Child of Darkness-L-D-2 (27 page)

And behind that door were the Waterhorses.

Seventeen

B lack in the torchlight, they shone with iridescent blues and greens, as they began to move, like oil rainbows on dirty water. The thick, scaly plates that covered their bodies moved like a suit of armor, but they were not unbalanced and clumsy as a Human in a suit. They moved as though made of fluid, rolled like quicksilver as they advanced into the hall, steam roiling from their flared nostrils, surveying the battle with their hungry red eyes. And Cedric plunged through the fray, directly toward the Waterhorses, the Darkling over his shoulders. Cerridwen followed; she had no choice, as his hand still clamped firmly over her wrist. It was then that she realized the monsters stood between them and their escape, and her vision narrowed to a pinprick of terror focused only on the door that both Elves and Faeries fled from.

The Waterhorses, seemingly unconcerned that some of their prey escaped, tore into those who had the misfortune of coming within reach. They made horrible, shrieking noises as they buried their gleaming claws and dripping teeth into their victims. A sound almost like laugher, and the door seemed impossibly far away. Each step seemed to bring them no closer, and she cried out in despair. Still, Cedric held fast to her, Malachi balanced over his shoulders and held there with one arm, as they charged forward. They were nearly there, just steps away, when Cedric pushed her down and dropped Malachi beside her. She struggled to stand, body trembling in hysterical anger. They had nearly made it! Why did he stop her now?

Cedric ducked, and something flashed over his head. The wind of it brushed Cerridwen’s face. With a roar, Cedric pulled a knife from his boot and lunged at the darkness. Only when the clawed hands closed over his arms could Cerridwen make out what he fought. One of the Waterhorses.

Two other Fae, covered in blood and gore from the fight, rushed to aid Cedric against the beast. One gripped an Elven spear and leveled it at the creature.

“No!” Cedric shouted, far too late. The Faery drove the spear into the monster’s side, and it tossed Cedric aside, slashing with its claws as he fell. Cerridwen screamed and scrambled backward, a thousand, selfish fears flying through her mind. What could happen to her in the Darkworld, with these creatures running loose? Would she ever make it back to her mother without his help? Silently, she urged him to stand up, and to her relief, he did, springing to his feet, weapon in hand.

The creature gripped the spear in its side and pulled it free with an unearthly scream, releasing a torrent of slick, green blood. The smell was foul, even above the stink of death around them, and Cerridwen covered her nose. As the Faery scrambled for his weapon, the Waterhorse caught him with its claws, jamming the shining talons through his neck and lifting him off the ground. The wings at the Faery’s back beat frantically as he tried to free himself. The Waterhorse drew his arm back and swung in a wide arc; the Faery’s body spun one direction, his unattached head in another.

Cedric lunged at the creature again. He had been intent on the violence of the fight before. Now, facing this creature, he seemed the very spirit of disconsolate rage.

“Cedric, no!” Cerridwen screamed, crawling forward, as if she could stop him from attacking the beast. The damage was already done. The creature slashed out at him again, and he jumped back. It grabbed for him, and he evaded. But he could not seem to land a blow to destroy it.

Neither could the other Faery, who swung at it with his blade and cursed. “Get the Royal Heir and flee,” he shouted. “Do it, or you might not have another chance!”

Something held Cedric back. Cerridwen saw it written on his face. Some desire to utterly destroy this creature, a willingness to die fighting it, so long as he did not give in. And pain. It pained him to turn from the fight.

“Please,” she called to him, not frantic, not in terror. “Please, Cedric, let’s go.”

He turned and stared, as if seeing her there for the first time. His gaze dropped to Malachi, and he seemed to remember, as if waking from a dream, why he stood there. The creature struck him. The blades of its claws sank through his arm, and he shouted, bringing his knife down to chop the monster’s hand from its arm.

“Go!” the other Faery urged him, and this time, he heeded the warning. He jumped back, pulled the horrible claws from his arm as the creature stalked forward again. The Faery blocked the way, and Cedric grabbed Malachi, pulling him over his shoulders with a hiss of pain.

Cerridwen shot to her feet and, heedless of the burning in her ankle, ran to the door.

“Do not look back,” Cedric called to her over the sound of the Faery’s dying screams, but she would not have dreamed of it.

