Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) (49 page)

In fact, none of the people in the meeting seemed very eager to go. Her mother looked troubled, and she had gazed intently at the wall, her thoughts circling tangibly. Ferran sat next to Lori, rolling a cinnamon stick in his mouth, similarly preoccupied. His eyes had drifted to Crash numerous times, especially while discussing the Shade. It seemed as if very few people trusted the assassin. No one spoke to him directly, and he hadn't interjected his opinion—he simply met their eyes, look for look.

She sighed, fingering her Cat's Eye, feeling the salty sea-mist on her face. A new day—a new destination. All she wanted to do was crawl under a rock.

Jacques' crow cawed overhead, swooping past her. Startled, she glanced over her shoulder, then paused again. Someone was standing behind her on the deck. She immediately recognized Crash's silhouette against the flickering lanterns of the ship. Her stomach tightened at the sight, and she clutched the railing nervously. How long had he been standing there? Had he followed her from the meeting?
What does he want?

She nodded to him, unsure of what to say.

The assassin walked to her side wordlessly and leaned against the railing, gazing at the sea. The wind tousled his black hair, blowing it across his forehead in unkempt waves.

Sora swallowed. Her fingers itched to touch his hair, but she restrained herself. When he stood this close, she felt completely off-balance. Her mind summoned the memory of their night beneath the tree—her first kiss. They had yet to speak about it in depth. Now that they were barreling across the ocean toward the City of Crowns, she wondered if it even mattered. She should be worried about the Dark God and the journey ahead.

And yet....

“Your mother told you to rest,” Crash murmured. He glanced sideways at her. “Your body is still recovering from the broken bond.”

She shook her head, a wry smile on her face. “I'm an adult too, you know,” she muttered. “I'm fine.”

“You're tired,” he replied, studying her face.

“I'll survive,” she grumbled.

They stood in silence for another moment, looking out at the waves. He leaned toward her until their shoulders were touching, sheltering her from the wind. She looked up at him, searching his face. She felt nervous, like she was slowly melting into the deck of the ship.
What has he done to me?
she thought.
This is Crash. An assassin. He's untouchable.

And yet, he was also her friend.

The thought made her bolder. After a slight hesitation, she leaned into him as well. She slid her fingers over the back of his hand and entwined them, dangling their hands over the railing. He glanced down at her small palm over his large one.

“Sora...” he began softly.

“What?” she said, resisting the urge to pull back. She felt somehow guilty. Had she done something wrong?

His eyes flickered over the waves. “We can't.”

Her heart shuddered at those words. Here it was—the rejection she had been anticipating. She had braced herself for it, but she still felt as though she couldn't breathe. “What do you mean?”

A strange smile twisted his mouth: wry, self-deprecating. “You know what I mean. Your mother, Ferran and the others...they won't accept it.” He still didn't look at her.

“Won't accept what?” she asked bluntly, and gave him a pointed look. “That our hands are touching?”

Crash snorted. “Don't act so naïve. It doesn't suit you.”

“Naïve?” she replied, almost offended. “You give me half-answers. Why can't you just speak your mind?”
I thought we were supposed to be past this.
Hadn't he agreed to be more open with her?

“I am of the Sixth Race,” Crash said harshly. “They understand that more than you do. They won't accept it. We can't be close like this.”

Sora looked at him in surprise.
Of all reasons....
“Just because of their opinions?” she asked, stunned. “Since when do you care about that?”

“Since I started caring about you.”

Her lips parted.

He seemed to realize his words after saying them, and shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “I'm not good at this, Sora. In our world...we don't engage with others...we don't....” He paused.

“You don't fall in love?” she supplied, though love was such a strong word, and what they had was like a thimble in comparison, a small seed struggling to grow in the dirt.

“We're not supposed to,” Crash relented. “And anyway...I don't know how.”

Sora looked at him for another long moment, then back out to sea, licking her dry lips. She thought about his words, puzzling over them, trying to find something tactful to say. “I don't think anyone really knows how to love,” she finally offered.

“Let's stop calling it that,” he said quietly.

“All right...but you know what I mean.”

He shook his head slowly. “You don't understand. I can't be that person for you.”

“You shouldn't care what others think....”

“I would hurt you, Sora.” He finally met her eyes, hard and solemn. “Whatever this is...it can't happen.”

She didn't know what to say to that. How could he be so logical? So certain? All of his excuses seemed small in the face of what they had been through. Didn't he trust her by now?

She squeezed his hand, letting him know that she understood, though it was a lie. Truly, she didn't understand anything. Her throat closed.
This is much harder than I expected.

Then her eyes landed on his lips. Memories surged. Perhaps she went mad for a moment—lost her wits. Suddenly she couldn't stop staring at his mouth. So close.
Why not?
He had already rejected her—what did she have to lose?
One last time.

She went up on her toes and pressed her lips against the top of his scar, at the ridge of his jaw. Her heart pounded. She felt dizzy with courage.

Crash went still. His entire body turned rigid under her touch. Then he abruptly released her hand.

He grabbed her face and turned her head, crushing his mouth down on hers. She gasped against him, surprised. Butterflies flooded her stomach.

His kiss was full of pent-up yearning, unspoken need. He stroked her lips, easily tilting her head back. His tongue entered her open mouth, soft and teasing. She responded clumsily, attempting to follow his lead. He squeezed her jaw in response. Her knees weakened. Her cheeks flushed. She leaned into him more, pressing against his shoulder, gripping his arms, unwilling to let go.

