Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) (26 page)

“Yes, I caught you,” Crash answered.

"How?"

He responded slowly, like he had to search a long time for the answer. "You know that the Elements each made a creature?" he said. “They each combined with the Wind, and so the races were born?”

"Yes."

"Well, the story is incomplete. It says that Wind and Darkness did not create a creature, which is true. But Darkness
did
create a race. One of Shadow and Fire. It was a bastard creature made of an elemental raping. Because it was done in secret, we were called the Unnamed.”

“A Sixth Race?” Sora asked quietly.

He nodded. He seemed intent on looking anywhere but at her face. “Yes.”

Sora sat back, closing her eyes for a moment, trying to clear her mind. All of Laina's stories had been true. There was a Sixth Race of Darkness—born in secret, living in the shadows. Centuries of existence, yet the humans had no record of their civilization, no knowledge of their people.

Crash pushed on, as though he wanted her to understand fully. "I grew up in a small, secluded colony called the Hive. Our existence was kept secret. It's the only way we could survive. The Harpies see it as their duty to destroy our race. They wish to extinguish us from the world. They think it will put an end to evil.” He shook his head slowly. “Perhaps they are right.”

Sora watched him carefully. She still felt cold, disturbed by this new knowledge. She swallowed. “You turned into a...a....”

“A demon?” Crash said; she saw his lips move in thought. “You may call it that. It wasn't a wise thing to do, but I lost control.”

“Control?”

He nodded. “When our emotions grow too intense, our demons escape. We become them. Sometimes...sometimes we lose ourselves to them.”

Sora heard the dark implication of his words. She didn't know what it meant to become a demon, but the monster's aura had been dangerous, instinctively terrifying. She wondered what sort of destruction it could cause. She remained quiet, absorbing everything. It changed her entire view of the world. When she had first met Crash, she hadn't believed in the races. She had thought they were extinct. And all of this time—all of these years—there had been a Sixth Race, one of Darkness and Fire, keeping to the night, hiding from the world. It was a lot to accept.

But he saved my life,
she thought, glancing up the length of the ravine, which disappeared into the distance, obscured by the light of the sunstone. She couldn't imagine how long they had fallen—what could have happened....

“And you risked this change for me?” she finally murmured.

“It was not a question of choice.”

Sora nodded. She wished that he would look at her. She felt that would make everything easier. She reached over and touched his arm, making him jump. “You look tired,” she observed.

"The change drains my energy," he said softly. Surprisingly Sora glimpsed what might have been uncertainty in his eyes. Fear?
No, it can't be....

But the sight melted the chill inside of her—it made her suddenly warm. He was afraid—perhaps because he had exposed so much. Suddenly, she felt pity. It came out of nowhere, bubbling up through her chest. An outcast race, shunned and feared for his entire life, taught to live in shadow and secrecy.
He must feel so alone.

A cold wind gusted through the ravine, sending clouds of white sand into the air. Sora shivered. She wondered if Crash could feel the cold. As a creature of Darkness and Fire, she doubted it. She had never seen him shiver, except for the few times he had been wet. She shook her head again, mulling over their conversation.

Perhaps two years ago, she would have abhorred him, terrified of his demonic form. Back when she had been a rich noble, sheltered from the world, living with her nose in a book.

But everything had changed since then. She had seen another kind of evil: Volcrian's thirst for vengeance and the wraiths he had created. The way he had slaughtered Dorian without a second thought. She and Crash had traveled so far...and he had saved her life so many times...she couldn't allow herself to feel threatened by him now.

She was surprised by this epiphany. No, she didn't fear him. The demon, perhaps, but that seemed natural, something rooted in her body. He was her friend. It shouldn't matter if he was a monster, a human, or even a figment of her imagination. They had been through too much.

Sora moved closer, pressing their shoulders together. He stiffened at her touch. She glanced at him, a slight smile on her lips. Tentatively, she grabbed his calloused hand. “You're still Crash to me,” she said softly.

