Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) (11 page)

Sora's back arched and she screamed into the night, pain coursing through her. Tears pressed her eyes. It was unbearable—far worse than she could have anticipated. John Witherman rolled her over, his face contorted into a terrifying grin. His eyes glinted with blood lust. He licked his lips. “We're not done yet,” he growled.

The flames from the fire were spreading, crawling across the dry leaves toward a nearby tree. Sora's free hand searched the dirt and came in contact with a burning stick. She gripped it and swung it at Witherman's head, catching him on the side of the face. He shouted in surprise and released her.

Sora climbed to her feet again, gritting her teeth in pain. She ran a few steps only to have Witherman tackle her, once more carrying her to the ground. She tried to throw her arms out to catch herself, but wrenched her bad shoulder—pure agony. She screamed again. Lost her footing. Her body felt clumsy and useless, broken and disorganized.

She and Witherman fell to the ground, kicking and scuffling. The fire slowly crept toward the trees.

* * *

Crash was poised on a large branch, silently watching the night. He had walked three miles to the north, then had knelt in the brush, his knives ready. He wanted to hunt. It was the only way to settle the beast inside of him, to calm the rage that boiled beneath his skin.

He watched his shadow move and play in the trees, wrapping around branches, sliding down trunks.
Remember your master,
he thought to the shadow, trying to calm himself, to rein it in, but it did not obey. It seemed to be laughing at him. He closed his eyes.
Remember....

Abruptly, a scream pierced the night. A human scream. His eyes shot open and he turned toward the sound. It was a man's voice. A shiver went down his spine and his adrenaline surged. His shadow leapt to attention; it snapped back to his feet, sensing prey. The voice continued yelling, carrying across the forest. The birds and insects fell quiet.

Who else is on this island?
The shouts carried from a direction opposite the Dracians' camp, perhaps a mile out. He listened keenly, sorting through the echoes, finally deciding on a direction. A second scream answered the first—a woman's voice. A voice he thought he recognized. His heart began to pound, piercing his chest.
No, she's dead.
She was supposed to be dead.

He started through the brush, swift and powerful, like a panther on the hunt.

CHAPTER SEVEN

AFTER A SHORT and useless fight, Sora found herself with Witherman on the ground again. Twice she regained her feet, trying to flee from the spreading fire, but he tackled her, unwilling to let her go. This time she rolled with him, trapping his arms, kneeing him in the stomach. The man let out a soundless
oof.
Old breath struck her face.

They grappled on the ground for a long minute. Sora fought one-handed, using her legs to keep him at bay. She searched for his saber, but the weapon lay amidst the spreading fire, unreachable.

“You killed them,” Witherman sobbed, anger clogging his throat. His hands flew to her neck, trying to strangle her. “You killed them!”

“Get off me!” she yelled back, trying to stab his eyes with her fingers. Nothing seemed to work. He slammed her into the ground again and a branch lodged beneath her back, jarring her dislocated arm.

Sora screamed. Pain rushed through her, tears stung her eyes, her arm fell limp and useless next to her body. John Witherman laughed, his hands finally at her throat, choking her with blind rage. “You bitch,” he repeated, over and over again. “Die, die, die!”

She couldn't breathe. Her strength drained out of her; her head spun in panic.
This is it,
she thought, mentally opening her arms, embracing the idea of death. Her friends were gone, their quest useless, failed. This was the only answer. Strangely, she felt a bit of relief. She wondered, distantly, if their ghosts would meet her in the afterlife. She could imagine them now, all lined up in the darkness, waiting for her to cross over to the other side.

Shing!
The sound of steel whistled through the air. Sora braced herself for the blow of a saber—but none came.

John Witherman inhaled suddenly, his mouth gaping wide. She caught a glimpse of rotted teeth. Then he crumpled on top of her, his hands still clamped to her throat, his body pinning her to the earth.

She closed her eyes. She couldn't move.
Damn.
Still alive—she was in too much pain to be dead. Her body trembled with adrenaline. She thought she might pass out.

She was afraid to look at her arm, to try to move it. She couldn't register what had happened, couldn't question it. She was too shocked.

Then the body was rolled off her. Another figure replaced it.

For some reason, she imagined a giant animal crouching above her, an ape or a bear, some hulking beast in the darkness. She closed her eyes, wondering if she was next, expecting a giant claw to take off her head. But when she looked again, she saw a smaller shape, something more like a man. Fear pierced her. Were there more stranded settlers on this island? Had John Witherman's friends come to help him?

If so, then why was he dead?

Was
he dead?

The figure knelt next to her, completely silent. His footsteps made no sound. Sora stared up at him, helpless, in pain, struggling to breathe.

“Please...” she whimpered through clenched teeth. “Don't touch me.”

The shadow hesitated. And then he whispered, “Sora.”

Her eyes widened. She felt struck in the stomach. She knew that voice—knew it as well as her own. Was it a dream? A nightmare? Some horrific joke of her subconscious....

“C-Crash?” she stuttered.
No!

“Sora....”

No, no, no!

She could only stare at him.

He knelt gently and pulled her into a sitting position, his hands traveling to her injured shoulder. She gritted her teeth, tears stinging her eyes. He grabbed her arm and pulled it swiftly up and out, before she could flinch, and she felt the bone slide back into place. She screamed again, the pain intensifying. Then she collapsed against him, the wind taken out of her. He held her firmly in place. She wanted to speak, but she couldn't even breathe through the pain.

He said nothing but picked her up, gently resting her body against him, carefully adjusting her injured shoulder. He stood up, lifting her effortlessly into the air. His silence steadied her, gave her a moment to regain herself. He briefly gazed at the ruined campsite, the spreading fire and mutilated bodies. Then he carried her quietly through the trees, swiftly guiding them up a deer trail, over roots and shrubs.