Then, they were out the door, whipping through the darkness of the tunnel. She stumbled over a fallen body, and now it was not exciting, it was terrifying. She screamed and struggled to her feet. The danger was behind them; the Waterhorses did not follow. But Cedric did not stop running, and neither did she.

He seemed to know the way in the darkness. She wondered if she could close her eyes and let her body keep running, to escape for a moment the fear that pounded through her limbs. She tried it, and caromed off the wall of the narrow tunnel. Her shirt tore, the hot pain of scraped skin radiating up her arm. Her leg ached; though she was driven on by fear, she could not go much farther. “I am wounded,” she told him, and it sounded almost casual, something she would have said to him in passing at a feast. “I cannot run much farther.”

He cursed the Gods, and she heard the weariness in his voice. He halted, just for a moment, and looked around them. Then, he charged ahead, to an intersection in the tunnels. They turned, went a few steps, and Cedric dropped to his knees. He groaned as he let Malachi’s weight fall from his shoulders.

“Is he dead?” Cerridwen whispered as she watched the body meet the ground like a broken doll.

“Quiet,” Cedric said gruffly, much louder than Cerridwen had been. “Do you want them to find us?” Then, lower, he told her, “No, he is not dead. But I fear he will be, before we make it back to the Palace.”

Cerridwen ignored this. If Malachi died, it would be one more horror that she had seen, that she had caused. And she could not think of that now. There would be time for reflection later, but now it would only make her tired. As it was, she was not sure she would escape the Darkworld. The sudden weariness that plagued her, helped along by the searing ache from her wound, weighed her down like a stone; the thought of moving again made her want to weep.

“Where are you hurt?” Cedric asked, crouching beside her. She moved her leg toward him, and he took her foot in his hand. With his other hand, he threw something into the air. A ball of energy, she realized, impressed at this feat that she’d only seen utilized a few times in her life. The energy gave off a soft, yellow glow that weakly fought off the cold darkness.

“Will they follow us?” she asked. She did not have to tell him who she meant. Cedric nodded, his gaze intent on her leg as he pushed the leg of her trousers up, toward her knee. “They are unleashed now, and they will seek out their target, if the Elves still have the power to give them one. If not, they will kill indiscriminately, rampage through the Underground until there is nothing left.”

His fingers found the wound and he turned her leg, almost too roughly. They hissed in unison, she with pain, he with dismay.

“This was made by a Human weapon, far more destructive than any of ours,” he said, as though pronouncing a death sentence. “I cannot heal this myself. The healer will need to use mortal surgery to take the weapon out. See here, it remains in your flesh.”

He prodded at the hole, and she squeezed her eyes shut, cried out. “I do not wish to look!”

“You will not be able to travel with this injury. The spirit of battle kept you up this long, but it will not last.” He considered. Then, with a dismayed sigh, he placed his hand over the wound, closed his eyes.

A veil of light fell over Cerridwen’s vision, and she gasped. The tunnels around her stood out stark white. The spot of energy that illuminated the tunnel around her pulsed far brighter than it would have to her eyes. This was the other sight, that her mother had spoken of but Cerridwen had never seen. She looked down at her body, saw the energy within her, the shape of a tree with branches and roots spreading through her limbs, and it pulsed benign green, except for where the wound sent evil red energy coursing into her. She saw Cedric’s energy, a tree like her own, pulsing stronger and stronger, as if building up more energy than it could contain. Sparks of it glided over the branches that twined into the hand covering her wound. And when the sparks found the end of their path, they jumped into her flesh, onto her own energy stream, and she jumped. The branches of her tree of life trembled, and she realized it was because she trembled, her body caught in the grasp of some great surge that she wished would stop and yet never cease, all at once.

With each spark of energy that she absorbed, the insidious red dimmed. The pain was far away now, but still present, an evil thing lurking in the muddy brown that colored that root. Cedric removed his hand, and the other sight drifted away. She tried to hold on to it, but she could not; it slipped away like a dream upon waking. Now, the tunnel appeared as it had before, and she stared at Cedric, suddenly overcome by the strange intimacy of receiving his energy. She looked away.

