Sleepless (Curse of the Blood Fox Trilogy, Book #1) (16 page)

“We cannot,”
a soft voice said, shaking. It was the last young puppet who had picked her up,
and I wondered if he was truly scared, or just struggling to speak. Valentina's
hold was fierce and absolute... I had felt it before.

“Stop,” the
old man shouted again, and something in the air snapped and cracked. There was
one more “whump” as a body hit the ground, and Valentina went silent. My pulse
quickened at the thought that they had broken her, somehow, where others had
failed... but then I realized the truth: the bearded man had killed his own
underling.

Four down, if
I had it right. He was the only one left.

I heard a
loud, shaky breath, and then impending footsteps. A foot dug itself firmly into
my side, and I would have groaned if my throat would have allowed me the sound.
It was suddenly terribly hard to breathe; what little air my sluggish lungs
could accomplish was not enough under the circumstances. The bearded man's
richly accented voice trickled down to me.

“You. You
have tricked us.”

I wanted to
remind him who had attacked who. My eyes were burning, partly because I
couldn't close them and also because the death sounds of his comrades were
still fresh in my mind.

“You have
taken Gullac from us. We will not forgive you.” Heat started to form around me,
and I felt the toe of a shoe kick me again. “You will feel the pain of the loss
you have done us, Blood Fox.”

Without
anything to look at, everything else came to me more sharply; the sounds of
crickets, the buzzing of flies and gnats, the ripples of wind and energy.
Somewhere nearby, the air seemed to expand and tighten, and there was a sound
like wind passing over a thin chasm. The shoe removed itself from my side
quickly, followed by a strangled gasp. Someone's voice cut through the still
air towards us, sharp, menacing and low.

“
What have
you done?
” It was a far cry from the playful, arrogant tone I knew.

“Traken,” the
bearded man said simply. He was a bit further away now, as if he worried that
being near my fallen body would clearly implicate him. Oh, how I wanted to
move. The thick scent of blood, sun-dried dirt and stale water sat heavy in my
nose.

“What have
you done to her?” Traken repeated.

“It is not
like you to sound so concerned for another,” the old man said with two clicks
of his tongue. “How very interesting. It is a shame I am not in the mood for
such trivialities. As you can see, we have both suffered casualties.”

No, no,
no.
He was playing me
off as dead. Sweat slid down my brow and almost into my eye. Dead bodies did
not get treated well... I could end up really dead. I tried to take in a sharp
breath in an attempt to attract attention, but could make no noise with it. 

“You should
not have touched her,” Traken said, and there was a deadly stillness behind his
words. A terrible energy rippled off him towards me through the air, and the
taste of it was so strong I could almost see him.

“You have no
right to tell us what we can and cannot do,” the old man said bitterly. “You
who have spent the last twenty years harassing our Opal Seer, degrading the
sacred symbols of the gods and tampering with the most ancient scrolls of our
lineage.”

“That old
crone deserves some harassment,” Traken scoffed. “You're all batty. You aren't
messengers of the gods and you aren't the 'chosen', as you like to tell the
young brats you lure in. How many souls have you crushed in the name of those
badly-written fairy tales?”

“You
blaspheme, sir, and you do it for the last time. You have fallen into our trap
once again, but this time you will not escape.”

“Some trap,”
Traken mocked, and I thought I heard him clapping. “It seems you got more than
you bargained for. Five fully-trained sorcerers empowered by a fluke moon and
you still lost all of them trying to take her down. Let me guess: you got
greedy.” His voice grew quieter. “Greed seems to be more the killer around her
than she is.”

“There is no
greed in receiving a gift, and the gods gift us this week. The Blood Fox did
not need to die... we were to have her help us kill you when you returned, but
she refused. Quite an ally.”

“Quite an
idiot,” Traken growled, and my eye twitched. The older man laughed.

“No games,
sorcerer. You are very protective of her, and we think we know why. We noticed
the scent. How did you come by such a prize?”

“You speak of
her as if you have the right,” Traken spat, and his low voice swelled. “She is
an ancient creature with more knowledge and strength than you will ever be
privilege to. Respect is in order.”

“Ancient like
you?” I heard the old man chuckle. “Is that why you are so defensive? We may
not know your years, but we see nothing special in them. You are filled with
bitter thoughts and joyless days. Every kin prays that the gods will take them
before they become twisted husks like you.”

“Oh, they
will take you,” Traken whispered, and the air brewed his words up like a storm.
“They will take what is left, anyway.”

“Such
passion,” the old man admonished, clicking his tongue again. “It is not seemly
in a sorcerer. Your lord does wrong to keep you on such a long leash. He will
incur our wrath along with you if he is not careful.”

“If you could
touch him, you would have already. You can't even touch me.”

“Oh, we think
we already have. The gods bring everything in their time.”

The air was
growing thicker, hotter. I realized it was not Traken's energy alone now, but
the bearded man's too. The weight of their crackling power pushed down on me
like a physical mass. Traken’s laugh rang out, loud and dry, over the noise.

“Here is what
they bring you today then: you will die with a thousand nightmares tearing
apart your insides. You will scream for gods that do not hear you, and your
last breaths will be curses on their names.”

The weight in
the air tightened, and in my dark little space it felt like the world must be
breaking apart. There was shouting, words that didn't make sense, and the air
shook and broke overhead like a hungry ocean trying to pull me under. I was
almost afraid to breathe it in, the thick heat that it cast across my skin. The
words grew louder, more insistent, and I realized that they weren't coming from
either Traken or the old man... they were dark, twisted things that seemed more
like demons from the hells themselves wiggling in my ears. The anguish they
brought with them tried to take me under with each swell, begging me to feel
the pain too. 

