Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) (42 page)

Before him lay the thick jungle of the Lost Isles, a solid wall of wilderness. As he looked at the trees, he felt a strange vibration in the air. He twitched his long ears and could almost hear music. Yet the sound went deeper than that, settling just below his diaphragm.

Sacred ground.
A place where his magic could be amplified. The power emitting from it was palpable, like a beacon of light teasing his eyes. He would begin his search there.

“You're in a rather good mood,” a wry voice said from behind him. It was barely intelligible. The priestess's vocal chords had begun to rot.

He glanced at the woman over his shoulder. She stood on the beach as the rest of the dead soldiers dragged their boat to shore. Her tattered brown cloak swirled in the wind, obscuring her figure. He could see large, gaping holes in her cheeks, a glimpse of white bone through the rotting flesh of her face. A swarm of flies had come to investigate, hovering around her head, crawling over her shoulders. She didn't notice.

“Four years,” he said. “Four years I've been waiting for this.”

Her eyes were almost pure white, but he could sense her looking him over, glancing from his face to his hands. “Only four years?” she asked slowly, a hint of challenge in her voice.

It bothered him, and he passed his hand over his face. His headache was growing worse. No, not four years. Longer than that, much longer....A sudden darkness leapt within him, growling in his stomach, clawing at his chest.
Eons,
it seemed to say.
A star's lifetime, trapped in the earth. The heat, the miserable, suffocating pressure, the crumbling depths of a grave....

He needed blood. He craved it. He wanted to tear this island apart with his hands.

When he looked back at the priestess, he saw a grim set to her face, as though she knew his thoughts. He glared at her. “Four years since Etienne's death,” he growled, pushing through his rage. “Don't worry, my dear. Soon you will join him in that afterlife.”

She watched him impassively. He finally turned away in disgust.

The rest of his crew had reached the shore. They wandered up behind him, stiff and slow. It was the one downfall of his spell; a corpse didn't retain the natural elasticity of a body.

But Volcrian had one more minion at his command. Two of his wraiths had been destroyed by the Cat's Eye, but that only leant strength to the third one. As each wraith perished, its power was channeled into the next. So the last wraith would harbor the ferocity of all three combined.

He drew a knife from his belt and ran the blade down the center of his crippled hand. He barely felt the deep gash. Blood welled up from his skin. He clenched his fist, allowing the blood to drip through his fingers.
Where are you?
he asked the wind silently.
I need you now. Come to me.

He waited. The minutes stretched on and he twitched his ears, listening for the faintest sound in reply. He called again, sending his will out over the ocean, speaking through the currents and the waves, magnified by the salt water. The ocean was the blood of the earth, a potent vessel for magic. He knew that if he waited long enough, his call would circle the entire world, echoing from sandy beaches to stone wells, up rivers and down streams. Yet he couldn't wait that long. The wraith shouldn't be that far away.

He felt a bit of perspiration on his brow. He knew that his minion was still in existence, yet when he reached for that inner bond, that strand that tied them together—he couldn't find it.

Volcrian frowned. Fifteen minutes passed. Twenty. Thirty. Still nothing.

“Are we going to stand here all day?” the priestess groaned at his back. “I can feel my muscles locking.”

Volcrian gritted his teeth in frustration. The wind was cold and brisk next to the ocean, not good for an army of rotting corpses. Yet if he moved much closer to the ruins, the sacred ground would disrupt his call, making it impossible to be heard by the wraith.
Where has it gone?
A sense of doubt entered his thoughts, a strange foreboding. Either the wraith had been destroyed somehow...or it had found a new master.
But how is that possible?

Volcrian shook his head. He didn't know, but he couldn't waste any more time. With the dead sailors at his command, he doubted he would need the wraith anyway. They would easily be able to overpower the assassin and his companions. Perhaps the corpses were slow and unwieldy, but they had monstrous strength, fueled by blood magic—and they couldn't be killed.

“Come,” he finally said, and whirled toward the jungle, heading swiftly for the trees. The corpses plodded along behind him, the priestess in the lead. They likely wouldn't reach the ruins until midday, but as he entered the trees, he felt a rush of certainty return to him. Yes, the Viper was here. He could feel it in his bones. And by nightfall, the assassin would be dead.

* * *

Sora climbed over a fallen log, dappled with dense sunlight. It was a few hours past dawn. She had taken a brief detour in the woods to relieve herself, and was now headed to her appointed place—the far side of the ruins, close to the pedestal that stood on top of the cliff. Once there, she was to stay safe and out of the way, separate from the fight.

Burn and Crash would wait in the circle of stones, luring Volcrian into the open. There was still no sign of the mage, yet the forest felt different today. Subdued and quiet, it seemed that an ominous hush had fallen over the island. She hadn't seen any Harpies in the sky and she doubted that she would.

As she walked, her mind inevitably returned to the night before. She lightly pressed a finger to her lips.
Crash....

Last night, he had kissed her. More than just kissed—devoured. She had felt completely overtaken, swept up in his presence, his hands, his mouth, the heaviness of his breath....How could a simple touch be so powerful? She still felt consumed, anxious, humming with the memory.

She didn't know how long they had spent under that tree. Her mind had become lost in the darkness, in the sensation of his body, in the way his calloused hands had moved over her skin, in the heat of him, his scent....She could barely remember being lifted from her feet, clasped in his arms and carried back to their camp.

As promised, he had made her forget her fear, her worries, her trepidation. And yet they had only kissed. Perhaps it was for the better. He had refrained from taking her innocence, and in the light of day, she felt a sense of relief. She hadn't truly been ready to part with it, and she didn't know how it would have changed things.

Sora climbed over a fallen long, still lost in thought. When she woke up that morning, the assassin was absent from their camp. Burn assured her that he had gone to scout for Volcrian, to see if the mage had arrived. As far as she knew, he still hadn't returned.