“I must see to Malachi now,” Cedric said, dropping her leg. “Do not stand on this. You will have to fly.” He paused. “You know how to fly?”

She had never seen with the other sight until now, and she looked more mortal than Fae, but his implication bristled her. “Of course I can fly!”

While Cedric knelt over Malachi, Cerridwen slipped her shirt self-consciously from her shoulders, freeing the black, feathered mass of her wings. She flared them open, felt the ligaments stretch gratefully, and brought herself up from the ground, then back down, once, twice. The wind from her motions ruffled wisps of Cedric’s bloodstained hair, and, not wishing to disturb him as he examined Malachi, she folded her wings. She twisted the sleeves of the shirt around her neck, letting the rest of the garment hang like an apron to cover herself, then limped to sit beside Malachi’s body.

“His wounds are too great.” Cedric reached for the neck of Malachi’s robe, jerked the material apart. “Do you still have your knife?”

She did, she realized with some satisfaction, and she readily handed it over to him. He slid the blade beneath the fabric covering Malachi’s chest and ripped it upward. A bandage already encircled the mortal’s chest, and fresh, red blood stained it, streaked the skin below it. “He was already injured? Yet he went into battle?” Cerridwen shook her head.

“Are all mortals so foolish?”

Cedric tore away the sleeve that covered the nearly severed arm. Cerridwen flinched at the sight of the wound. She’d seen gore and death today, but not affecting someone she knew. It had not truly touched her, then. It had intoxicated her, like wine. But this deep, red-black crevice that marred Malachi’s body, opening his shoulder, digging through skin and muscle and bone, nearly to his waist, sobered her. Her throat closed, she grew dizzy. Cedric pulled the torn, stained robe down, uncovering Malachi’s torso completely. And then, her head still swimming, Cerridwen saw them: wings. Black, feathered wings, so similar to her own, but for rust-marred patches of metal that peeked out from between the feathers. She shot to her feet, mindless of the pain and Cedric’s warning not to test her injury. She leaned against the wall of the tunnel, shaking far more than she had when accepting Cedric’s energy. She looked away, looked back. They would not disappear. Black, feathered wings.

Cedric looked up at her, his expression grim. “Not foolish,” he answered her quietly. She opened her mouth to speak, heard the echo of a shriek she had not produced somewhere far down the tunnel.

Cedric stood, lifted Malachi onto his back once more. “It is not safe for us here,” he said, emotionless. “Keep moving.”

He waved his hand, and the illumination died, leaving them in darkness. But even still, she could see the gleaming black feathers in her memory.

Eighteen

S omething inside of her had gone cold.

Malachi died, even as Ayla waited for him to return. Hope, she had learned, could be denied, but never truly banished. And she had felt the blow that struck him down, and hope had cruelly deserted her.

She sat on the edge of her bed, stared at the walls. Because she had expected this, known the outcome, she could not conjure tears. Or, perhaps, she could not make those tears come because she knew she would be out of her own pain soon enough. Closing her eyes, she saw him as she’d first seen him. The paper-white skin, the glassy black eyes staring at her without pity. He had not been Malachi then, not the one she’d known. He’d been some other creature, a thing to be feared, a thing bent on destroying her. Would that creature be proud that it had finally achieved its goal? That she was destroyed, as plainly as if she’d let him tear her to pieces in that tunnel? It had taken nothing but time. And love. How cruel was that emotion, that it could make one feel so much, with so little power in return? To love was to have a dagger at your throat, and the whims of fate clenched the hilt in their fist.

Now, they had plunged in the blade, as surely as the one that had split Malachi. He still lived; she could feel that with a power that did not come from the Fae part of her. It came from the Human in her, that she had given far too little credit to in her lifetime. Humans felt more deeply than Faeries. Perhaps it was a credit to them, perhaps not. But with that feeling came a knowing that was supernatural, and she was grateful for it. She did not have to wait for news of his death, news that might never come, that might leave her able to doubt. Yesterday, she had feared this inevitability. Now that events had begun to unfold, beyond her control, she was at peace.

Though her body was weary, she did not sleep. There would be sleep after, or, at least, time to rest. All she feared now was the unknown that would come after her death. Would she return to the Astral, though it could not be accessed from this plane any longer? Would her form change, or would she carry on, the same as always?