Unbound (The Griever's Mark series Book 3) (15 page)

Chapter 22

LOGAN

I TEAR THROUGH the wind, moving faster than I ever have. Water lifts and sprays in my wake. None of the logical reasons to go after Belos matter to me right now. I just need to see his face when I overpower him. I need to see him acknowledge that I didn’t want his control. Why does he think that?

His words eat away at me.

It’s like I never beat him back, like that was a fluke, a lucky victory.

I can’t accept that.

I catch up with them on the western coast of Kelda. Kronos reaches back to me. His relief is palpable. He lets me in just enough that I can distinguish the energies of Belos, Straton, and Ludos. Belos scrambles for control, but I slide around him. I make myself a barrier between him and Kronos. Kronos seizes his opportunity and slips away into the Drift.

For a glorious moment, Belos, Ludos, and Straton are within my power. I wonder if I could rip them apart like this, blast their energies to nothing, let them scatter through the wind. But that’s not what I want.

I want to feel this with my body.

I let go of their energies, letting their bodies reform. The three of them bump and tumble across a rocky shore. I force my own body to draw together. The returning pain in my thigh is sharp enough to stagger me for a moment, then I seize on it. It tells me I am fully here. I will do this as a man. He
will
see me that way.

I draw stone and thin veins of raw metal into my hand, letting the sword take shape.

Belos, getting to his feet at the water’s edge, watches me approach. The Shackle dangles from his wrist, and my temper boils at the sight of it. When Belos shapes his Drift-sword, I feel a surge of satisfaction. Good. This is exactly what I want.

And that’s how he fools me.

I swing hard, realizing mid-stroke what is going to happen. He never raises his sword. He never intended to fight.

My sword cuts through thin air as he vanishes into the Drift.

I yell, and the wind sweeps out from me, a furious gale that feathers the ocean and sends Straton and Ludos flying like leaves.

Before they can pull the same trick as Belos, I seize them, every fiber of their bodies responding to my will. They are, after all, nothing but air, water, earth, and fire.

I strip the elements from them. I draw the air from their lungs until they can’t find breath even to choke. Their mouths gape uselessly. I strip them of water next, drawing it out through their skin, letting their bodies’ heat consume them. They shrivel like desiccated fruit, wrinkling and cracking. I increase their body heat further until they flake away bit by bit, fire burning the earth to nothing. When they are nothing but dust, I let them go, and the wind carries them away.

Chapter 23

AS WE SKIM through the Drift, Theron dissolves in my hands. He can’t speak here. Even in the physical world he might be beyond that. His eyes don’t seem to see me anymore. As his energy drifts into the distance, fading from sight, I can’t help but wonder if that is all there is to death: dissolution.

We continue in the direction Theron indicated. Just when I start to worry we’ve lost the trail, Kronos explodes into the Drift.

The wind rips and tears, and for a moment I can only concentrate on holding myself together. I try to steady myself, balancing against the air here as I would in the physical world. When I look for the others, I spot them far behind me. I skim back to them, sped by the wind. Horik is struggling in my direction but not making much progress. He is trying to bring me the knife. I grab it from his hand and wheel about. I press into the wind, sliding between the currents.

Ahead, at the heart of it, light blazes. The form is shifting, fluid. At the center of it burns the white Leash. The wind scours me, but I will myself into it further, closer.

The Leash brightens as Belos appears in the Drift. He hauls on the Leash. He doesn’t see me yet. The Shackle swings free from one of his wrists.

As the wind dies a little, I press closer.

Belos notices me and drops the Leash. Swords flash into his hands. The knife may be more deadly than his swords but only if I can get close enough to stab him.

Of course, that’s not my goal right now.

Belos seems to realize this and starts backing off, dragging at Kronos, trying to haul him away. But Belos is weakened, and Kronos is resisting. The Leash floods black, bleeding Belos’s will into Kronos. He turns to follow Belos, but I am almost there.

The wind streaming from Kronos scrapes through me. As before, time slows and bends. My mind fills with the silly joy of youth, the joys of running and laughing, and I don’t know whether it is my childhood I am caught in, or one I might have had in another life. In the same moment, age washes through me, and I am an old woman, content to watch and laugh as the children run. I am rocking in a chair on a wooden porch overlooking a smooth beach. The sea lies beyond. I look at the man beside me, and it is Logan, weathered by age. He smiles at me, and I see what I have always wanted to see in him: peace.