He looked at her. She saw something strange and unknowable pass through his gaze. Then a soft smile parted his lips. She felt her chest constrict. His smile took her breath away.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Sora looked him over again, taking in his smooth, tanned skin, and her eyes found his scar. It was long and painful-looking in this light. Impulse seized her—they were sitting so close together, his face mere inches away. She reached out a hand, touching the top of the scar, running a finger along his jawline. She felt a trickle of warmth move through her at the touch, some unknowable energy. Her hand trailed from his jaw to his chest, tracing the line of silver.

Crash made a sound low in his throat and grabbed her hand, firmly yet gently pushing her away.

She sat back, awkward, avoiding his eyes.
I went too far,
she thought, angry at herself.
Goddess, what was I thinking?
She couldn't even explain it to herself. He had seemed so lonely in that moment—and she had felt so close to him.

“Does that scar ever hurt you?” she asked, trying to forget what she had just done.

“No,” he answered, his voice deep and rich.

She found herself blushing stupidly. She stared resolutely at her hands, desperate to focus on anything else. Another cold wind blasted through the ravine and a shiver passed through her body.

"Maybe we should—uh—keep moving," she mumbled.

"I need to rest," Crash answered. "We can move to the cliff wall. The rock should shelter us from the wind.”

“Can you feel it, then?” she asked, suddenly curious. “How cold it is?”

"No."

She frowned. "Then how...?"

Crash took her hand again unexpectedly. He held it up, placing it lightly on his chest, over his scar. She swallowed, jolted by his touch. She could feel the pulse of his heart beneath her palm.

"Your fingers are cold," he told her softly. “Come."

He stood up stiffly. Sora could tell that his legs were weak, though he was trying to hide it. She pulled one of his arms around her shoulder, offering support. She thought she might have seen a look of amusement pass over his face, but he didn't make any comment.

They staggered toward the wall of the ravine. The assassin's weariness was so great that it affected her, too. She assisted him to the ground and leaned against the side of the wall, exhausted. She went to move away but Crash gripped her hand, pulling her back down next to him. He settled her in the crook of his arm.

“What...?” she started to ask.

"You'll get cold," he whispered, his eyes already closing, "and I need you here."

Why do you need me?
Sora wanted to ask, but the assassin was already asleep. She watched him for a moment, his quiet breathing, the relaxed slump of his shoulders.

Then a smile came to her face, perhaps a little smug. She liked his words, no matter what they meant. She watched him for a minute longer, lingering on their conversation, on all the mysteries to this man.

Only then did she have the courage to lean close and place her lips against his scar. She wasn't sure why, only that it felt right. When she drew back, she thought she saw a slight curve to his mouth, but decided it was her imagination.

Sora dozed off next to him, completely at peace.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

LORI SIGHED. IT was mid-morning, the next day. She and Ferran sat in the hallway, waiting for Silas' arrival. They were outside of the master suite where the sleeping Dracian still lay unconscious behind the door. A pair of burly sailors had escorted them to the room, but the captain himself was still absent.

Lori glanced at Ferran. He sat next to her in an identical fashion, his knees pulled up, his lengthy arms slung easily across them. In one hand, he twirled a half-chewed cinnamon stick. She watched it dance between his fingers, moving up and down his long digits.

She had thought about Ferran a lot since arriving in Sonora. He always slept shirtless, the phoenix tattoo clearly visible on his chest. She could remember him getting it shortly after Dane's death. She had thought perhaps the tattoo was to memorialize Dane. It had not occurred to her that it was the same emblem as the Ebonaire family's, a golden phoenix rising from a field of red.

“You never told me you were an Ebonaire,” she finally said to him. It seemed as good a time as any to bring it up. The question had been dancing on her tongue for days now, but the opportunity to ask had not yet arrived.

He gave her a sideways glance. “You don't seem pleased by that.”

