Unleash the Storm (38 page)

They entered an unfamiliar part of the mountain city. Not that a lot of it was familiar to her, but she’d definitely never been here before. The hall grew narrower and more winding, almost like a natural crevice. The path steepened and the air smelled musty.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he said.

She followed him in curious silence as he trekked up the steep pathway until they reached a dead end. A breeze blew across her face and sunlight beamed down through a gap in the rock above. Ash grabbed the ledge and pulled himself out the opening, then reached down for her. She grasped his hand and he lifted her up.

The bright suns blinded her as wind whipped her ponytail around her head. She squinted—and gasped from a surge of vertigo. She pressed back against him, his arms tight around her middle.

They stood on a tiny ledge of rock at the very summit of the mountain. Spread before her was an endless sea of mountain peaks, the dark, jagged basalt cutting at the sky. Forests of fiery red foliage sprawled through the twisting valleys. In a neighboring valley, a waterfall plunged hundreds of feet down the side of a mountain into the lush woodland below.

Above, the half-circle face of Periskios hovered gracefully in the sky just above the peaks. Swirls of white and gold clouds drifted across the planet’s surface and she could almost swear they were moving in an alien wind.

“This is all Taroth territory,” Ash murmured in her ear, pulling her closer. “This is all ours.”

“All yours,” she whispered, holding his arms against her middle, never wanting him to let go. His ‘ours’ didn’t mean him and her; it meant him and the draconians. “It’s beautiful.”

He stepped away from the rocky peak behind him, pushing her closer to the edge and causing her a minor panic attack. Before she could protest, he sat on the ledge, bringing her down on his lap so their feet dangled over the sheer drop. She leaned back, heart beating a little too fast.

“Uh,” she said breathlessly. “Is this a good idea? You’re not supposed to fly yet.”

“I got the all-clear from the healers last cycle.”

“You did? Why didn’t you fly Lyre to the line then?”

“Because Mahala wanted to do it more than I did. Besides, Zwi couldn’t fly him and I don’t really like carrying people around—except you, of course.”

She snickered. “A little too close and personal for anyone else?”

“Just a bit.”

“You’ve carried Lyre before.”

“Only when necessary.”

She leaned her head back against his shoulder. “I’m glad your wing is healed.”

He rubbed his hands over her upper arms, his thumbs brushing over the bumps of her scars. “Are you still planning to leave next cycle?”

She flinched. Until now, he hadn’t asked directly about her departure. She snuggled deeper into his lap, the beauty of the mountain view not quite enough to ease the ache in her heart.

“It’s time for me to go,” she said. “Just like Lyre, I guess. I want to visit Hinote and actually stay in the Overworld for a while this time. Plus I need to thank Shinryu for everything and pass on Tenryu’s message.”

As she’d suspected, they hadn’t seen Tenryu again. Ash hadn’t said much about it and didn’t seem too bothered. She’d asked if they were still bonded and Ash had shrugged. Either he wasn’t sure or he didn’t want to say. She hadn’t pressed; she didn’t understand his relationship with Tenryu and if he didn’t want to share, she wouldn’t pry it out of him.

“After that,” she continued, “I’ll go back to Brinford to see my father and Uncle Calder.”

“Dealing with the Gaians will be a job and a half,” he remarked.

She twisted her hands together. For weeks she’d agonized over her decision to leave but she knew she had to do it. Ash made her deliriously happy but that wouldn’t last if she stayed with him. Eventually, her feelings of displacement would sour their love. As much as she wanted to support him, she couldn’t be his shadow. She wanted to live her life too, to chase her dreams and make a difference in the worlds on her own terms.

She just didn’t know how to tell him that she didn’t want the only future he could offer her.

“You have a big job to do too,” she said, barely managing a whisper. “There’s so much going on here. Your future is here. But …” She swallowed hard and forced the words out. “Mine isn’t. My future isn’t here … with you.”

His hands on her arms stilled.

Anxiety spiked through her. She twisted in his lap to see his face, but his expression was a mystery, his grey eyes telling her nothing of his thoughts, a tiny wrinkle between his eyebrows the only sign that her words might have hurt him.

