Drake of Tanith (Chosen Soul) (13 page)

But Drake thought to
trust
the mage god as well? Why in the realms would Magus help Drake? Why would he help
her
? She was bewildered.

Drake watched her carefully, his practiced gaze taking in every breath she took, every nervous, sideways glance she made, and every twitch of her anxious body.

“He owes me a favor,” Drake said softly. “It’s time to collect.”

Raven ran a shaky hand through her long hair and her fingers tangled there. Distractedly, she pulled, yanking out several strands to let them fall to the sandy ground.

The bounty hunter didn’t say anything as she stood up on wobbly legs, turned from him, paced a few unsteady feet away, and then turned back toward him to pace back.

Raven’s mind was splitting into different focuses, trying to distract itself from the hard facts at hand. For instance, she noticed that, for his part, Drake looked much less hungry than he had an hour ago. His meal had helped. Grolsch seemed to know just what to do to keep his good friend from going off of the deep end.

However, where the hunger had receded, a wary, fierce and determined look had taken its place. The Dark Prince seemed wired for a fight. He seemed taller than before, more ready to move. As she paced, he leaned back against the tall outcropping of rocks behind him once more and crossed his arms over his chest. His black leather creaked and the emblem on his armor winked at her, reminding Raven of just who it was she was dealing with. The most notorious bounty hunter in the realms.

Raven stopped a foot away from him and closed her eyes, recalling the image she’d seen when she’d taken Drake’s blood a month ago. There had been a throne room surrounded by fire, a massive chair hewn from solid ruby that glittered maniacally in the firelight – and a man, handsome and horrible, sitting as king of all of Hell. Asmodeus.

A hard chill rushed through Raven, cold enough to send ice crystallizing even through her unnatural veins. And then a sinking feeling settled deep in the pit of her stomach, heavy and consuming.
Asmodeus
.

There was no escaping the Lord of Nisse. Like father like son.

Unless, perhaps… you were a
god
. There was the slightest possibility that Drake’s plan might work. If Magus truly did owe him a boon – and Magus cared half a whit about keeping his word – then there was a chance they would be safe from the king of Nisse.

“Even if you’re right and this works,” Raven said, “we can’t hide forever, Drake.” She hugged herself when she said it. She couldn’t help it.

“I know,” Drake replied. The two words were spoken with such cold resolve, Raven had to look up at him. The expression on his face was intense. “We’ll cross that stream when we get to it.”

Chapter Twelve

“A word, my son.”

Astriel stopped in his tracks and turned to face his father where he had entered the hall behind him. Oberon’s expression was enigmatic.

“Come with me, Astriel. We need to talk,” the king said, gesturing to the doorway beside him. It led to a study, one of several in Eidolon. Astriel had been waiting for his father to approach him; he’d prepared for this.

With a slight nod, he entered the study ahead of Oberon, and the king shut the door behind them. This wing of Castle Eidolon was a private, inner sanctum. Here, there was no need for guards or diplomacy. No one but the royal family ever stepped foot past the sanctum’s outer barrier.

As always, a warm fire welcomed the study’s occupants. The fire place in this particular study was round and located at the center of the room. It created no smoke, but offered light and warmth to anyone wishing to read the thousands of books that lined the shelves against the walls. These were Fae stories, legends, and “fairy” tales. There were books about science, magic, and things that had not yet been placed in either category. The stories of the gods lined these walls, the heroes, the wars. Yet this room housed a fraction of the reading material available to the Fae.

“What is it you wish to discuss?” Astriel asked as he made his way to the center of the room and then turned to once more face his father.

Oberon smiled. “The Hunt begins tonight.”

Astriel waited a beat. “I am aware.”

Oberon cocked his head to one side and eyed his son with keen interest. “Not a day ago, you seemed dead set against allowing The Hunt to proceed this year.”

Astriel didn’t reply. He just waited for what he knew was coming.

“You know that The Hunt is a doorway to the realm of the gods.”

Astriel’s mouth twitched with a smile. When a mortal being wished to join the ranks of the gods, as Cruor had, some grand act was needed. The nature of said act depended upon which god the mortal wished to become. For Cruor, the Death Mage, the act was mass murder. Now he was out of the way and the title was once more up for grabs, and to re-open that door of possibility, the same grisly path would have to be traversed.

The Hunt was nothing if not murderous.

Oberon’s smile spread. He moved forward, closing the distance between them in two long strides, and placed his hand on Astriel’s shoulder to grip it fondly. “You’ve come around then.”

Astriel looked up, met his father’s piercing blue gaze, and said nothing. If Oberon wished, he could pull the thoughts from Astriel’s mind. It was a power that came with his sovereignty and would one day soon be Astriel’s. But the prince was dearly hoping that his father would let it be.

His hopes were for naught, which didn’t surprise Astriel. Oberon had not become king by being merciful.

He felt his father’s power brush his mind and could do nothing to stop it. Nearly no one could withstand King Oberon’s influence, including his own son.

Oberon took a step back and the air in the study grew thick with magic. “You played a dangerous game entering the seventh circle of Abaddon,” he said reprimandingly. His voice had grown deeper, louder. It carried with it an edge of danger that would terrify anyone else standing in Oberon’s midst. “I was right. You’d anything but given up on Raven Grey.”

Oberon turned to pace away from Astriel, making his way to the massive circular hearth in the center of the room. “So,” he said, his voice trailing off thoughtfully. “Drake of Tanith… and Lord Darken,” another long pause, “are one.”

Astriel closed his eyes, anger and fear etching a raw path across his nerve endings. The fates were against him. A month ago, Astriel had called upon a man infamous in skill and asked him to track down one princess Raven Grey. This man was Drake of Tanith, bounty hunter of such reputation, no combination of mortals could claim the number of captures he had.
No one
was better.

