Falling Blind: The Sentinel Wars Page 11

  She really wanted to touch him. The effort to resist was all but consuming her willpower.

  His luceria had reacted to her, just as he’d said it would for those men who could offer her the kind of power the woman in Cain’s memories had. Even now, simply reaching close to him, letting her fingers hover an inch from his skin, she could feel energy tingling just out of reach. The closer she got, the more the colors danced inside his ring and necklace.

  So pretty.

  Rory stared for a long time until her eyes burned from not blinking. She’d never seen anything like it before, and the urge to slip that necklace on and see how it would look on her was nearly overwhelming.

  She should have been afraid of the unknown, but it just wasn’t in her. As many horrible things as she’d seen—as much as she hated having monsters haunting her every move—she craved more knowledge. There were things she’d learned about in the last few hours she hadn’t even known existed. How many more things could a man like Cain show her?

  He’d said he wasn’t right for her, but he’d never said why. And it wasn’t like she was going to promise any man more than a few days. A trial run to see if she even liked having access to that kind of power. For all she knew it would hurt or make her itch uncontrollably or turn her skin orange.

  As trapped as she was out here all alone, she craved new experiences. And being able to wield magic was definitely that.

  Excitement hummed through her, vibrating under her skin.

  What harm could there possibly be in giving it a shot? Cain seemed like a decent guy, if a little barbaric. He certainly hadn’t hurt her, though he’d had ample opportunity. In fact, he seemed so earnest in wanting to help her. Surely he wouldn’t mind if she practiced with him first before giving others a test drive.

  Patches of sunlight slid across the carpet as Rory sat there in indecision. Nana’s clocked ticked away, counting the seconds. The heater switched on and off again. The ice maker dumped out another batch of ice in the freezer.

  Her instincts were pounding inside of her, chanting, take it, take it.

  She wanted to listen. She wanted to know what it felt like to have that pretty necklace lie close to her skin. It belonged to her. She wasn’t sure how she knew that, but she did.

  Rory moved closer and stood over him. His pulse beat beneath the iridescent band, strong and steady. Her own heart pounded twice as fast as she undid the tangle of chokers and chains around her neck. They landed in a shiny pile on the carpet, discarded and forgotten.

  She knelt beside him, driven to get closer. She couldn’t see any latch or closure, so she used the tip of her fingernail to carefully lift it up so she could slide it around without touching him. The instant her fingers gripped the slippery surface, it came loose in her hand.

  His body’s heat clung to the necklace, sinking into her skin. It was smooth, heavy. The ends were blunt, as if they’d been sliced. She wasn’t sure how she was going to fasten it, but the thing was buzzing with magic, and her instincts were listening.

  Rory moved her hair and slid the band around her neck. As soon as she did, the ends snapped shut with an audible click.

  Cain’s eyes opened as if someone had stabbed him. He jolted upright, and his gaze zeroed in on her throat. A look of intense, desperate longing covered his face, and he rose to his feet in a fluidly graceful movement.

  He stared down to where she knelt beside the couch. He was silent and so serious she started to wonder if she’d made a mistake.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “It’s too late for that,” he said, his stare fierce and determined.

  He stripped his jacket off and tossed it aside. A second later, his shirt was gone, too, and he stood there, his bare chest consuming every speck of her attention.

  His body was beautiful, eliciting a deep, primal response from places inside of her she didn’t even know she had. Thick layers of muscle bulged on his big frame. Without his clothes, she could see that the width of his shoulders was not due to any kind of padding or tailor’s tricks. It was all him.

  She wanted it to be all hers—to let her hands roam over him, lingering over every smooth ridge and hollow. Even thinking about touching him was enough to make her hands sweat and shake.

  A giant tree tattoo covered his chest, its bare branches reaching up over his shoulder. With every deep breath, the limbs swayed, making it look alive. Whoever had put this on him was a true artist.

  Like a woman in a trance, she rose to her feet. Her finger settled against the tree, and she was shocked to feel the smooth heat of his skin rather than rough tree bark. She traced one branch, watching the others move like they were trying to get closer to her.

  Cain drew in a deep breath and his whole body shuddered.

  Rory looked up at his face, trying to gauge his reaction. “I’m sorry. I forgot I wasn’t supposed to touch you.”

  But she wasn’t going to stop now. His skin felt too good against her hand. Warmth slid up her arm and encircled her throat where his necklace lay. It seeped into her, making muscles that had been tense for way too long unclench.

  A languid, sleepy heat suffused her. It felt like sunlight in winter—precious and so welcome, she didn’t even think to question it.

  Rory felt his muscles shift under her palm, heard the rasp of metal on metal.

  He drew his sword.

  She should have been afraid. Somewhere in the rational part of her brain warnings were going off, but she felt too good to listen to them.

  Cain moved her hand from where it rested over his heart and used the sword to cut himself.

  The horror of seeing his blood drip down his skin shook her out of her stupor. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “My life for yours, Rory.”

  “What?”

  “You took my luceria. I question the wisdom of your choice, but you made it. Without force or compulsion. There’s no turning back now.”