Time speeds up again, and the reality of the Drift consumes me. I must focus. I must be present. The Leash seethes before me, coiling away like a snake. Belos swings toward me, swords flashing. I still have only one good hand. I can’t shape a weapon of my own without losing the knife. But the Leash whips toward me. If I ignore Belos, if I let him cut me, I can get to that Leash.

I said I would die for a reason. Is this not a good one?

The bone blade presses into the cord of energy, which frays like a thousand threads. I have never seen a Leash so thickly woven. Before I can finish my work, a huge hand wraps around me, jerking me away from Belos’s falling sword.

I cry out silently and struggle for freedom, but Kronos holds me close, and the wind eases around me. He is shaped much like a man now but brighter, greater. He reaches out his other hand to the frayed Leash and tugs. The last threads give way.

Belos staggers back. Kronos swipes at him, scraping a hand through his energies. Belos screams, and the sound echoes through the silent Drift. The swirling chaos of Belos’s energy streams from the rent. It takes me a moment to realize: he is bleeding out all the souls he has Taken. They scramble toward freedom. One face then another forms briefly before dissolving with relief into the Drift. It seems to go on forever. There are dozens, hundreds maybe.

I wait for Belos, too, to dissolve, but he doesn’t. All that leaves him is what never belonged to him in the first place.

In the end, he is left reduced to his own bare self, sagging and exhausted, his energy pulsing with sluggish horror.

Kronos grabs hold of him and drags us all out of the Drift.

I smell the ocean before I see it. I feel rocks and pebbles under my hands and knees. Cold water licks at my boots. Something bumps rhythmically against my right foot, and I glance back to see Belos’s prone form rocked by the tide, his hand nudging my boot. I scramble away and push shakily to my feet.

Wind curls and eddies around me. It lifts and tangles my hair. It is curious and uncertain. Another breeze joins the first, and I know Logan’s presence at once. He brushes over me in disbelief, moves with hesitation around Kronos.

Kronos gathers himself from the wind, taking shape beside me. For all that he looks human, no one could mistake him for that. His otherness shivers over my skin.

Logan gathers himself into his body next to us. Kronos raises a curious hand to Logan’s face, and Logan startles at his touch.

I hear the rushing whiz of displaced air. I only have time to gasp as the harpoon speeds past me, a blur of white.

But Kronos is already gone, a gust of wind tearing away over the sea.

Logan and I wheel on Heborian.

I shout, “What are you doing?” but Logan has no use for words.

He charges even as Heborian is reeling in the harpoon. He bowls Heborian over, slamming him onto the beach. Logan rears back with his arm cocked, ready to smash Heborian’s face, but Horik and the others grab him and haul him back.

I start to run after them, but something trips me. Hands scrabble up my body, and I thrash instinctively.

Belos flips me onto my back. He tries to shove the Shackle cuff onto my wrist. I shape my spear, but Belos has my arm pinned, and the spear with it.

Someone dives over my head, and Belos’s weight vanishes. I sit up as Logan shoves Belos under the water. Belos flails, but he has no power to use beyond his inherent earthmagic and his body. He is no match for Logan in either.

Heborian shouts orders, and the Drifters grab Logan and haul him back. Belos surges up from the water. He crawls to the shore, hacking water from his lungs.

Logan tries to tear out of the grasp of Horik and the others. It’s not that I want to save Belos, but someone is going to get hurt. I step into Logan’s line of sight. It takes him a moment to register me, then he starts to settle. Horik eases his grip, and Logan rips away from him. His chest is heaving, and his eyes are wild with color. He glares over my shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he snaps.

I spin to see Heborian hauling Belos up by the Shackle.

“You’re not the only one he’s hurt, Logan. His death doesn’t belong to you alone. It belongs to all of us.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“I will show Tornelaine that we have defeated him. I can’t let you waste that opportunity.”

I can’t argue the logic of that, and neither can Logan. He angles his face down. He tries to breathe steadily, to calm himself. The others move away to join Heborian.

I say, “We’ll be behind shortly.”

Belos raises his head a little. “What’s this, Astarti? You would miss the parade?” His voice may be weak, but all his usual sneer remains. How can he hold onto that even now?

“Just take him.”

Everyone but Horik vanishes into the Drift.

“Do you need me?” he asks.

“Leave us, please.”