And as the morning crept by, the thought of confronting Crash became more and more terrifying. It was almost as frightening as their fight with Volcrian.
This will have never happened,
his voice repeated to her, over and over again. Perhaps he meant it. If she tried to address what he had done—what
they
had done—would he deny it? Brush it off like some sordid dream? Declare it was a mistake?
Was it a mistake?
Her stomach fluttered at the thought, squeezing uncomfortably.

Wrapped up in such troubling doubt, Sora didn't notice the brightening light that fell through the trees, strengthening in vibrancy and power. Suddenly, a figure landed directly in front of her. She yelped and fell back, raising her staff, prepared for an attack. She lashed out without thinking.
Thwak!

A reassuring smack met her ears, but when she finally saw her opponent, all she could do was stare.

“C-Caprion?” she stuttered in surprise.

The Harpy General had a slight grin on his lips. It faded as he looked at her, and a frown touched his face, thoughtful. His hair looked tousled and messy and his clothes were streaked with dirt, much different from the last time she had seen him. His eyes had faint circles underneath, evidence of a sleepless night. His gaze shifted, focusing on the air around her body, as though he could see something that she couldn't. Then his frown deepened. Sora bit her lips, suddenly nervous.

“You look....” he paused, still gazing at her. “Did the assassin....” Finally, he shook his head. “I suppose it doesn't matter.”

She yanked back her weapon, realizing that Caprion had grabbed it from midair. He released it willingly.

“What?” she demanded, on-guard.

Caprion shook his head again. “His aura has mingled with your own, that's all.”

Sora frowned, unsure of what he meant. Her mind briefly returned to last night, the shadows that had risen around her body, cradling her, tightening their grasp....Either way, it was none of Caprion's concern.

“What are you doing here?” she asked bluntly.

“I came to tell you that Volcrian has landed on the island,” he said.

Sora's heart skipped a beat. “Oh.”

“He's not alone,” he added. “He is accompanied by twenty men and a woman. He is controlling them with his blood magic.”

She nodded, alarmed. So many?

“Also,” he said, “you should know that the Matriarch and her soldiers are laying low for the moment, watching to see what he does. I led them away from you. I think she suspects my involvement, but she hasn't said anything directly.”

Sora let out a sigh of relief. At least they didn't have to worry about the Harpies for now. “Thank you,” she murmured. “And what about the Dracians? Are they nearby?”

Caprion nodded. “They should arrive by nightfall. Perhaps tomorrow morning if the winds change.”

She shifted on her feet; their arrival was sooner than expected, but still worrisome. If she succeeded in killing Volcrian, she would have the Harpies to contend with. Caprion might be able to distract them for a while, but they would catch on to his game soon. There were very few places to hide on an island.

He seemed to know how she felt. Perhaps it was obvious on her face. “Don't worry,” he said. She could hear the ring of command in his tone. Too bad she was immune to it; she could have used the extra confidence. “The dawn star was clearly visible this morning. It is a sign of luck. I think you will succeed.”

Sora raised an eyebrow. A sign of luck? “That's encouraging,” she said. It came out more sardonic than she intended, but Caprion didn't seem to take offense. He nodded over her shoulder, toward the ruins.

“I will return for you tonight,” he said. “I, too, wish to leave this island as soon as possible. Together we will find a way.”

Sora gave him a slight smile. He was trying to reassure her. She appreciated the attempt, though it didn't work. “It's good to know that we have help,” she affirmed. “You've done more than enough....”

“Not enough,” he interrupted her. “Not until Volcrian is dead and we are safely away from the Matriarch. I won't be able to join you in the fight—it would be too suspicious—but know that I am counting on your survival. We
will
leave this island together.” He smiled in return. “Until nightfall.” Then he bowed his head slightly in farewell.

She watched him turn back to the trees. A halo of light glowed around him, illuminating the forest in a bright glow, outshining the sun—then he leapt into the air. Sora squinted, her hand shielding her eyes. Then he was gone.

She sighed, turning back toward the ruins and continuing on her way. Crash still didn't know about her alliance with Caprion; he distrusted the First Race and would suspect the worst. But Caprion was the only reason why they all weren't in prison right now, awaiting Volcrian's arrival behind bars.

She clutched her staff in sweaty hands and continued walking.

A minute later, she exited the forest and stepped onto the dewy grass of the ruins. The black stones were just as she had left them—tall and ominous in the daylight. A hollow wind swept through the clearing, carrying the distant crash of the ocean's waves.

Her eyes found the treeline across from her, where Burn supposedly stood watch. She had to tell him about Caprion's warning: Volcrian was on the island and he had a band of warriors at his back.

She took two steps, then winced. Something sharp stung her hand. She looked, puzzled, and saw a small bead of blood slide down her index finger toward the ground. She lifted her finger in front of her eyes. A bee sting?

Quite suddenly, she couldn't move.

At first Sora didn't know what was happening. She twisted around, but her feet were firmly planted in the dirt, as solid as stone. She caught herself on her staff, struggling to stay balanced.

"I'd suggest you stop moving before you fall over," a soft, silky voice drifted to her.

All of the hair on Sora's body stood on end. The voice's breathy quality caused a shiver to run down her spine. She had never heard it before, but she knew who it was. Who it had to be.

She turned, looking over her shoulder, slightly to her left. About ten feet away stood a man, one she dimly recognized from a vision long ago. In person, however, he wasn't quite as tall as she'd thought. His shoulders were broad, though not as muscular as Crash. He was covered by a midnight-blue cloak. He wore a midnight-blue cloak. His steel-silver hair and blue eyes reminded her of an arctic sky, sharp and bright. His lips were pale, twisted into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. It left her feeling chilled.