Lori raised an eyebrow. She could hear the humor in his tone—dry, cocky, yet somehow guarded. She wasn't sure how to take that. “It's been eighteen years,” she finally said. “We were friends once. That's quite a big detail to leave out.”

Ferran shrugged. His cinnamon stick picked up speed. He glanced across the hallway, his eyes traveling over the faded, floral wallpaper. “All right,” he said. “So I'm an Ebonaire. I made the mistake of telling Silas. We were drunk at the time.”

Lori leaned slightly toward him. “So...what happened?”

“He tried to hold me for ransom.”

Lori almost choked at this. The thought was somehow comical. A pirate captain holding Ferran for ransom? It sounded just like something he would get mixed up with. “I take it that's when you parted ways?” she asked.

Ferran shook his head. “No,” he grimaced. “He sent a letter to my father asking for ten thousand gold coins. My father wrote him back.”

“And?”

“He paid Silas one hundred gold to throw me to the ocean.”

Lori was quiet. She thought at first that he might be joking, but Ferran's face was solemn, his lips pressed firmly together. “Did Silas...?” she asked.

“Yes...but close to shore. That was the last I saw of the good ol' Captain...until now.”

She hesitated, then reached out and touched his arm. Ferran jerked away, then flashed her a quick smile. “I told Silas it was a bad idea, that my family wouldn't pay,” he said. His smile felt empty, somehow. “The Ebonaires see me as a disgrace. We haven't spoken since I was eighteen.”

“That's...a long time,” Lori agreed. Twenty years.

“Aye.”

She fell into thoughtful silence. The Ebonaires were one of the richest families in the realm. First Tier nobility, highly respected and influential. Their bloodline went back to the War of the Races, when Calvin Ebonaire had led the human armies into war. They had been contenders for the throne and were said to be mixed with the royal bloodline—she knew of at least two queens who came from their family.

It was difficult to reconcile the two images. Ferran, raised by the First Tier, surrounded by wealth. Lori tried to imagine him dressed in expensive garb, decorated with all the pins and insignia of city nobility. He would have studied fencing, tutored privately under the most learned scholars, attended the King at court.

But she could only see the man next to her now, lounging against the wall, penniless and wandering, wasting his time in taverns and gambling halls. She couldn't imagine how he must feel, cut off from his roots for so long, with no anchor, no future.

“Why did you leave?” she finally asked.

Ferran shrugged. “A scandal, of course. I didn't have a lick of sense, especially at eighteen.”

Lori had to smile at this. She remembered the young Ferran well: hot-headed, overly confident, ready for a fight. There had been a lot of anger in him...
and there still is,
she sensed. He was just a bit better at hiding it.

“I was a cocky little bastard,” he continued. “Prince Peric and I were close friends. We grew up together at court and studied with the same tutors. We were the same age and considered cousins. Second cousins, perhaps, but close as brothers....” Ferran paused, frowning. “When we grew older, the prince became obsessed with the War of the Races. He wanted to find a Cat's Eye and use it. He was bored, over-educated and with too much money. We both were.” Ferran shook his head, turning his eyes heavenward. “There was one noble family in the city who claimed to own a Cat's Eye. The prince offered to buy it, but the man wouldn't sell. Peric was upset and plotted to steal it, but it's hard to slip a thief into a noble's house. So I volunteered.”

Lori winced. She could see where this was going.

“Anyway, I broke into the family's treasury during a party and took the Cat's Eye. I grabbed it without thinking and it bonded to me. Once I realized what had happened, I told Peric, who was furious. I fled the city, figuring that the noble family would press charges and the full blame would land on me. As I said...foolish.” Ferran shrugged. “Word spread, rumors abounded. Next thing I knew, I was being hired by collectors to hunt down rare artifacts.” He stared harder at the wall. “My family refused to talk to me. They said I had blackened the Ebonaire name.”