The fire faded behind them until they could only smell its smoke. Finally the pain in her arm subsided and Sora was able to gather her thoughts. “You're alive,” she finally said. Tears pressed her eyes.
I will not cry in front of this man!
But she couldn't keep the emotions contained. She let out a choked sob, then leaned further into him, pressing her face against his shirt, his smell, the mixture of sand, salt and sweat. So familiar. “This is impossible.”

He glanced down at her. His expression was fierce, his jaw tight. But she wasn't afraid. She gazed at the familiar silver scar that ran down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. He was alive. She couldn't seem to adjust to the thought. She wondered again if she had imagined the body of John Witherman lying above her. Perhaps she had died after all and this was a phantom, come from the dark forest to escort her beyond the grave.

But her arm hurt too much and she could feel the weight of her bruised body. She wanted nothing more than to sleep. Her limbs dragged downward, burdened by weariness.
By the Goddess....

* * *

They made camp about a mile away, next to a shallow stream that cut across the deer path. Crash set her carefully on the ground and she jolted awake, returning to consciousness, gazing with blind eyes until a fire was struck. She almost wished he wouldn't. She looked a mess—barely decent, her shirt ripped down the front, tied far above her torso to conceal her breasts. Her pants were in shreds, her feet bare. She didn't even want to think about what her hair looked like.
Why should I care?
she admonished. They had spent countless nights in the woods before. A woman's pride, it must be. Some remnant of her forsaken nobility.

The fire was lit. They stared at each other across the flames. She drank in the sight of him, tall and broad, his clothes as ripped and stained as her own. She kept blinking, expecting him to disappear, but he stayed solid and firm.

Finally, she said, “I thought you were dead.”

He seemed tense. His face was drawn into a strange expression, unreadable. He wouldn't look away from her. “Burn and the Dracians are about three hours from here, near the beach,” Crash explained. “We searched for you.”

She nodded numbly. It took her a moment to absorb the information. The lump in her stomach eased. “Laina? Jacques? Tristan?”

He nodded.

She let out a slow breath. “The ship?”

“Gone.”

She nodded—she had suspected as much. She waited for more news, but none was forthcoming. He remained as quiet and enigmatic as ever.

Abruptly, Crash stood up, as though shaking himself from a trance. He began to remove his shirt. It took her a moment to realize what he was doing.

“What...?” she started, then the shirt came off. Her voice died in her throat.
Oh, my.
She had seen him shirtless before, had denied to herself that he was an attractive man, tight with muscle, his skin nicked and bitten with scars. She watched as he crossed the fire to her side, the light licking his skin, playing across his defined chest. He knelt next to her, only a few inches away. She could feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace. Or was it the fire that warmed her? She tried to shake herself out of it.
Most definitely alive.

He took the shirt and ripped it into long strips, then began tying the cloth around her, binding her arm in place. She sat stiffly, trying not to touch him, to lean against his muscled chest.
Look away,
she told herself.
Don't stare.
But she couldn't stop.

Finally, her bindings were knotted tightly. He sat next to her, a certain familiarity falling between them. He was a quiet man, but his silence was no longer uncomfortable. She expected it.

“I'm sorry.” It burst from her lips.

He glanced at her, waiting for an explanation.

“For the fight on the ship. It's all I could think about...” she said in an attempt to explain herself, though maybe she didn't have to.

He nodded, accepting her words. “That's all you could think about?” he asked quietly. She heard a smile in his voice. She wondered, suddenly, if he was laughing at her.

She shook her head, pushing her tears back. “I still can't believe it,” she said. “Perhaps the Goddess has favored us.”

Crash shrugged. She could tell he was growing uncomfortable. But she couldn't let the silence choke them. She made a vow to herself in that moment—she would speak her mind, her true thoughts.

“I was so scared, Crash,” she said quietly. She cast her eyes away, searching the darkened tree trunks, the small rocks on the ground, anywhere but his face. “Please...don't die again.”

She sensed that he was smiling, though she still couldn't meet his eyes. It was difficult to say these things to a man like him. He let nothing show.

Gently, he took her hand. The motion shocked her. It was a small touch, unexpected. “I won't,” he said.

She glanced sideways at him. He was staring into the fire, his gaze distant, solemn. “Did you really think I was dead?” she asked.

He nodded slowly. “It was...unpleasant.”

She couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips. It must have been pretty terrible, for him to admit that much. He sat so close to her, their legs almost touching, his hand over hers. She looked down at his strong fingers, his wide knuckles and hard, calloused palm. It was several shades darker than hers, tanned by the sun.

Then her thoughts turned inward. If her companions were alive, there was a chance that they might still defeat Volcrian. Their quest could succeed. They couldn't give up yet.

“We have to keep moving,” she said, the thought spilling from her mouth. “I know we don't have a ship anymore, but perhaps we can build one. Perhaps the Isles aren't so far. Or there could be old wrecks around the island.”

Crash shook his head. “Don't worry about it.”

His words were surprisingly confident. Sora sat back for a moment, surprised, wondering if she should argue with him—then she felt the tension leave her shoulders. His words held more power than she wanted to admit. Just like that, her worry was gone.

She let out a long sigh. “We're going to survive this, right?” she asked, perhaps more to herself. It had been almost welcome, the thought that she could give up, that nothing mattered anymore.

She thought of the Wolfy bloodmage who followed them, of the plague spreading across the mainland. The sick people she had seen on the streets of Barcella, begging for help. It would be selfish of her to give up so easily. Selfish, but natural.
You can still give up,
some smaller voice murmured.
This isn't your responsibility. Let someone else fix the world.