Shadows Before the Sun (24 page)

His mouth twitched, then widened in a deadly smile.

Time slowed. Realization appeared in her look and she threw out her hands, her mouth opening, a syllable coming out. Oh, she knew. She knew the choice he’d made.

But he was already speaking, already drawing that shimmering gold knowledge into his core, gathering the word he knew but didn’t know, building and building and building.

Destruction rang out of him with utter clarity; he didn’t care if it killed him because he was taking her with him. Either way he won. He saw her death before his word even reached her.

As her power flowed out to him, it was obliterated by his as it rode on an unseen wave toward her. Her eyes went wide. And then it reached her and blew her body apart.

One second there, the next . . . not.

An unsatisfying revenge.

Directly behind where the Circe’s body had been, the wave connected with the statue.

A crack boomed, shaking the chamber.

Oh shit.

He reached down and grabbed Charlie, tossing her screaming
self over his shoulder. He heard another crack, this one from Charlie, and knew that something else had broken inside of her. He’d wounded her more, but then wounded was better than dead, and that’s what they’d be if they didn’t get the hell out of there.

He ran, but her voice stopped him. “Sandra,” she slurred. “You have to get her. Please. I promised . . .”

“Fuck.” He swung back around and raced for the oracle who was chanting wildly to the eerie sound of the statue cracking, like an arctic ice sheet about to give way.

He fisted the black hair, dragged the head off the pedestal, turned, and ran.

Over the dead sirens at the door, down the passageway . . . And then it shattered, the sound dropping him to his knees as he tried to balance the woman on his shoulder and not drop the head in his hand. He used his forearms to cover his ears, as something bigger and far more powerful erupted outward, blowing apart the chamber behind them like an atomic bomb.

He surged to his feet.

Out into the chamber that was open to the sea. The walls behind him blew. They were picked up by the force and sent hurtling toward the cave opening. The walls disintegrated. His body was pinged by debris, large portions of the wall, tiny pebbles like a million arrows slicing into his flesh.

And then they were out, blinded by light and then submerged in deep water.

He kicked his way to the surface and dragged them to one of the many rocks that jutted up into the bay of Fiallan. He pushed Charlie as high as he could, laid the head of the oracle
beside her, and hung on, his body pulled back and forth by the churning water.

His strength waned.

The cliff that made up the south side of the bay collapsed, rocks dropping into the sea, the great obelisk tower on top of it crumbling, too. And like dominoes the next two towers in the wall went down. The last one, which rose out of the cliffs on the other side of the bay, remained standing.

A massive wave barreled toward them. “Fucking hell.” He drew in the last of his strength and hauled his ass onto the rock and then dragged them higher, to the very top while the wave crashed at their feet, spraying over them with force and moving on out to sea.

He lay, belly down over the jagged rock, breathing harder than he ever had before. Soaking wet, his body limp, and his exhausted mind in disbelief. The grid was down. The Circe were gone.

After a time, there came a strange, echoing “Thank you.” It flowed through his exhausted mind with a warmth that he could only describe as a smile.

“The sea will heal you”—this time the echo was clear, the voice grief-strickenly beautiful—“and restore that which was needed in you to end the Circe’s reign. You have done well, siren.”

As she spoke, he saw images of the past and knew that in the sirens’ time of need, during the war with the Adonai, that the deity had shown herself to the Circe and given them the means to protect the city while its strongest warriors were away fighting. The deity had offered her own power, a temporary gift. But the Circe had bound her, turning her own
power and that of the Malakim against her, binding her there where they used the power, drank from it, used it to rule, and to live far longer than they should have.

All this time, she had been trapped.

Until she was able to pass along the gift of the Source Words to him. And now they were his. He opened his palm to find the mark still there, like some round brand made from pearly white ink with the golden shimmering inscriptions written there. His words. His family’s legacy finally achieved. He’d been made for this. Trusted.

“And the Malakim?” he asked, staring over the settling water to the crumbling towers.

“Three will survive. One has chosen to pass on to the Afterlife. The truth will be shown to the people.”

He stared at the city that had betrayed him, the city that had stood by when his family had been killed. He felt no love for it, no love or understanding for its people. He was not one of them nor did he want to be. His path was set. His choice made.

“They would follow you,” the voice said to him. “You could be king . . .”

The thought made him shudder.

He sure as shit wasn’t going to devote his lifetime serving those who never once questioned the Circe, never once took a fucking stand. Besides, he already had a life, one he fully intended to embrace now that he was no longer a fugitive and the Circe were dead. “I’d rather be Hank.”

“You would go back to Earth, to your old life?”

He thought for a long moment, not about his choice, but about the damage done to his psyche, his soul. He would never
be the same, he knew that. He knew the road he faced, the way the pain would creep over everything he was and wanted to be. How the hollowness left from his soul continually leaving and returning would grow. He was fractured. Even though his soul was back and he was free from the NecroNaMoria, he no longer felt . . . whole.

“Stay with me and heal, Niérian. Give yourself time.”

He let his forehead fall on his arm, tired, so fucking tired . . . “I would go home.”

A soft sigh seemed to blow over him. “And so you shall, but healed from your wounds at least.” She hesitated before adding softly, and with so much love that it burned his chest, “Your strength will see you through, Niérian. Your soul will heal in time. Until then . . . enjoy . . .”