“It’s not that I don’t want to be with you. Being with you …” She touched his face, pressing her hand to his cheek, wishing his expression would change, would reveal something. Her mouth trembled and she feared she was breaking his heart. “I love you, Ash, but I can’t stay here. With you as the Taroth warlord … I just—I don’t belong in this place and …”

He tilted his head to one side. “Is this what’s had you in knots since Asphodel?”

“I—” she stuttered, confused by the hint of amusement touching his eyes. Didn’t he understand what she was saying? “Well, maybe it doesn’t bother you, but the idea of leaving you does actually upset me—”

His fingers caught her chin and drew her face up to his. He captured her mouth in a kiss, cutting off her sentence. She closed her eyes and kissed him hard, sliding her hand around the back of his head to keep him from pulling back, afraid it would be their last kiss ever.

“I’ve always known our futures would take us to very different places,” he murmured against her lips. “Just as I knew you would never be content to follow me. You’re not a follower, Piper, and that’s part of what I love about you.”

Her breath caught. He’d never quite said he’d loved her in as many words. She didn’t need him to say that specific phrase—one that was probably more of a human thing anyway—to know how he felt about her, but the word “love” still sent a flutter through her middle.

He kissed her again, his lips moving slowly against hers before he spoke.

“I never expected this to be simple—or easy. There’s no script for two people like us.” He lifted his head, his eyes locking on hers, looking through her, down into the depths of her soul. “But is there some rule that we can’t write our own?”

She stared at him, lost in his eyes, drowning in them. “What do you mean?”

“I told you before that I was yours for as long as you wanted me. Us being apart doesn’t change that.”

“It … doesn’t?”

“Our paths might be different, but does that mean they can never intersect again?”

“But you’ll have responsibilities … You need to ensure the Taroth line continues.” By having babies with a draconian woman, but she didn’t say that.

He touched her chin again, keeping her from dropping her eyes from his. “That won’t be today or tomorrow. It won’t be this season or the next. I’m yours for as long as you want me, and no amount of time or distance will change that.”

One day at a time, that’s what she’d promised herself, wasn’t it? But she hadn’t specified that those had to be consecutive days. She’d been thinking that his path would carry him away from her, to places she couldn’t follow. And maybe some day it would, but just because she was leaving didn’t mean what they had needed to end, did it?

“But … do you really think we can make it work?”

“What constitutes ‘working’? Is there a checklist I don’t know about?” He drew her closer. “We make our own rules, Piper. Whatever makes us happy. Whatever makes
you
happy.”

Her smile came a little easier. He was right. They didn’t have to follow anyone else’s definition of a relationship. They could make up their own. After all, there was nothing conventional about the two of them.

This wasn’t the world she belonged in. She knew that deep down in her bones, a conclusion she couldn’t ignore as much as she would love to spend every day for the rest of forever at his side. But she didn’t have to give him up quite yet. Soon, she would leave—but she’d be back. Just like Lyre, she didn’t have to say farewell forever, just for now.

She wound her arms around his neck and found his lips with hers. Heat rose through her, desire mixing with relief and the fire of her love. How much had they survived together? It felt like so long ago that she’d been sitting on the floor in her Consulate, staring at his bedroom door, wondering how to get her father’s ring box back from his dragonet. He’d opened the door to find her sitting there, so damn sexy while still intimidating. What had he thought of her? Had he seen a silly, overcompensating apprentice like everyone else? Somehow, she didn’t think so.

Should she have suspected it then, what he would come to mean to her? Should she have realized what was coming back in the Styx ring, when the explosive passion of that single kiss had blown her away? Or when she’d seen him in Asphodel for the first time, his body and soul beaten almost to the brink, pain and fury driving him to near madness? Should she have known then, when even at his worst he’d slid his mouth so gently over her neck, kissing the pulse in her throat when he could have ripped it out instead? Should she have guessed how deep her feelings for him would run when they’d stood together facing Samael and his army, and she’d turned the Sahar’s power over to him, knowing they might die for it?

When was the exact moment she’d realized she loved him with everything in her? When she’d thought he was dead, plunging off the cliff to the river below? Or even sooner, when he’d held her as she lay dying, breaking inside that he hadn’t saved her from her fall into the rapids?

