the binding spell still allowed her to speak. So she said, “Your father bought your way onto this expedition, didn't he? No other reason why you would be here. Unless,” she added thoughtfully, “the Heirs had a halfwit quota they needed to fill.”

Halling turned red, then moved to strike her.

“Careful, Richard,” Staunton warned. “Remember the plan. We don't want to hurt Mrs. Bramfield. Not unless we must.”

With a mulish sulk, Halling stomped off, but not before giving Staunton her pistol and knife. Staunton tucked the gun into his belt and tossed the knife into the fire. He strode to Astrid, his eyes almost pitying.

The closer he got, the more Astrid shook within the confines of her invisible prison. Each step revealed his humanity, the fact that he was no more than another person of flesh and breath. No longer the colossal embodiment of evil, but only a man. A man who killed without compunction. Somehow, this revelation made everything worse, because Staunton was simply human, with will and vulnerability, who made the choice to commit murder for his ambitions.

“I think you know what we want,” he said.

“You know I won't tell you anything,” she replied.

He placed his hands on his hips. “Your answer is not unexpected.”

“Then you understand,” she said, “that as soon as I can, I will kill you.”

“Death is part of our work, Mrs. Bramfield,” he replied mildly. “Your husband knew that.”

“It was
your
bullet that killed him. And since he is dead, and I am not, I will see you punished for that.”

He was unmoved by her vow. “Whether there will be more death is entirely up to you.”

She narrowed her eyes, but said nothing. God—if only she could break this bloody spell. Her pistol, so close. Even without a weapon, just to be able to move and wrap her hands around Staunton's neck, crush his windpipe. Killing Staunton could not bring Michael or Max Quinn back, but it might provide a small measure of justice. Or satisfy her need for vengeance.

At her silence, Staunton continued. “I offer you generous terms. Tell us what you know about the Primal Source—”

A harsh sound approximating a laugh scraped from Astrid's throat.

He shot her an annoyed glance. “Tell us everything you know, and in exchange, we shall grant you freedom. You've grown close with your Indian comrade. Danger can do that to people. He wouldn't object to warming your bed, too. Just think of it,” he added, cajoling. “You and the shape changer, safe in your little wilderness cabin. Perhaps coming to love each other. No more Heirs. No more Blades. Only peace.”

“And a litter of half-breed babies,” threw in Halling with a snicker.

“Shut it,” snapped Staunton over his shoulder, then turned back to Astrid, gentling his expression. “Doesn't that sound lovely, Mrs. Bramfield? A quiet, safe life. Never again having to confront the prospect of the man you love dying in your arms. Could you face that again? Seeing your Indian paramour gasping his final breaths, and you, powerless to help him?”

She swallowed thickly around fiery pain, desperate to block out the images his words conjured. But she could envision it plainly: Nathan, lying as Michael had, bathed in blood, his eyes going glassy, his sleek body cooling as she cradled him.

“And if you refuse,” added Bracebridge, “you will most assuredly see that come to pass.”

Staunton asked, “So, what is it to be? Give us what we need and save your future lover's life, or refuse and watch him die.”

Everyone waited, watching her. Even Swift Cloud Woman stared at her, awaiting her answer.

Astrid felt each beat of her heart, even as her body was paralyzed. She had not noticed when in the falcon's clutches, but now she sensed it. An invisible yet gleaming, luminous band around her heart. It spun out from her like a web, fine but strong. Stretching out, reaching. Connecting her. To Nathan. Somewhere out there, in the forest, far away but getting closer. And even with the distance between them, he was there, in her. The bond had been forged over the past weeks, and made everlasting the night before, when she revealed her love and they cemented their bond through the joining of their bodies.

Once, she might have been afraid of severing that bond, might have even consented to obliterate her every principle in order to preserve it. Now her bond with Nathan gave her the strength to do what she must. She knew he would understand her choice.

“There's a third option,” she said.

“Yes?”

“I tell the lot of you to go bugger yourselves.”

Staunton heaved a sigh like a disappointed parent. “You
are
going to be tiresome.” He turned to the assembled Heirs and their mercenaries with a snap of his fingers. “Pack up. We formulated a plan, and we shall adhere to it. We have the woman, so we're moving out.”