He lifted his head, immediately knowing her intent. “No, I don’t want—”

And with that the sea rose up and swallowed them.

I woke to warmth and the smell of citrus, herbs, and salt water, realizing with a jolt that the excruciating pain I’d passed out to in the Circe’s inner sanctum was gone. I was sore and stiff, but that was all. I’d healed.

Bright stones glittered into focus—hundreds of them inset to form a wave pattern in the white ceiling above me. They looked like jewels set in a ceiling of pearl.

Carefully, I moved onto my elbows and scanned the room to determine location and threat factor. I’d seen Ephyra blown into a billion bits, but that didn’t mean shit. I’d seen stranger things re-form or come back from the dead . . .

Despite the grogginess, I sat up and swung my legs over the lounge. After the vertigo passed, I pushed
to my feet, expecting to feel some measure of hurt. But the only thing I felt was cool silk falling down my legs.

What the hell?

I wore a slinky gown of the deepest blue. Where the light hit the material, it shimmered in a rainbow of colors. It was gathered at one shoulder and trimmed with light blue stones that felt cool to the touch. My feet were still bare, but clean, and thin bands of sparkling stones encased my ankles.

I ran my hand over my ribs, distinctly remembering a few being broken—at least one had punctured my lung—but only a bruised sensation remained. I touched the back of my head where I’d cracked my skull. Again, only a bruise. My hair was dry and clean, left down to fall in soft waves to my shoulders, and I saw as it fell forward that it was back to being my natural color. Both of my biceps were wrapped in jewel-encrusted bands of gold.

“I’ve fucking died and gone to Harry Winston’s.”

I sat back down in utter confusion, rubbing my face and feeling dried tears staining a trail from the corners of my eyes to my jaw, like I had been crying in my sleep. My heart hurt as everything came flooding back. Sandra.

And Hank . . .

My mark was warm.

My mark was warm! I shot to my feet.
Hank
. The room spun. Okay, maybe not the best idea to stand so quickly. I stayed still, waiting for things to settle down.

The temple, the clothes . . . it was enough to believe I was dreaming or having some sort of out-of-body experience. Or that I did, in fact, die. I felt real, though. Solid. Grounded. And the fact that my mark was warm meant wherever
this
was, Hank had come along for the ride, too.

I swore softly, wondering if it was over, if we were out of the constant barrage of threats and torture.

Warm, humid air breezed across my skin, drawing my attention to the right where columns framed a view of a blue horizon shot with streams of pink and orange. To the left was a gallery of six white columns. Thick spiral bands of inset jewels wrapped around each one from top to bottom. If only I had a pocketknife . . .

I went toward the gallery of columns, keeping my eyes trained for movement, for an attack, going slowly because no matter how beautiful a place it didn’t mean there wasn’t evil underneath.

I stepped through the last set of columns and went down three wide steps into a courtyard of soft, spongy grass, dotted by delicate trees that reminded me of weeping willows, but their thin limbs were tipped with fragrant white blossoms. I stopped suddenly in the grass, wondering what I was doing, and why I moved from the temple. Maybe I should go back, let whatever or whoever had brought me here come to me.

But then that wasn’t exactly my style.

A few feet ahead of me was another temple identical
to the one I woke in except steam rose from the center. The sound of water lapped the sides, and a strong arm sliced up through the steam and disappeared.

I wiggled my toes in the grass and bit the inside of my cheek, suddenly unsure and self-conscious in the goddess attire. It was all hazy. I didn’t remember getting here or where
here
was. And I definitely didn’t like being kept in the dark.

I gathered the sides of the gown, went up the steps and into the temple.

Five seconds later, I stopped near the long side of the pool. All the determination to demand answers evaporated as I watched Hank, Niérian, Siren of Creation and Destruction, dip beneath the water. He came up for air at the far end. Water swirled around his hips and ran down his back as he stood. His back and one hip were terribly scarred, but the lines were faint and flat as though years of healing had occurred.

How long had we been asleep?

His arms lifted, biceps and back muscles flexing as he shoved his hair back from his face. Then, he stilled.

Arms still up, he turned and my stomach did a full three-sixty.

God, he was beautiful.

And there was so much more to him than just the beauty. It was everything I’d learned, everything on the inside, everything he had endured that added to the picture standing there all hard and lean, a fallen angel with a tormented soul and a devil’s attitude.

His gaze was solemn and unreadable as it swept me from head to toe and back up again. He was so still and quiet in his regard, giving off a calm vibe that conflicted with the power and intensity radiating from him. I swallowed. His arms dropped. His hands floated idly on the water.

Fires burned in the two basins in the far corners, and bejeweled columns rose from each corner of the pool. I resisted the urge to do something with my hands, like wring them on the gown.

God, please don’t let this be a dream.

God, please let this be a dream.

This didn’t happen to me. I prided myself on control, on knowing what I wanted and going after it. Unless, apparently, that thing was Hank.

Heart pounding, I walked down the long side of the pool, in and out of shadow, the siren tracking me with his eyes and body. He was leaner from his time in Fiallan, but no less intimidating. And wet like that, with his hair swept back from his face, full mouth darkened red from the heat in the room, and spiky wet lashes . . .

One corner of his mouth quirked, slicing a faint dimple into the side of his cheek. I’d been waiting for that, I realized, the sardonic grin. Something that told me this was Hank, and not Niérian.