The Onyx Vial (Shadows of The Nine Book 1) (15 page)

Chapter 12

Ariana dreamed of rain. Of lightning striking the back of her head. She screamed, but the sound left her lungs with the high-pitched squeal of wood on metal. Thunder followed. The strong, calloused hands of the wind were on her cheeks, her lips. Cool liquid flowed down her throat. The pressure in her skull, a spot of lightning that lingered, burning, finally eased.

The clouds spoke to her. They asked her name. She answered, the wind whipping the words to a whisper.

              Lightning struck again. Her skull broke open. White-hot energy pooled beneath the bone. The world shifted. She fell backward. The rain turned to daggers, razor sharp points driving into her, tearing muscle, piercing bone. She cried out, tried to get up. But dark, man-like shapes formed in the mists and held her down. She flailed wildly. Her heart slammed against her ribs, mimicking her fight to break free.

Icy water pooled in the wounds where the blades had thumped into her, then froze. The relief was immediate, intense
—
painful. She gasped,
and this time she heard herself.

              She forced her eyes open. The man-shapes wavered in front of her. The sound of the rain shifted to the snorts of horses, the heavy breaths of the men. Night moved in behind thick grey clouds, flashing saffron.

              “
Blue
eyes.” Surprise was evident in the voice of the clouds, now the voice of the man holding her head.

The shadows abated from his face as Ariana’s eyes adjusted to the moonlight, and to consciousness.

His dark, graphite-streaked hair was tied in a low ponytail. He had a gentle gaze set on his worn, sun-browned face. Heavy wrinkles settled into his forehead and the corners of his rusty green eyes. He slid her wet hair off her face, his skin scratchy against hers.

              Wet. That was odd. Her face was wet, the front of her hair, too. But the rest of her was bone dry. And she was lying in a cart, atop bundles of something incredibly soft—fabric, perhaps, though she couldn’t see much from this position. She lifted her head. Streaks of pain converged on a single point in the back of it. She yelped. The sound came out as a cracked whisper. As she reached for the blazing rift in her skull, the man grasped her wrist. Between his fingers and her skin was cool, damp gauze.

“Don’t,” he said. “It’ll make it worse.” He looked at the other man, still nothing more than a silhouette rifling through something near Ariana’s feet. “Harold, the Kaktos juice, please.”

A jug of gold liquid passed between them. Ariana’s memory poured back into her. This cart was the one she’d followed. These men had been talking to the boy. The boy who looked like Hunter. Who—her stomach turned—had killed his own mother. Where was he now? Not with the men, it seemed. But who were
they
? Brothers. She remembered that much. Allies?

“Drink,” said the man at her head, holding a small metal cup to her lips. “It’ll heal you.”

She took a tiny sip. It was cool and incredibly sharp, with a hint of sweetness. She wanted more. But couldn’t help wonder if it might be poisoned.

That’s null, Ariana,
she scolded herself,
if they wanted to kill you, they wouldn't waste their energy helping you.
She opened her mouth and let him tip the contents in.

Icy liquid coated her throat. Sparkles of energy traveled through the nerves in her brain to the back of her head, where they wrapped around the pain and quelled it.

The man had another cup full and ready before she asked for more. This time, she gulped the liquid as fast as he poured it. More icy cold in her throat. Less pain in her head. “I think it’s working,” she croaked.

The man nodded.

“Check her,” said the other one.

Another nod. “I’m George Stratton.” He capped the jug and set it in the cart beside her. “And that’s my brother, Harold. We need to make sure you didn’t knock anything loose when you fell. Do you remember your name?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Say it aloud, please?”

She hesitated, remembering her dream. “Haven't I already said?”

George nodded. “But I want to confirm it, if you wouldn't mind.”

No use lying, then. She told him.

“And do you know where you are?”

She gazed beyond the horses, careful not to lift her head. White-orange light flashed in the clouds, illuminating the barren landscape.
Helede
. But that answer would be telling him a lot more than he’d asked. She felt like Hunter, suddenly, when they'd asked him where he was from. She stuck with the simpler answer and hoped it'd be enough. “Your cart. In the middle of nowhere.”

A smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, smoothing the furrows in his brow. “How’s the pain?”

Ariana assessed the damage. When she focused, she noticed how much actually hurt, and she marveled at the fact that nothing seemed to be broken. “In my head it’s duller. Throbbing, I guess.” She looked at her arms. They were so dry they seemed blanketed in a layer of dust. But beneath that layer she was bright red. “My skin’s giving off a lot of heat.” She held up her arms to indicate the cold gauze and noticed the deep scrapes along the whole of her inner forearm. “
These
sting.” The memory of the injury swept through her. The bite of the broken shingles. The tearing in her arms and—she was hesitant to look at the wounds on her thighs. But she knew she must.

They looked as though she'd been mauled, the exposed flesh worn from thorough cleaning and stained red with blood. She hadn’t the stomach to examine any further. She set her arms back down and shifted a leg. Pain seared the bone, thrusting the breath from her lungs in a strangled cry. Yes. Exactly the pain she’d expected. Those wounds were bad. They’d hurt when she’d acquired them, too, now that she thought about it. She sucked air through gritted teeth and steadied her fluttering heart. “Lawks. That is
not
pleasant.”

The lines in George’s forehead returned. “We’re working on that. The wounds are deep. We’ve disinfected them, but…” his expression shifted into something foreboding.