  Chapter 9

  Cain couldn’t think straight. The hope he’d been trying to fight off since meeting Rory had won. It exploded inside of him, shouting in celebration.

  Rory had taken his luceria. He didn’t understand why she’d done such a thing, but the deed was done. Her recklessness had backed her into this corner, and Cain had dreamed of this moment for too long to control his deep, visceral reaction to her choice.

  She stood before him, quivering, representing everything he’d ever wanted. He wanted to push her—to demand she hurry and finish tying herself to him. But he’d seen enough of her now to know that his Rory did not like to be pushed.

  This moment was as important to her as it was to him, and while his mind was still reeling from the implications of her actions, he had to give her room to do as she willed.

  “Give me your vow,” he said, his voice so rough he barely recognized it.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I can’t tell you. It has to be your decision alone.” Because if he gave her any advice, it would be selfish, tying her to him permanently so they’d have forever to work out their differences—whatever they may be.

  “How long does it take to learn to use magic like that woman you showed me?”

  “Years. Decades.”

  He wanted more time than that, but he’d take what she chose to give. And he’d use that time to prove to her that he was worthy of her, despite his past failures. For her he’d find a way to be a better man.

  She swallowed, and the movement brought his eyes back to the luceria around her throat. It was too big for her still. The vow was not yet complete and the magic that would bond them not yet invoked.

  “That’s a long time.”

  “Not really. Not when you live as long as we do.”

  He could see skepticism flash in her dark eyes. She still didn’t believe him about who and what she was, but she would. Eventually, she would see that he’d never lie to her about such things.

  Her lips parted, and Cain held his breath, everyth
ing inside of him coiled tight in anticipation of her vow. “Wait. Before you say what you’re going to say, you need to know that what comes next can be frightening. You’ll see a vision of . . . something. I don’t know what, but I don’t want you to be scared by whatever you see. Nothing can hurt you, okay?”

  She nodded. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

  He collected a drop of blood on his finger and touched it to the necklace.

  She didn’t get it yet, but she would. Eventually she’d learn that he would always worry about her—at least for as much time as he had left. She was part of him now. The rest of the binding ceremony was a formality. A vital one, certainly, but her decision to take his luceria was the catalyst that had changed the shape of his life forever. She’d given him hope for a future that was otherwise bleak and desolate, and for that, he would never be able to thank her enough.

  Rory pulled in a deep breath. “I will stay with you long enough to find the person or thing that I’ve been looking for—the one that makes my visions go away.”

  Cain’s hope shriveled and died, just as it had when Jackie had chosen Iain. A woman as determined as Rory would find her savior within a few weeks. Perhaps even a few days.

  She hadn’t saved his life. She’d found a way to end it sooner.

  He knew better than to let hope get the best of him, and despite his warnings to the contrary, he’d let himself get pulled into the fantasy.

  At least she’d saved him from spending his last days in pain. He tried to take solace in that, but could find none.

  He couldn’t hide his disappointment and grief. He knew she’d see it on his face, and he didn’t want to burden her with his selfish wishes.

  Cain turned away to hide his expression and an instant later, a vision slammed into him.

  He saw Rory as a child, perhaps five or six years old. Her hair had been a pale blond then, but her dark eyes and the curve of her upper lip were unmistakable. She sat in this very house, at the same dining room table that still perched in the same spot. An older woman—her nana—sat with her, her aging body drooping with grief and guilt.

  “Your mama is gone, honey. The drugs have taken her. She’s not coming back.”

  “Mama always comes back. She said so.”

  “Not this time, Rory. It’s just you and me now.”

  And that statement had proven to be true. Cain saw a string of events, and while there were fleeting glimpses of others, the only constant at Rory’s side was her grandmother. She didn’t go to school with the other kids. She played alone. As she grew, that loneliness hung on her, weighing her down with sadness. And then that sadness disappeared and in its place was anger, rebellion. Her hair changed color. Her clothing became revealing and chaotic. She’d pierced her nose, her eyebrow, her belly button. Each new piercing brought a deeper frown to her nana’s face.

  Then something happened. The visions slowed to show Rory sitting at the same table in the same chair where she’d always sat. Tears streamed down her face, making her heavy makeup run in black rivulets.

  Nana was gone. Dead. Cain could feel Rory’s grief as clearly as if it had been his own.

  She was truly alone now.

  Time sped again, and several of the piercings disappeared. The slutty clothing became less revealing and more defensive. The colorful hair remained, but began to grow out to its natural blond. Rory worked a lot, spending hours and hours at her computer.

  Her life was a string of quiet isolation, marked occasionally by brief trips into the city to search for a way to rid herself of her visions.

  Finally, the story the luceria had chosen to show him was over, but he didn’t know what he was supposed to take from it. The confusing jumble of images had to have some meaning, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

  The only thing he could think was that the man she was supposed to be with—the one she would eventually find—would have known what the luceria was trying to say. The fact that Cain couldn’t figure it out only strengthened his conclusion that Rory wasn’t truly meant to be his. This situation they were in now was simply a passing mistake on her part—one she’d correct as soon as she found her true partner.

