Stone of Ascension (23 page)

The piercing cry of pain that left Khristos’s mouth was only the first, as the Shifter continued around his body, slicing and cutting at will.

The fight fizzled out of Damian. All he could do was watch in mute numbness as his brother’s life torturously ended.

Khristos’s pain-filled cries eventually stopped, and the silence that followed felt unnatural. The harsh whispers of the flames as they danced and weaved around the circle mingled with low grunts and throaty laughter of the Shifter as he finished his kill.

The enemy stalked around the bloodied, mutilated carcass of his brother. The man’s gaze sought and found Damian’s outside the circle. His lip curled in vindictive hatred, his eyes hollow and cold. “Are you ready for this one?”

Damian’s mouth opened in refute, his stomach heaved, his arms reached out to stop the sword, to protect his brother. But it did not matter.

There was nothing he could do. And the Shifter knew it.

The Shifter gripped his sword with both hands, raised it high and paused as he held Damian’s attention.

“Watch and remember.” His eyes glinted with pure evil. “It was I, Tubal, leader of the Shifter force. In the vengeance of Gog, it was I who killed this Energen.”

The sharp, metal blade hissed through the air as it was leveled downward at Khristos’s neck.

“Noooo.” Damian’s tormented screech of rage left his mouth as he watched his brother’s head being severed from his once strong body. The evil rolls of laughter that bounded out of the Shifter’s chest were background noise to the roar in Damian’s mind.

Then there was nothing. The entire world went silent.

There was only the muffled sound of his pounding heart as his knees hit the ground. His lungs were raw as if they had been burned from the inside out. The pain was excruciating, almost debilitating.

Pure and true hatred seeped into his skin, into every pore of his body and filled him like nothing else ever had. He stumbled to his feet, prepared to fight. For revenge. To kill the bastard who had taken his brother.

The Shifter smiled as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “Are you ready for your turn?”

The muted taunt barely penetrated Damian’s senses as he watched the enemy remove Khristos’s blood from his sword with slow, deliberate swipes on the grass.

Tubal. The name was forever engraved in Damian’s mind.

The circling wall of flames that had barred him from helping his brother withered and smoldered out with a slight hiss.

Instantly, Damian charged. All rational thought was gone. The burning need for revenge blinding him to everything but the man standing passively before him. Kill him.

The Shifter held his ground as Damian stormed toward him. The cruel grin curved his lips, and his eyes sparked with anticipation.

Damian lifted his sword, a guttural, primal growl heaving up from the depths of his chest. Triumph sparked in the Shifter’s eyes, then he disappeared. Dissipating before Damian’s sword could cut through his chest.

The downward momentum of Damian’s weapon carried onward, pulling him forward as the metal sliced into the ground right between Khristos’s neck and severed head.

Damian froze. Shock paralyzed him before he recoiled, stumbling as he choked back the bile that rose in his throat. He felt more than saw the other bodies as they formed around him on the perimeter of the circle. The Guard had arrived.

Damian tried to dissipate and give chase to the enemy, but he was too weak. His body too burned, his energy too diminished to port and follow Tubal’s energy trail. No! Not now, he needed to follow. Needed to avenge.

He cursed the flames, his own weaknesses.

He felt his muscles weaken and his bones collapse, then the hard grit of the dirt as it bit into the tender flesh of his burnt hands and cheek. Through the vacuum that consumed him, he heard Xander delivering orders, sensed the movement as the men jumped to his bidding.

The grass whispered slightly as the booted feet approached his downed form. Damian kept his eyes closed when he heard the soft stretching of leather as the owner of the boots crouched.

“I do not understand, Damian.” Xander’s leather gloved hand enclosed his upper arm. “Why would you kill your brother?”

“No!” Damian roared, suddenly finding strength. He wrestled his arm from the hold and scrambled backwards away from his friend. His gaze pivoted to his brother’s mutilated form, to his sword lying between the severed head and body of his brother. “I did not kill Khristos. How could you think that?”

Chapter Eighteen

Damian took a deep, steadying breath, the stench of burnt flesh gradually leaving his nostrils. He rubbed his eyes, pushing the memories back along with the acid that burned in his throat. Slowly, he lowered his hand and returned to the present.

Amber sat beside him, having moved from the end of the bed at some point during his story. One hand rested on his knee, the heat of her palm warming his skin through the material of his jeans. Her energy filled him, pooling into him from the one simple contact point.

Like always.

“They blamed you?” she said softly, her probing eyes searching his face.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t they believe you?”

He looked down, away, anywhere but into her too-trusting eyes. “The first reason was the mark.” He lifted his hand to show the white dragon on the back of it. “My mark changed to this that night. When I was born, I had the mark of the eagle.”

Flipping his hand around, he stared absently at the innocuous mark. “Well, this mark minus the wings. Those didn’t appear until this morning, after I met you.”

His dragon stirred at the mention of the wings, fluttering them lightly as if to taunt him with the appendages.

Amber shifted, pulling her legs under her as she leaned forward and grasped his hand. She smoothed her fingers over the dragon mark, causing the dragon to arch and growl in contentment.

“How did the wings get there?”

He shrugged and rubbed his free hand through his hair. “Just another in the growing list of questions.”

“What was the second reason?” She lifted her head to look at him. “You said the first reason was the mark, what was the second?”

Sheer force of will kept his leg from bouncing in agitation. His lips tightened as he fought back the bitterness. “The energy. The energy said I helped to kill Khristos. That I had a hand in his death.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” he bit out, the anger and frustration hurling their ugly venom at her. She flinched. He ripped his hand from her tender grasp and anchored his fists in his hair. “I don’t know. Don’t you see? The energy lied. Somehow it spoke untruths about me. It manipulated the entire enclave into believing something that was not—is not—true.”