Harold came closer and she could finally see him clearly. He matched the gravelly voice she’d heard from the rooftop. His age showed in his close-cropped, grey-sprinkled hair and weathered face. If George was in his mid-forties, then Harold was in his early fifties. He was slightly taller than his brother, and more muscular. Pale emerald flecked his brown eyes, giving the impression of jewels dropped into a mud puddle. They were neither warm, nor reassuring.

“Need answers first,” he said.

“You need…
answers
before you can help—Oh. That's nice,” she scoffed. They were going to deny her full treatment until they got what they wanted from her.

“Who sent you?” Harold fired the question like he’d been interrogating her for hours.

Ariana recoiled. “What?”

“Who. S
ent. You.
”

Was he trying to intimidate her? She pushed herself off her back, ignoring her pain, and glared at him. “No one.”

George hung back, his arms crossed. “So you weren’t with the boy?”

With
him? That murdering Hunter lookalike? “Absolutely not.”

“But you
know
him,” Harold pressed.

“I—”
Did
she? She knew Hunter. Not well. But she knew him. And that boy definitely wasn't Hunter. He couldn't be. Unless somehow he was, and then… she didn't know him at all. “No. Who is he?” 

“Not your concern,” said Harold.

Ariana huffed. “How do you figure? I mean, you
are
accusing me of being
with
him.”

“If you don’t know,” Harold insisted, “we’re not telling you.”

What was he, a five-year old?

He stared her down like fresh prey. “But I think you do.”

Ariana shrugged. “He’s…” she waved a hand, “vaguely familiar,” then glared at Harold. “Reminds me of someone I don’t trust.”

A fork of light struck the ground in the distance, casting a sickly yellow glow over the Strattons’ faces. Harold lifted one thick brow. He pulled a small vial from his pocket and freed the stopper. George took a step toward his brother, almost involuntary.

Smoke rose from inside the vial as Harold hovered the open end over her damaged leg. “Don’t believe you,” he said.

Her throat clenched. But indignation coiled around her fear, boiling her blood. Now he was
threatening
her. She was prone in a cart, completely at their mercy, and he planned to torture answers out of her? Ridiculous. “That’s
your
problem, you
raver
. Get that thing away from me.”

Harold’s eyes lit with a fire of green flecks, then narrowed menacingly. “Think you’re some sort of
princess
?”

“No. But I think
you’re
some sort of—”

George cleared his throat. “Harold. Please.”

Harold's eyes held venom for his brother, then he turned it on Ariana. “Why were you in Gruum?”

Where the
H
elede was Gruum? That town?
Where else, Ariana?

“I followed you there,” she admitted.

This seemed to confirm some suspicion of Harold’s. “What are you after?” He hadn’t closed the vial.

After? What did they think she was, an Elite Operative? “That,” she snapped, jabbing a finger at the jug of juice.

They followed her finger.

George sounded nothing short of baffled. “Why?”

She turned her glare on him, too. “I was about to
die
of thirst. Why else?”

Harold moved, the sky glowing behind him, and tore Ariana’s attention from his brother. “Stop toying with us, girl,” he said. “We saw the documents. The drawings. The
books
.”

Ariana’s mouth clapped shut. They went through her bag. Her eyes combed the cart. Where was it?

“How could you have followed us all that way?” George asked. “It was a two day ride.”

At least George wasn’t so accusatory. Regardless, she couldn’t answer that. She leveled her gaze on Harold. “Where’s my satchel?”

“Safekeeping,” Harold answered. “Collateral,” he added, as if that explained everything.

“I want it back.” Without it, she’d be stuck in this gorsed place forever.

“Answers,” he insisted.

“The answers you
want
, or the
truth
? Because I’m not lying to you.”
Just omitting some things
.

Harold thrust the vial into view and tipped out a drop.

George was at her side in a blink. But it wasn’t fast enough. The droplet hit her raw flesh, already sizzling. Ariana howled. The acid-like liquid burrowed into her skin. Her eyes watered. Her muscles tightened painfully. Her heart, her lungs, her brain shut down.

She was vaguely aware that George and Harold had squared off—like great bears locked in battle.

“What ruptured in your brain, Harold?” George shouted into his brother’s face. “I told you she wasn’t ready for that. It’s too strong!”

“She’s fine,” Harold snarled. "Starts working in an instant."

George whipped his head around, his ponytail spreading like tail feathers, and regarded Ariana, his eyes wild.

She blinked away the tears invading her vision, but her muscles were locked. She couldn’t move.

“Oh, you’re right.” George’s arms flailed in a gesture of annoyance, his words dripped with sarcasm. “She’s perfectly healed now. One drop and one instant later, her wounds are sealed, her skull’s not cracked, and she’s so far from heat-stroke she’s practically
swimming
in the
drinking water
.”

Harold responded with a bull-like snort out his widened nostrils. “Stop pampering the little snit,” he growled. “Do your job or find a new one.”

George pressed himself close to his brother, their noses touching. “Oh? Shall I join the Guild with
you
?”

Harold looked ready to throw a punch. A static built between them. The heat beneath Ariana’s skin flashed over with icy apprehension.

“You think it was an accident she and the boy both found us on this trip, George?
This
trip?”

“I don’t care if it was planned down to the last injury. That’s not how we treat prisoners.”

Great. She was a prisoner.

Harold grumbled and turned his back on his brother.

George stuck out a hand and spun him around. “
What
did you say?”

Harold’s face was calm, emotionless. But his eyes swirled with green and brown. “You’re a fool.”

The muscles in George’s neck drew taut as a bowstring. “Am I?”

Ariana's muscles, he noticed, began to ease.

Harold blinked. His face didn’t change. “She’s not your daughter.”