I wanted to
scream but couldn't. Someone else was screaming, though, and it was a terrible
sound. I lay, panicked and alone, with those voices whispering dark ideas into
my head. The little things, like sharp nails attached to bony, dead fingers,
clawed through my mind and painted pictures of darkness that hid in the most
depraved, corrupted souls. I couldn't put words to the images, but they burned
just like the air. I felt colors bubble in my eyes, yellow and black, warring
for control.

I can
still take it,
I told
myself, and kept telling myself. Each new wave of terror and misery overwhelmed
me, but didn't touch the safest, hardest part at my core. It was the part that
housed my own grief and terror, but also my lucidity. It did not sway.
Not
yet, I'm okay. I'm okay.

I was still
okay by the time the screaming finally died in the air, and the little voices
disappeared along with it. There was a long silence, and then hands grabbed my
shoulders and flipped me over, finally granting me the privilege of light and
colors. Traken was kneeling above me, his face gray and weary, hair dark and
matted with the sweat that shone along his forehead and down his chin. He
stared at me with an unreadable expression, and for a panicked moment I thought
that he might leave me for dead. Then he jerked and leaned closer.

“Your eyes...
they’re changing,” he said, and bent his cheek down so that it almost touched
my lips. I couldn't breathe much better than I could move, but the gentle puffs
of air were enough. He moved away sharply, eyes alight, and actually shoved me
in the side. I would have clocked him right back in the face.

“You brat,”
he said, and his voice was suddenly higher, lighter. “You're alive. Probably
got stunned with one of those wonderful numbing spells, didn't you? You really
know nothing about magic.” He leaned down closer to my ear. “Here's your first
lesson, kitten... most spells that make someone's body react a certain way are
called compulsion spells. They are quick and require very little power, because
the true energy only lingers for a while. After that, the only thing that keeps
the spell going is the idea it implanted in your mind that it is still there.
Convince yourself that it is gone, and it will break.”

There is
no spell,
I thought
to myself, and tried to move. Apparently, it required a bit more effort than
that. I tried again, creating a mantra out of the words like the monks had
taught me. I focused on burying the idea into my consciousness.

I can
move, I can move, I can move.

Suddenly I
breathed in sharply, chest expanding to welcome in the much-needed air. I had
not realized the extent that my breathing had been hampered until now, and each
heavy breath brought with it a sting of pain. I rolled away and up, clutching
both my chest and my forehead.

“Oh gods, my
head burns,” I breathed, throwing off my bent hat to let any cool breeze touch
my skin.

“I'm not
surprised,” Traken said, still kneeling. His rings glittered as he smoothed his
hands across his face, letting out a long, shaky breath. “I half-expected you
to be speaking gibberish. That spell was an insanity spell, like your curse but
more direct. Your mind is either extremely resilient or you are the luckiest
idiot I know. You… should be dead.”

I looked up
and around. The bodies of the five sorcerers lay nearby, but the last was
barely recognizable. It was a twisted apparition of a human being, limbs and
back twisted in ways no one could honestly move, and the skin was clawed and
bloody. The only way I could recognize the head sorcerer was through the last
few tufts of beard that clung to his gaping mouth. Something heavy caught in my
throat at the sight.

“Madness,” I
said, voice low and croaky. “You sent him into madness.”

“As he
deserved,” he said. “With you dead, my master would have had me follow. It
seemed a fitting punishment.”

I looked away
from the bodies and back at Traken, brow furrowing. “You're laughing.”

“I am,” he
admitted, a toothy grin on his face. “You played opossum on the sidelines the
entire time and somehow survived one of the deadliest spells known to sorcery.
You should be laughing too.”

I felt a
smile crack open under the force of his mirth despite myself. “You are a vile
human being. No one should be able to laugh like that right after such a bloody
ordeal.”

“They are
nothing to mourn,” Traken scoffed. “The inner circle of the Le Fam is a group
of nut jobs who believe themselves to be hand-picked by the gods to carry out
their work. All of this is dictated to them by an old cow they call the Opal
Seer; quite a piece of work, that woman. She is centuries old, and dictates the
lives of every single one of her followers. As for those young ones? They were
dead already. The Le Fam trick many budding magic-users into joining their
sect, only to permanently strip them of their freewill and use them as pawns.”

“That doesn't
sit well,” I said, looking down at the young sorcerer nearest to me. The face
was still obscured by the large hood, and I was glad for it. I did not want to
see those wide, lifeless eyes. “They were slaves.”    

“Yes, though
no one would ever admit it as such, especially in that mess of an organization.
I have been infuriating their highest-ranking members for years... though I
suppose you heard all that.”

“It seems
rather ridiculous that they're after you for a few pranks,” I said, finding
that the burning was finally fading and it was becoming easier to move my hands
and feet. “I rather thought that you would applaud them, though. They created
emotionless little toys... doesn't that make you happy?”

“Emotions are
a bother,” Traken admitted, “but complete lack of self is reprehensible. I
didn't attack the Le Fam because of some sort of moral responsibility, though,
so don't think it for a second.”

“Oh, I'm
thinking it,” I assured him, smiling. “I think that you are a lot more capable
of feeling than you admit. Did you see yourself in them, perhaps?”

“That is
stretching,” he said, eyes narrowing. He pulled himself up off the ground as if
each movement took a feat of effort, face still ashen despite the lively
sparkle in his eyes. “I was bored, and yes, it is that simple. What's more
exciting than stirring a beehive full of powerful magic-users?”

“Doing it
because you couldn't stand them,” I said, pulling myself to my feet in much the
same way he had. My limbs felt numb, and I wobbled a bit as I stood. “Doing it
because you knew, somewhere inside, that it was worth saving someone.”