But then Tanith failed to deliver the goods. Astriel looked into it, and what he learned turned the tables on him irrevocably. Drake of Tanith was no mortal. Records had him hunting heads for decades, centuries –
millennia
. What was more, he seemed immune to Fae magic. His speed, dexterity, and skill were superhuman.

Now Astriel knew why. He knew why because he had the worst luck in the world. Now, a month later, prince Astriel had committed the gross error of hiring a second bounty hunter to find Raven. This time, Astriel upped the ante, going for one who was clearly
not
mortal, but a veritable god of assassinations, thievery, and abduction. And who did this man, this king of Phlegathos and lord of Abaddon turn out to be?

Lord Darken, six-foot-five, sable haired, silver eyed. The other half of Drake of Tanith’s split-in-twain soul.

A more paramount mistake, Astriel had never committed. For if Drake of Tanith, the “good” half of his Abaddonian soul, had fallen instantly in love with Raven Winter, then Lord Darken would as well. They were part of the same being. Their heart was as split in two as was their spirit. But where Tanith would exercise morality, caution, and restraint… Darken would do no such thing.

Astriel had lost Raven for good this time.

Unseen and unheard by the inhabitants of the study, Princess Zeta of the Fae stood still in the hall outside the room, her ear pressed to the wall. Slowly she straightened, her beautiful eyes large with surprise. And then she smiled. All of the lords of Abaddon would have been proud of the evil in that smile.

*****

The day had been long, but they’d made it nearly all the way to the Leger City, where the temple to Magus was supposed to be housed. Raven had never seen it in person, obviously, but tales told of its ever-shifting spires, shimmering walls, and glass-less windows that never-the-less kept out heat and cold, rain and wind. It was a building constructed of magic.

The priests of Magus were a highly organized society, consisting of an Overlord of Magic, an Apprentice, and various acolytes. The acolytes almost without exception took vows of silence. Fear of invoking their god’s name, and hence his attention, was ripe amongst their ranks. The Overlord and his apprentice claimed their titles by not only invoking Magus’s name, but his favor. Their power was said to be great, indeed. In fact, it was the Overlord who apparently built the temple.

Raven was actually looking forward to seeing it. Fear rode her like a constant vibration and her stomach and head carried a low-grade ache to them, endless reminders of the horrible situation she’d found herself in. But somehow, her mind cast shadows over her angst, obscuring it with random thoughts. For the brief lapses in fear she experienced, she was incredibly grateful.

Traveling with mortals such as Loki and Grolsch dictated that the party had to travel by foot. No flying. But they made good time; both Loki and Grolsch knew how to move quickly, and though Drake took point, ever watchful, there were no complaints about their speed from him.

By the time the sun began to go down, they had a mere morning’s walk ahead of them and they would come flush with the city. Drake made quick work of clearing a small space surrounded by the protection of rock and trees, and then once again sent everyone out to find firewood. Raven went with them this time, unable to remain alone with the bounty hunter. His influence over her was too strong. And now that she would be separated from him again one way or another… she didn’t want to delve any deeper into the feelings he’d borne inside of her.

She’d managed to find two good, dry pieces of wood, some dried bark and an arm-full of kindling when she caught the faint scent of smoke. At once, familiarity struck a chord of terror in her, she dropped what she was carrying, and spun around. Her hands automatically extended into sharp, iron claws and she ducked down, as if her body knew that to crouch would be safest.

It was lucky that she did. The Rakshin now in front of her howled in anger as two of his four arms swung over her lowered body, missing her entirely.

Everything came into sharp focus for Raven and magic flooded her hands. It was a natural instinct at this point; her magic was a part of her, a constant companion, and it saw the danger and reacted. But Raven felt the torn material of her breeches against her legs and recalled the agony of the burns, and just before she could let loose with any kind of blast or attack, she pulled her power back in.

Inwardly, she swore. What the hell could someone of her size do against something like this beast?
I can change
, she thought frantically.
As Winter, I stand a better chance.

The Rakshin attacked again.

Raven was an Abaddonian. Her body was more agile than a mortal’s, and she managed to once more leap out of the way of its dripping, acidic claws. At the same time, she thought of the form that waited inside of her and called it to the fore. As she jumped to the right and then leapt over a rock to avoid its first two arms, her skin darkened, her wings exploded from her back, and her vision changed.

The Rakshin missed, and Raven then ducked once again as the second two of his four arms attacked a split second later.

She made it out of the way of those as well. However, it was the Rakshin
behind
her, who had flanked her without her knowing it, that she could not avoid. She felt its claws slice along her back and the base of her massive wings like ice picks and fire. The clothes she wore had been made for her by her father’s tailor and magically altered as her form did. The Rakshin’s claws cut clean through the Abaddonian leather of her jacket and tunic, sinking deep. She felt her muscle separate, her spine and ribs scraped to mid-bone, and stars flashed before her eyes. She fell forward onto her hands and knees and tried to take a breath, but pain stole it from her and turned it into a cry of agony.

Her body, as if receding from the pain, shifted back and forth between its weaker state and the stronger form of Winter. Once more, she was Raven. And then Winter. She was flooded with memory, fluctuating between realities. Wings tore through the damaged tissue of her back, and her vision shifted – only to shift back – each time causing new dimensions of pain. She saw the hair that framed her bowed head go from the blackest of blacks to the whitest of whites and then take on the sheen of a crow’s wings once more.

Again, Raven tried to inhale but only managed a tiny, shallow breath. She panted as her body gave up on transforming, remained in Raven’s form, and created a defensive shield around her instead. Almost at once, she felt the strikes of the Rakshins buffet against it as they tried with all of their might to get in.