He watched her the entire time, his eyes on her face, gauging her reaction. She shuddered from the intensity of it. They were so close; he held her in the palm of his hand. He could tighten his fist, and she would break in his hold.
Please tighten,
she thought, pressing close.
Please don't let go.

Then, abruptly, he stopped.

Sora gasped, bereft. Her lips felt stung. He released her gently and stepped back, still watching her impassively, his eyes filled with a strange darkness, a brutal hunger that she didn't understand.

“I can't,” he repeated hoarsely, his throat full of rocks. Then he turned and walked away.

She watched him go. A small part of her trailed after him, having abandoned her body. She held out her hand to call him back, but the words wouldn't come. How did one argue with an assassin? How could she fix this, when she didn't even know what she wanted?

She dropped her hand, leaning back on the railing, trying to regain herself. He had a point. She knew he was dangerous. There was a certain darkness in him that scared her—she had seen it plenty of times. He had kidnapped her, held her hostage, forced her through a treacherous swamp, dragged her into this entire situation. If she had a lick of sense, she would take his advice and forget about everything.

And yet...he had protected her, saved her life, proven to be far more gentle than he believed possible.

She turned back to the ocean, twisting her fingers together. In the light of a new day, there was a silent expectation, as though the sun's illumination would make all things known. And yet she was just as troubled as the night before. Nothing made sense.

Her gaze traveled to the distance. Somewhere far away, the City of Crowns awaited, and the mysterious, ominous Shade. How were they supposed to track down such an organization? And where was the third weapon of the Dark God? The assassins had
The Book of the Named
—perhaps they already had the third weapon, as well. This next leg of her journey felt even more intimidating than the last. She simply did not know what to expect.

Sora sighed. The sun pierced the horizon, mounting the distant waves, spilling across the ocean. She needed to rest and recover—not waste her energy worrying about Crash. There would be time for that later.

She turned her back to the sun and headed toward her cabin, burdened with doubt. The gray water slowly lightened with the sky.

...so what's next?
Caprion's Wings

A novelette.

Release Date: January 31st, 2014

By the age of nineteen, all Harpies know how to fly—except Caprion. He has yet pass the test of the Singing and gain his wings. His family has disowned him in shame and people are beginning to talk. Now an evil voice haunts his dreams, taunting him, drawing out his worst fears—that he will remain wingless forever.

Caprion decides to find the root of this insidious voice, no matter what it takes. He journeys to the secret prisons of the Harpy underground, where he meets a young slave named Moss. In those sunless, decrepit cells, a forbidden friendship is formed. Can Caprion and Moss find the source of the voice? And can Caprion save Moss from a terrible fate?

Join young Caprion as he journeys down, down into the earth, finding his wings and forging a friendship that will change him forever.

CHAPTER 1

In the dream, he always stood in the same place—Fury Rock at the far end of the Isles, gazing out into the distance, counting the brilliant stars. They seemed impossibly close, bright white orbs as tangible as lanterns, hanging inches above his head, moments away from his hands. One by one, the stars would detach themselves from the net of sky and dance around him softly, silently. Then they would slide apart, opening like a great curtain.

And there—billowing across an ocean of darkness like giant sails—would be his wings.

He would reach for the gentle slope of white feathers, their great lengths like bars of light. He could never quite grasp them. They hovered just out of reach, beckoning him to step from the rock and take what was his. Yet he couldn't. He remained paralyzed, immobile, wary of the darkness beneath his feet. Fury Rock stood at the very edge of the Isles, the top of a cliff that dropped hundreds of feet into the ocean. He couldn't fly yet. How could he leap—how could he claim his wings—if he couldn't fly?

But on this night, the dream unraveled differently. The wings sailed closer than ever before, pure light solidified into bone and flesh. He reached for them, hands grasping a half-inch away.

The ground suddenly rocked beneath him, pushing him forward. He gasped, wavering, struggling for balance. But the earth kept quaking, shuddering and lurching, and it seemed a great shadow rose from the ground, seeping through the rock, gathering at his back. He stumbled, tripping into black space. His arms swung, thrown out before him, but there was nothing to stop his fall.

He plummeted off the rock into darkness, away from the stars and his wings, icy wind rushing past him, freezing his skin. And a voice rose from the abyss: lethal, insipid, oily-slick.
Your people are dying....

* * *

Caprion awakened in a cold sweat, his pale white hair damp against his face. He sat up in his bunk and turned his fierce violet eyes toward the window, taking comfort in the light of the sun, the One Star, the God of Light that shone upon the world, giving life to all things. He closed his eyes momentarily, breathing out a prayer, dispelling the darkness that still lingered in his mind.
We do not dwell on these things,
he heard the Madrigal's voice say.
We do not acknowledge them with our thoughts, nor our words
. The voice, after all, was the source of magic. It must remain pure.

“Caprion!” he heard from the window. Something struck the thin wall of his hut—a rock, perhaps. “Caprion, wake up!”

“I'm awake,” he muttered, passing a hand over his face. He felt drained, exhausted despite a full night's rest.

“You're going to be late! It's past the greeting hour! They've called your name twice now!”

A jolt of panic shot through him.
Flight!
He slept late! He leapt to his feet and pulled a white silken robe around his lean, tall form. It hung just below his knees, slightly too small for him. The novice robes were made of smooth material, soft against his skin, weightless. Gold thread embroidered the neckline and wide cuffs. Caprion slipped on his leather sandals, fastening them around his ankles, then he ran from the circular limestone hut.