So much pain between the two of them. So much suffering. But beneath it, passion and love, a fire and a strength that warmed them both, had kept them going when they’d had nothing left. Wasn’t that what Hinote had said? Love gave her the strength to fight on no matter what. It had been the strength that had defeated Natania and undone the Sahar.

Ash lifted his mouth from hers, brushing his lips over her cheek as he leaned back just enough to meet her eyes. She stroked her fingers over the scales that ran across the tops of his cheekbones. A lifetime ago—or so it seemed—his true form had terrified her. But now, it was just
him
. This was his real face and his glamour was the mask, the sheath over the shining blade of a sword.

Ash drew his feet up and stood, lifting her with him. He wrapped his arms around her and stretched his wings out, the cut Samael had inflicted on him healed so perfectly she couldn’t see the faintest mark.

“The weather is perfect for flying,” he said.

“Oh?”

“That valley with the waterfall is beautiful.”

“Is it?”

“It is.”

“And is it … private too?”

His eyes darkened and his arms tightened around her, making her suck in a breath. His mouth closed on hers mid-gasp, a fierce, hungry kiss that made her heart pound.

“We should go see the waterfall,” she said breathlessly.

His mouth curved in a dangerous sort of smile, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He turned and stepped backward, putting himself right on the edge, a deadly fall directly behind him. She hung in his arms, her alarmed stare flashing toward the drop.

“Hey, wait, you aren’t thinking of—”

Zwi jumped off a nearby rock and landed on Piper’s back, chittering excitedly.

His arms tightened around her and he boosted her up until her feet no longer touched the ground. His wings pulled in, tucked against his back. Oh hell no. She knew exactly what he was planning.

“Ash, don’t you
dare
—”

He grinned and leaned back. They plunged off the ledge.

She screamed, clutching his neck as his laughter rang in her ears. The free fall carried them halfway down the mountain before his wings snapped open, catching the warm updraft, and they swept effortlessly toward the valley. The magnificent vista of mountains whirled past them but she hardly noticed. She knew only the wonder of flight in his arms, a freedom more beautiful than anything to be found or seen in any of the worlds.

L
yre jammed
his hands deeper into his pockets. Shoulders hunched, he trudged down the corridor. Like most of the building, white dominated—white tiled floors, white walls, white ceilings. He didn’t know why they’d chosen white of all colors. He would have chosen something that hid the blood better.

His gaze flicked up to check each door number as he passed. The higher the numbers grew, the slower his steps became. By the time he reached the correct door, he was barely moving. Scowling, he glanced up and down the long hall. Empty. She was late.

Cursing under his breath, he stood silently, counting the seconds in his head, then sighed. Reluctantly, he turned to the window in the door and peered in.

The tiny room on the other side was barren but for a simple wooden cot with white sheets—white everything, of course. But its occupant was not white, unless Lyre counted his ghostly pale face. He lounged on the cot, leaning back in an almost sulky slouch—his posture at complete odds with the torn, gore-splattered clothing he wore. Black material hung in shreds from one shoulder, his arm smeared with drying blood.

Lyre’s chest tightened. The kid was young, just a youth. How could a kid be sitting there so calmly when it looked like he’d just walked off a battlefield? Leaning in a little closer, Lyre squinted at the youth. Dark hair that gleamed deep red in the fluorescent lights, braided along one side of his head. He had to be in glamour, which in itself was unusual. Lyre was in glamour too, but that was because no one liked dealing with an incubus without it. He angled his head for a better look and his shoulder bumped the door.

The boy’s eyes snapped up, locking on Lyre. Grey irises cut through him, burning with barely controlled rage that was at complete odds with his relaxed pose.

Lyre jerked back from the door, then shook his head. The boy couldn’t see him; it was one-way glass. But damn, it sure felt like their eyes had met.

“Lyre!”

He jumped, stumbling back another step as he turned.

A woman strode down the hall toward him, her long ponytail swinging behind her with each step. The heels of her black, thigh-high boots clacked loudly, an ominous beat in the otherwise noiseless corridor.