Her warm palm fluttered to his bare chest.

His breath froze as a thousand bolts of lightning fired into him. He dropped his hands and watched her, wary, uncertain. Vulnerable.

Exposed.

All fucking emotions he didn’t want to contend with, but she blew him wide open. She forced him to confront them.

She tilted her head to the side, her hair falling in a waterfall down her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed in concentration as if she was listening to something.

“I don’t hear it,” she said quietly. “I hear only the truth in what you just told me. I hear your pain at the betrayal. At all you have lost. But I do not hear the lies.”

“Then you are the only one.” The defeat in his voice did not surprise him. After so many years, the thought of anyone believing him was a long-forgotten dream.

“Maybe you only need the right one.”

“What do you mean?”

Ever so slightly, her palm smoothed back and forth over his chest. Thoughtful, exploratory. “What do you believe, Damian? Do you believe you are responsible for your brother’s death?”

On reflex, he shook his head, but halted abruptly. Did he? Damn. “I could have done more,” he finally said. “He shouldn’t have died while I stood by and did nothing.”

“What could you have done?” Her inquiry was probing, but not pushy. The impact of her question was eased by the softness in her voice.

“I don’t know…anything but stand there and watch.”

“Do you
really
believe that?” Her hand stilled on his chest. “That you did nothing? Or is the guilt keeping you from seeing the truth?”

This time he was the one who flinched. The immediate denial was poised at the end of his tongue. Maybe it was the lack of judgment that mingled with the simmer of dare in her penetrating eyes that halted his automatic response. There was no cruelty in her words, only a question he wanted to deflect. It would be easier to deny and dodge—the tactic he’d been employing with dismal results for way too long.

What was it with this woman? A day in her presence, and he was purging his soul. He needed to man up and pull away. Put the emotional wall back in place before the barricade was permanently destroyed.

But he couldn’t stop. The energy pushed at him to trust her. Believe in her and what she offered. Did he dare trust it?

Did he dare believe again?

Forcing his jaw to relax, he finally admitted, “Of course I feel guilt. He was my brother. The cherished and honored heir.” He thrust a finger at his chest. “I was supposed to protect him. Guard him. And I failed.” Failed. Miserably.

“It sounds to me like he failed.” She didn’t falter despite the murderous glare he sent at her. “He lost the battle, not you. He took the life of the female, not you.”

“What do you know?” He pushed her hand from his chest, her touch too intimate. His defenses too fragile to stand hard against her attack.

She clasped her hands in her lap and looked down. After a moment, she tilted her head up to look at him with shuttered eyes. “I know what it’s like to bear the shame of someone else’s actions. I know how hard it is to hold your head up against false accusations. I know the pain of being ostracized for something you had no control over.”

And just like that, his defenses threw down their battle weapons in a surprising defeat. Her quiet admission stunned him. Humbled him with its blatant honesty. She did understand. Not just hypothetically, but from experience. And she waited for him, every muscle stiff from the exposure.

He cupped her face, his thumb caressing the soft skin of her cheek. She relaxed and pressed her head into his palm. Again, the vulnerability that hid just below her surface glimmered in the faint light of the room.

“There is much I don’t know about you,” he murmured.

She looked away, briefly, before her spine straightened and her gaze returned to his. “Who was she? The woman your brother was protecting, then killed?”

Accepting the topic volley back to him, he sighed and dropped his hand. “I don’t know. No one ever told me.”

“Do you know why he killed her?”

Another shrug. “I can only assume it was to keep her from the Shifter.”

“Tubal?” Her brow furrowed in thought. He could practically see the wheels of her analytical mind turning. All the information turning and tumbling in her head as she tried to make sense of it all. “The same man who attacked us tonight?”

“Yes.”

“The same man who wants me?”

His jaw tightened. “Yes.”

Understanding dawned on her face. He stiffened, anticipating what was next. Pity was for losers. A worthless emotion that would make him feel smaller than a weeping toddler.

But it wasn’t pity that gleamed in her eyes. If anything, it was a deadly intent that almost mirrored what he felt.

She leaned in, her eyes narrowing. “The same man who claims I’m a Shifter?”

What? Where’d that come from? He sat up. “There is no way you’re a Shifter, Amber. There is not an evil thread in you,” he insisted adamantly. His own eyes narrowed. “When did he say you were a Shifter?”

“It was the woman, Kassandra,” she said very calmly, as if none of it were disturbing to her. “The one who took Tubal away. While you were passed out in the tower, she came back. She claims Tubal wants me because I’m a Shifter.”

“Not. A. Chance. In. Hell.” The anger fired in him, immediate and all-consuming, hardening his voice. Sealing his resolve. There was no way Tubal would ever get his hands on her.

A conspiratorial half-smile curved over her lips. “Then next time, we’ll need to ensure that he doesn’t get away.” Mischief sparked her features. “Of course, next time, I just might take him out for you. It seems my little flamethrowing trick packs a mighty punch.” She wiggled her fingers in a taunting jibe.

The tension left him. His head sagged back against the headboard, a smile curling the edges of his mouth.

“Getting cocky already?” He lifted an eyebrow in question. “But there is the small detail that you must remove his head in order to truly kill him.”

Her grin fell, her face blanched. She sat back and licked her lips. “Yeah. Okay. So maybe I’ll just leave the actual killing part to you.”