Viper's Creed (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) (22 page)

They paused at the Temple's front gates, which were made of wide golden bars. Her smell was everywhere, and he had to stop himself from dropping to the ground, pressing his face against the walls and breathing in her essence. Yes, his prey had visited here... and as he took in the air, he could smell something else, a darker scent, crisp and spicy. The aura of the assassin. But were they still in the city? He sniffed again, pulled the air through his quivering nostrils. No, the smell was several days old... but he was catching up.....

The soldier pulled a tassel that hung next to the gates, and an especially large bell started to swing back and forth, chiming loudly. Volcrian winced. How could they discern one clang from the next?

But somehow, they did. After a few moments, the gate opened. A young woman, obviously a priestess, stood there. From her plain robes, he knew she was new to the Order, perhaps recently promoted from acolyte. He doubted she even knew the Song of the Four Winds yet. Volcrian was unimpressed.

“This traveler claims he is on a pilgrimage,” the soldier said, cocking a thumb in Volcrian's direction.

Volcrian curled his lip. The irony was killing him; he supposed he was on a pilgrimage of sorts. A far more lethal kind, though. “Show some respect,” he snorted. “I have traveled far to be here.”

The young priestess looked him over. Her brown eyes were wide and sincere, but he saw something flicker across her expression, something he didn't like. “Who are you?” she asked.

“My name is Volcrian. I come from the north,” he said. “Across the mountains. I have traveled far and I am in need of rest.”

The woman continued to regard him with that strange expression. “You are no pilgrim,” she murmured.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You bring no sage, no herbs as offerings for the Goddess,” she said. “We don't cater to common thieves or riffraff. Find another bed for the night.”

Volcrian was shocked. Then his eyes narrowed. “Turned away by the Goddess herself?” he said in disbelief. “Hypocrite. Her Winds guide all things.”

“But not you.”

He took a step forward, suddenly forceful, set on making his way through the door—but the priestess put out her arm, blocking his path. Something about her closeness made his skin crawl. He bared his fangs. “Get out of my way,” he growled. “I have asked for shelter and I shall receive it! I have traveled far, looking for three companions of mine. Perhaps you have seen them? A girl....”

“There is a dark aura around you,” she said, cutting him off, her voice hushed. Then she turned to the soldier with the dark hair. “Bring help. Evict him from the city.”

The soldier stared at them both, wide-eyed. “Really?” he stuttered, as though she had said a foreign word.

She nodded sharply.

He continued to stare at them for a moment, then stumbled away. He turned and ran down the street in the direction of the guardhouse.

Volcrian watched him go, a sneer of contempt around his lips. He was a Wolfy mage—no jail could hold him. He turned back to the priestess. “You're afraid of me,” he murmured, and took a step closer to her. He felt power surge through his blood, flood his veins. Her heartbeat called to him; he could see it in her throat, practically taste her blood. He wondered if her blood would be different from the others, sweeter, full of the potent blessing of the Goddess. Or perhaps, it would be bitter and cold.

“Stand back!” she said, putting her arm out again, blocking the door. He felt the power in her words; she spoke with the authority of the Temple, but it merely shivered across his skin. He hardly flinched. “Come no closer, demon!”

He laughed. Laughed! “Hah! Demon, am I? You are sadly mistaken, my dear. I am a Wolfy mage... and I have need of blood.”

“I see what you are,” the woman whispered. “And you are a demon. There is darkness around you. Your wrath surrounds you like a red cloak. You must turn away from this path. It is devouring your soul.”

Volcrian laughed again. What fun! A priestess who thought she knew something about magic. Stupid human. They would never understand the Wolfy race; his power thrived on the very essence of life. It couldn't be cursed. He was above curses, above nature, above stupid superstition!

But, if they insisted on treating him this way, then he might just have to become a demon....

“There he is!” a voice cried from behind him. He turned around on the steps, looking down at a cluster of guards who had assembled, swords drawn and shields at the ready, and rolled his eyes. Simpletons. Did they truly think weapons could harm him?

With a sickly glint in his eye, he grinned at the guards. “So you think you have me outnumbered,” he said. “Well... you are sadly mistaken.” Then he reached behind him, grabbed the priestess, and bodily dragged her before him. He yanked her arms behind her and clutched her throat with his crippled hand, grasping her under the jaw, cinching her wind pipe. Pain shot down his limb, the muscles cramping and contorting, but strangely enough, it felt good; like an addiction, he needed more. For a moment, he imagined that the limb was even stronger than his regular hand. He could feel her quiver in his grasp, the warmth of her skin, the desperate shallowness of her breath. She was like a rat clutched in the talons of an eagle, fully aware of her fate.

“You called me a demon,” he growled. Hatred surged in him. It had become a constant companion, this wrath. Always roiling beneath the surface of his skin, leading him, egging him on. He submitted to it now, bowing his head. He would not stand in his own way. “But I am nowhere near as evil as the demon I hunt.”

Then he clenched his fist, crushing the woman's throat, feeling her bones snap in his hand. His long nails, like talons, buried themselves in her skin. Blood ran across his fingers, down his wrist, into the sleeve of his shirt. A shimmer of electricity shot through him, a bolt of lightning, every nerve coming alive.

He dropped the body to the ground, still twitching and convulsing. Unconsciously, he licked the blood from one of his fingers. When he looked back to the soldiers, he felt nothing but power. He could sense their hesitation, see the horror on their faces.

“Now,” he said, “where are we going?”

* * *

Sora woke up with a stiff neck and even stiffer legs, but she felt wonderfully lazy and content. From the shadows in the room, she could tell that the sun was low in the sky. It had been only a few hours since she had fallen asleep, but she felt completely refreshed.