“But it's almost dark,” complained one of the mercenaries. “We can't travel at night.”

“No time for niceties,” Staunton barked. “We leave tonight.” As everyone hurried to do his bidding, he swiveled back to Astrid. “I may have neglected to mention something rather important.”

“Your parents sold you to a carnival for the price of gin. You're really a French tightrope dancer.”

A corner of Staunton's mouth turned up. “Ah, droll humor. The last refuge of the desperate.”

“Just ask your wife.”

He shook his head. “Alas, I am not married. Women tend to make life exceedingly aggravating. As you are graciously proving now. But what I failed to mention to you before is that, if you did not consent to disclose what you know about the Primal Source, we will be forced to take you with us.”

Icy fear clutched the back of Astrid's neck, yet she said, “To the circus?”

“To England. Yes, my dear Mrs. Bramfield,” he said in response to her unguarded look of shock, “my fellow Heirs and I are most eager to have you enjoy our famous hospitality. You see,” he continued with a warm smile, “at our headquarters in London, we have a lovely, quiet room in the basement. Equipped with sound-deadening panels and the very latest in persuasive devices. And all waiting just for you.”

 

Miles unraveled beneath him as darkness fell. He crossed forest and river, vaulting over rocks, skirting mountains. Animals scurried out of his path, alarmed by the sight of a large, dark wolf tearing through the wilderness, a beast possessed. His paws took scrapes and cuts as he sped across sharp stones and unstable earth.

It meant nothing. He felt only the pull on his heart, the searing pain of Astrid's loss. No. She was not lost. He could find her.
Would
find her.

Nathan raced on, drawn forward by the bright path of energy she left in her wake.

 

Confined within her invisible prison, watching the Heirs and their mercenaries pack up their camp, she was losing her battle against panic. To be taken back to England, away from Nathan, kept like a rat in the basement, tortured—

No. Thousands of miles stood between her and that basement. Somehow, some way, she would find a way free. They could not keep her captive in this spell forever. She would seize any opportunity en route to escape.

The Native woman, seeing the Heirs distracted by their preparations, edged around the camp's fire and sidled close to Astrid.

“The totems,” she hissed at Astrid, eyes bright and avaricious. “Where are the other totems?”

“You truly believe I will tell you where they are?” Astrid answered.

A hard, cunning expression settled over Swift Cloud Woman's face. “You are white, but not a fool.”

“But
you
are a fool,” said Astrid, “if you think you will be able to wrest any of the totems from the Heirs.”

No answer from Swift Cloud Woman but a flash of fury in her dark gaze. Though frozen in place, Astrid almost recoiled from the violence and hatred in the Native woman's eyes, a hatred directed toward everything and everyone. Astrid realized that, out of all the people within the Heirs encampment, perhaps Swift Cloud Woman was the most dangerous.

“The One Who Is Three,” she sneered.

With an internal jolt, Astrid remembered the Native woman saying this before, back at the cave entrance. When Nathan made his first transformation into the bear. The first sign that he was not an ordinary Earth Spirit.

“I heard his howl. The sound of a beast pining for its lost mate.” Swift Cloud Woman pushed the words out like a taunt. “He is coming for you.”

A thrill of joy and terror burst inside Astrid, but she said nothing.

“Only once every seven generations sees the birth of the One Who Is Three. A warrior of legend. He comes now,” Swift Cloud Woman said, then voiced what Astrid was afraid to think. “It will not be enough. These men will kill him, and you will watch.”

Astrid felt these words as surely as a stab to her heart. “I will not tell you where the other totems are.”

At this, Swift Cloud Woman's mouth arched into a tight smile. “Despite yourself, white woman, you are wise.”

“Such sagacity wasn't easily gained.”

The Native woman shared a look with Astrid. Shining in her eyes, like a tiny, flickering flame, were the last vestiges of Swift Cloud Woman's humanity—that still loved and mourned. But hatred damped this flame, nearly extinguishing it. Soon, the flame would be gone forever.

My God, she's not that different from me. Or how I once was.

But no one had brought Swift Cloud Woman back from her darkness, and she dwelled there, forever.

“What?” the Native woman demanded, seeing the expression change on Astrid's face.

“There is no hope for you,” Astrid said quietly. “All the vengeance in the world will not bring back the dead.”