“Eisheth,” he grumbled.

She stormed up to him and stopped too close. Her dark eyes flashed over him, ire radiating off her. She planted one hand on her leather-clad hip where a thin, shiny black rod—a
sobol
—hung from her belt.

He cleared his throat, avoiding her glare. “You summoned me?”

“I did.” She jerked her thumb at the door. “Do you see that boy in there?”

“I saw him.”

“That
child
has broken every collar I’ve put on him.”

“Broken?” he repeated, straightening from his slouch and grudgingly looking at her. “What do you mean,
broken
? The physical collar or the weaving?”

“Both.”

“After it’s on him and activated?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “I have no idea how. No one has any idea how.”

He flicked a glance at the door, the boy beyond it out of his line of sight. “Who is he?”

“A draconian. That’s all you need to know.”

Ah. The draconians were one of Asphodel’s biggest secrets. Hades wanted everyone to believe that they were just a few more mercenaries earning their pay, but Lyre had heard the rumors. He’d seen the signs. It wasn’t any of his business and he knew better than to dig into Hades’ secrets, but whatever the truth was, he suspected it was ugly.

He shrugged at Eisheth. “Magic-dampening collars only last a few years before the spells begin to deteriorate—”

“Do you think I’m a fool?” She jabbed a finger into his chest, pushing him back a step. “Of course I thought of that. I’ve had new collars made, tested them on other daemons first,
everything
. He breaks them all.”

He tugged at one sleeve of his lab coat. “Why did you summon
me
? I haven’t woven a collar in years. You should talk to—”

“The collar weavers only know how to make collars—and clearly the regular ones won’t work on this brat. I need something else. I need something better.”

“You want a custom weaving?”

“Yes. I want …” Her eyes slid to the window and she licked her lips, the small movement somehow obscene. “I want something completely new … not a collar that will control him. I want something that will break him.”

Revulsion crawled up his throat. “If you want that kind of custom work, you need to submit a—”

“Do you really think the regular procedures apply to me?”

He folded his arms and curled his lips in a sneer, done with cowing to her temper. “You might be the bastille’s chief bully—I’m sorry, queen of torture or whatever your title is—but I’m not one of your underlings. I don’t have to obey your orders. In fact, I don’t even have to humor your ego trip.”

“You’re not one of mine, no.” She smiled sweetly. “But Chrysalis belongs to Samael and you belong to Chrysalis. The warlord has already given me permission to commission this new weaving.”

He flexed his jaw. “Why me? My brothers are better.”

“I’m perfectly aware of your limitations.” She patted his cheek and he jerked his face away. “But you’re the most creative. The most
inventive
. I want you to put that vision of yours to good use and develop a new collar … something utterly devastating. Something that will teach that
boy
true respect.”

“I’ll pass.”

“You don’t have a choice. I’ve chosen you and you will complete this project for me … or you can take your refusal to Samael.”

He sneered, failing to come up with any plausible grounds to refuse.

She tapped one long fingernail against his chest. “Remember, something that will break that disgusting defiance of his. I’ll check on your progress in a few weeks.”

With a mocking wave of her fingers, she sauntered back down the hall, hips swaying seductively. Swallowing the urge to gag, he stuffed his hands back in his pockets. A collar to break the spirit of a child. How delightful.

Hesitating, he stepped toward the door and peeked in one more time. The boy’s grey eyes stared straight into him. He sucked in a breath but didn’t recoil this time. The draconian couldn’t see him. The soundproofing, aided by weavings, was impenetrable, so he hadn’t heard a sound either. But the way the boy looked at the window, it was like he knew someone was there—and he wanted to rip out that someone’s throat.

With a shiver, Lyre turned away. Perhaps the boy wasn’t such a child after all. Those eyes were too old for his face. Not all daemons aged in predictable ways; he would know, wouldn’t he? But still, a youth nonetheless. Hades played a dangerous game. Who would believe a teenager was a hired mercenary killer?

He strode back down the hall, leaving the draconian’s cutting stare behind. He walked aimlessly, passing through doors and down halls without a thought. His mind spun as his feet carried him through the maze of the facility without any input required. He didn’t focus until he found himself standing in front of the door to his workroom.