She stood up, looking around the empty room. She wondered where Crash had gone, and whether or not Burn and Laina were back. Then she let out a deep sigh. It was good to be alone.
Do I remember seeing a bath around here somewhere?

She tapped on the door of her room, wondering if Laina was inside. When no one answered, she opened it and looked around. The beds were still untouched and the room was empty. Her eyes landed on the bathtub in the corner and she grinned wickedly. No one was around—the perfect time to take a bath! She dashed to the tub, suddenly paranoid that people would arrive at any second.

Upon inspection, Sora had to admit that it was the cleanest tub she had ever seen, barring her manor, of course. It stood on four porcelain feet upon a patch of white tile. Towels were hung over its side. But... how to fill it? Her eyes lingered on the brass pipes that arched over one side, where water was obviously meant to pour out. Now... how did she turn it on? She had never seen running water before.

She stood back and studied the odd metal mechanisms. Then she tapped one of the pipes and stuck her finger up the spout, wiggling it around a bit. Nothing happened.

Then she noticed the handles. With the utmost caution, she twisted one of the levers and leapt back in surprise. Water squirted out of the pipe, whining and hissing like a wounded animal. When she stuck her hand under the flow, she found it to be icy cold. Horrible! Quickly, she shut the water off, then fiddled with the opposite handle until it turned on. A steaming torrent spewed forth, so hot it could have boiled a lobster. She turned that one off too, then stood back to think.
How in the world do these things work?
The water was either too hot or too cold!

After several minutes of pondering in silence, Sora finally decided to turn both faucets on at once. This worked a bit better, and after a tweak or two, she found the perfect temperature. With a victorious smile, she left the bath to fill on its own.

As she waited, she undressed and wrapped a complimentary towel around her small form. Then she walked over and opened the windows, letting a brisk sea breeze blow against her face.

Sora took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her mind wandered. She thought of the Priestess, of the Temple in Barcella and the journey ahead. She still felt a horrible sense of uncertainty when she considered the Lost Isles, and what she might have to do to kill Volcrian.
Will I have to remove the necklace?
The Cat's Eye weighed heavily on her neck, and for a moment, she imagined it was a collar tied to a strict leash. She touched the stone, wondering about its bond with her mind. Sometimes, it felt as though a ghost were living inside of her.

And to break that bond... to remove the necklace.... A chill went down her spine.
Will my spirit be sucked inside of it? Half-alive, half-dead, trapped in a rock?
Or would she simply go into a coma, sink into darkness and disappear? Cease to be?

And what if, somehow, I survive?
That, too, was terrifying. She could no longer remember what life had been like before the Cat's Eye; what her
mind
had been like.

How am I ever going to do this?
How was she supposed to defeat Volcrian? She wore a Cat's Eye, sure, but she didn't know anything about magic or Wolfy mages. His spells were powerful; she would be dead by now if it weren't for the necklace. What would it be like to meet the mage face to face? She paused, trying to connect with the stone, hoping for some murmur of comfort, the familiar jangle of bells.

But it was silent.

Positive,
Sora told herself. She had to think positively. She forced her thoughts to go in another direction—yes, her manor, before her father's death. She imagined her wide, green tiled bathroom; the endless corridors and richly decorated chambers. It felt like she had lived there so long ago. She wondered briefly about Lilly and the other maids. What had happened after her foster father's death? Who owned the manor now? What family member had come to claim it? She tried to remember names and faces, but it all seemed vague and washed-out, like a faded painting.

She returned to the giant tub and leaned over its edge, brushing her fingers through the water. It was almost halfway full. With this in mind, she undid her braid and combed out her hair with a boar bristle brush. It had grown since she had last braided it, and it flowed like a shower of gold over her shoulder. It felt good to release the tension from her scalp.

"Sora, we need to..."

With a yelp, she leapt to her feet, whirling around. "Don't you people ever make any noise?" she practically screamed.

She was met by Crash's stunned face. He stared at her, obviously stricken. She had never seen such a peculiar expression before. Then she realized she was in a towel... a very short, small towel, now that she thought about it... with more than a bit of skin showing.

His eyes flickered over her. They flashed a darker shade of green, almost predatory, and she took a startled step back. Then he blinked and the expression—or whatever it had been—was gone.

Sora gulped and pulled the towel closer around her, hoping to retain some dignity. Finally she found her voice, and raised her head a notch. "I was just about to take a bath, but I can wait as long as it's quick. Either get in or get out, just don't leave the door open."

The assassin stepped in quickly and shut the door, and thankfully, his eyes focused on the tub behind her. "I'll be going to look for a map of the Isles pretty soon. There is also a weapon maker in town known for his bladework." He paused. His gaze flickered over her once more before focusing on one of the beds. "I was wondering if you'd like to come. Laina and Burn are still out."

Sora blinked. "So, just what are they doing, exactly?"

"Touring,” he shrugged.

Sora was quiet as she tried to make her brain work. "Touring at night?" she finally asked.

"I guess they're having a good time."

“At least somebody is," she muttered. “They better not be wasting money....”

"I'm sure they will.” Crash's tone was wry.

Sora gave up with a sigh and looked back at her tub. "I'll be quick in the bath, though I was planning to have a soak." She ran her hand along the smooth marble. "I'd rather go with you than be stuck here alone."

"All right," Crash nodded.

She frowned. Was it just her, or did his voice seem rougher than usual? "Would you close the window?" she asked in concern. "It sounds like you're getting a cold. Do you have a sore throat?"

Crash's eyes darted to her face, and again they became that dark green color. The expression held longer this time, and Sora felt a peculiarly warm, squirmy feeling in her stomach. Abruptly, she wished there was more between them than just a towel and twenty feet of floor space.