When Horik vanishes, I take a cautious step toward Logan.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he snaps.

“I know that. I just don’t know if you’re ready for me.”

That makes him look up. Dark crescents hang under his eyes. His skin is too pale. I glance down at his leg, where the blood stain has spread from thigh to ankle. His arm is cut also, but there’s not as much blood. None of this is what worries me.

His chest jerks with his harsh breathing. He takes a deep breath, trying to slow it, but he goes right back to panting. “I didn’t get—and your father—and then—”

“Sit down,” I say firmly.

“I’m going after him.”

“Kronos?”

“Who else?”

“Logan—”

“Don’t.
Don’t
. I know that tone. I will not calm down or be reasonable or—”

“Sit
down
!”

“No!”

“Logan, please, you’re scaring me.”

He freezes. The horror in his face tells me he misunderstands that. I’m not scared he’ll hurt me. I’m terrified he will hurt himself.

He sits slowly, and the motion would be silent if not for his leg, which makes him grunt. He draws up his good knee and laces his fingers around it. He lowers his forehead to his knee. I hover uncertainly, unsure whether to touch him. He goes still, dragging everything in as I have seen him do so many times.

I crouch beside him. “Are you ready to go back? Your leg needs to be treated.”

“I want to find him.”

I grit my teeth in frustration. “How?”

“If he’s close enough, I’ll be able to sense him.”

“And if he’s not?”

He pushes awkwardly to his feet, forcing his injured leg to comply. “I’ll return to the city later.”

“You’re not going anywhere without me.”

His eyes flash green. “I have to go alone.”

“No, you don’t. If you refuse to return to the city now, take me with you, or I will follow.”

“Astarti, I need—”

“I’m not leaving you alone. No matter what you want.”

He makes a sound of frustration. He turns partially away, then back to me. I seize on this small sign of agreement and slip my arms around him.

He takes us into the wind.

We streak out over the ocean, where the morning light sparkles on the waves. It’s hard to believe it’s still only morning. It’s even harder to believe the day is so beautiful. We range along the shore, heading north for miles before turning inland. We fly over the farmland of Kelda. The trees are in full summer leaf, and the crops are starting to ripen.

I can tell Logan is about out of strength when we start brushing treetops and skimming the hills. We dip dangerously, streaming through the tall grass of a hillside. I try to slow us down, but I still don’t know how to manipulate anyone’s energy but my own. I wrench away before the crash, balancing myself against the currents, but I can’t save Logan.

He plows into the hillside, digging a trench in the soft earth as he skids to a stop. I stumble from the wind, clumsy in my hurry. I land with an elbow in his stomach, driving a “whuff” of air from him. He lets his head drop. His eyes are closed with exhaustion.

I straighten his legs so I can get a better look at his injury. I shape a Drift-knife and cut open his pant leg around the wound. It’s swollen and still bleeding. I cut off a portion of my shirt’s hem and wad it up. When I press it to the wound, Logan’s eyes fly open. He looks at me in surprise then lets his head drop again.

“Are you done yet?”

He closes his eyes. “Yes.” He sounds embarrassed.

“Can I take you through the Drift?”

He doesn’t answer.

“I could just wait until you pass out. That way you wouldn’t even know.” I’m sort of teasing.

His eyes slit open. He watches me for a while. I don’t like to be watched by other people, but it doesn’t bother me with Logan.

He asks, his voice barely above a whisper, “Why do you stay with me, Astarti?”

How can he ask that? It almost makes me angry. But sometimes we need to hear the words, so I give them to him. “Because I love you, Logan.”

Those words don’t make sense to me with anyone else. They are another thing that, with Logan, I just understand.

His expression is pained, like he has something to say that he doesn’t like. That means I probably won’t like it either.

“I want better for you. Than this.”

It frustrates me when he says such things, as though I can’t decide for myself, as though my decision is wrong. As though there is even a decision to make! But I know what he says comes from doubts that have nothing to do with me.

I could argue with him, try to reason, but he’s too tired for that, so I tease, “You know what they say: you can’t account for taste.”

He gives a surprised laugh, and it makes me smile until he grows serious again. “I love you, too, Astarti. That’s why I want better for you.”

I can’t bring myself to be flippant a second time, but I won’t entertain his doubts. I tell him firmly, “You are going to get better, and that is all I need. Do you hear me? You just need to let yourself heal.”

He only looks at me, not believing.