He stroked a finger over the smooth steel of the door, his touch unlocking the complex weavings that bound the door closed—weavings that would extract a hefty price from any trespassers. With a hiss, the door cracked open. He shoved it aside and strode in, kicking it shut behind him.

A long steel table dominated the far end of the room, buried in a haphazard collection of crafting and weaving materials. The shelves covering the other walls were equally buried in junk. He crossed the room and dropped into the chair in front of the table. Behind it, a narrow horizontal window offered a limited view of the black mountains beyond Asphodel.

A weapon to destroy the boy. A collar to break a child.

His eyes slid across the table, from the metal discs and round gems to the steel marbles and arrows with dark fletching. Papers, books, tools, dials and compasses, contraptions that measured magical signatures—everything he needed to weave magic, to weave ugly, lethal spells for a greedy, warmongering caste.

A weapon to destroy a child. His lips contorted, disgust rising in him until he could almost feel it oozing out of his pores. How had his skin not turned black from the filth he wove?

Shoving his chair back, he stood and swept his arms across the table. Everything crashed to the floor, gems and marbles bouncing across the white tiles. He pressed his hands flat to the tabletop, head hanging between his shoulders as he breathed deeply. Dropping to his knees, he reached under the table for a tile near the wall.

He tapped a finger against it. The spells sealing it were subtler, and far deadlier, than the ones on the door. A foolish person could get himself killed if he came into this workroom and started messing with the works in progress. But if someone discovered
this
, it would be his own life on the line.

The tile popped up and he set it aside. Beneath, a hole in the floor was filled halfway with black-fletched arrows, various lodestones, and several fine silver chains holding assorted gems. He lifted one of the chains out and sat back on his heels in front of the table. The gems sparkled in the harsh white lights above, bright and innocent. He wore a similar chain around his neck, its gems loaded with self-defense spells—all having been studied and, where applicable, unapologetically copied by his siblings.

This set of spells was different. He brushed a thumb across a gem, imbuing it with a tiny touch of magic. Golden sparkles burst out from it, coalescing into the shape of an eagle. The glowing bird soared on silent wings above him, gliding around the room. He watched it, jaw clenched. Beautiful. Free. How he envied the creature.

He could have happily spent his entire life weaving beautiful, inspiring spells. He loved to create. He loved to face a problem and search for the answer, weaving and testing and failing and weaving again until he found the perfect solution. Instead, he wove weapons of war and torture. Each time he gave a new spell to Hades, he handed over a little more of his soul with it.

Touching the gem, he dispelled the eagle illusion and watched it fade with an aching heart. Now, as if anonymous weapons weren’t enough, he had to create a collar specifically to torture and destroy a draconian boy. It sickened him. This wasn’t what magic was for. This wasn’t what
his
magic was for.

His eyes lifted from the gems in his hands to the pile of half-completed work scattered over the floor. How far would he go to survive? Was he willing to destroy a kid guilty only of defiance to protect his own skin?

He didn’t have a choice. If he’d had a choice, he wouldn’t have been here in the first place. Desertion wasn’t an option. His brothers had seen to that.

His gaze drifted back down to the gems in his hands.
You’re the most creative.
He was, wasn’t he? His brothers were better, more gifted, but they were like brilliant mathematicians. He was the artist. He was assigned the most impossible weavings, the ones that required an unorthodox approach. He was good at the unorthodox and the unconventional. He had a gift for taking crazy ideas and turning them into functional spells.

Escaping this place was the craziest idea he’d ever considered. It was impossible … but so was breaking a magic-dampening collar. If that draconian boy could accomplish an impossible feat, perhaps he could too. Making the impossible happen … that’s what he was good at, wasn’t it?

His lips curved in a slow, frozen smile. Dropping the chain back into its hiding place, he replaced the tile, rekeyed the protective weavings, and stood. On one side of the table, an arrow lay half off the edge, balanced perfectly with the fletching hovering above the floor. He picked it up and twirled it in his fingers before closing his hand around the arrowhead.

He clenched his fist. Blood trickled over his palm as he closed his eyes and began to weave.