  * * *

  Ronan rarely dreamed. It was better that way. Safer. But today, his usual control over such things had slipped while the sun hovered high in the sky, muting his limited powers.

  A dream had sucked him in, weaving around him in grim despair.

  Everything was dark, tinted with helpless defeat. His hunger was consuming, driving him to hunt for even one drop of sustenance, but there was none to be had.

  The streets were empty. Human homes sat vacant and hollow, their doors ripped from hinges as a sign that others had passed this way before him. Ronan’s wasted body ached as he forced his legs to move.

  The stench of decay and filth hung in the air, so thick it created a cold fog around his feet. It sucked the heat from his skin and forced his weary heart to beat faster, restoring what little warmth it could.

  There were no more people to be found—no more blood. The only blood that remained was the tainted poison flowing in the veins of Synestryn.

  And that of his own kind.

  The dream shifted and Ronan faced his friend, Tynan. They’d shared their lives for millennia, hunting side by side, working to ensure the survival of their race by protecting the strongest human bloodlines.

  Their efforts had failed, and all that remained was ash, rot and hunger.

  Tynan was as hungry as Ronan was. His flesh hung on his bones, loose and empty. His face, once beautiful, was now the face of death—as gaunt as a skeleton and burning with the sickly tint of infection.

  His eyes glowed, flaring with a weak flicker of light. “One of us must die.”

  Ronan nodded, even that small effort nearly too much for him to maintain. He tried to tell Tynan to take his blood and end his suffering, but the ravening beast within him—the one driven by hunger and instinct took over.

  Ronan lunged for his lifelong friend and ripped his head backward until his neck nearly broke. Tynan’s skin parted easily for Ronan’s fangs. His friend’s blood filled his mouth, too weak to do more than ease his growling hunger.

  Tynan’s pulse slowed. Ronan ordered his body to stop, but his mouth kept moving. He sucked down great gulps of blood until his friend’s heart stuttered, and then finally, inevitably, stopped.

  Ronan held Tynan’s corpse in his hands and knew that he’d just killed the last creature on earth that had loved him. He’d just destroyed the last being he could ever love. And now the world was not only devoid of food, it was also empty of friendship and love. Forever. Ronan’s greed had destroyed all that was good, and in doing so, he’d slain hope.

  His hunger returned, worse than before. This time, there was no way to appease it. He was going to die of starvation. Alone.

  Ronan woke, sweat pouring from his body. He was shivering, his muscles so tight he could barely breathe. The cellar of the Gerai house where he slept seemed to close in around him, suffocating him.

  He forced himself to take slow, even breaths while the shivering terror passed.

  That nightmare hadn’t been natural. There was a taint of malevolent magic about it—a dark Synestryn stain Ronan recognized only now that he was awake.

  A tendril of power hovered nearby, reaching up from the earth.

  Furious that some creature dared invade his mind, Ronan grabbed that tendril and shoved his consciousness back through it, following it to its source.

  Deep within the earth a Synestryn lay hidden, sending out twisted threads of power. As soon as Ronan felt the fetid confines of the demon’s mind, he reeled back in revulsion. Rotted, stinking decay clung to the creature’s thoughts, each one pulsing with the staccato beat of hatred and revenge. There was little sense to be made of such chaos, but Ronan could feel the power this demon wielded. He was stronger than most—stronger than Ronan could ever hope to be given the dwindling supplies of Athanasian blood linger
ing on the planet.

  The demon sensed him immediately, and tried to snag him, pulling him farther inside the decaying constructs of its mind. Ronan dodged the attempt, but he was clumsy, and the effort left him weak. There was no time to linger and figure out what this demon had planned. Ronan had to escape now, before he no longer could.

  With a hard thrust of power, he shoved himself out of the Synestryn’s mind. Searing hot claws raked across the inside of Ronan’s skull, making him cry out in pain. He landed in his own body, panting and shaking. His head throbbed, and blood leaked from his nose.

  He was nearly too weak to breathe, much less move and clean the blood from his skin. He didn’t know how strong the wards on this Gerai house were, and whether or not they’d keep the scent of his blood contained. Even though he rested in the darkness of the locked basement, there were no guarantees that he would not be found here as soon as the sun set.

  Ronan tried to sit up, but his body refused to obey his commands. Even his pitiful attempts to wipe the blood away had done little more than spread it across his face. He needed help, but all of his brothers were sleeping and suffering through their own daylight weakness.

  Ronan felt the demon poking at the edges of his mind, as if seeking a way in. He went still, reserving every bit of strength he had as he concentrated on keeping the creature from invading his thoughts.

  It was stronger than he was. It was hungry and violent, battering itself against Ronan’s defenses in an effort to break through.

  Instincts warned him that if he let down his guard, his mind would never again be the same. Touching such darkness would leave its mark, permanently.

  Ronan began to sweat under the strain of protecting himself. He could no longer feel the diseased touch of the demon, but that didn’t mean it was gone. Some instinct told Ronan that he was no longer alone.

  With slow, painful care, he retrieved his phone from his pocket and sent out a call for help. For blood. If someone didn’t come soon he wouldn’t survive the day, but at least they’d know where to find his body.