The Turquoise Tower (Revenant Wyrd Book 6) (33 page)

There was a shift in her awareness, like something else was forcing itself in, shrugging out from some repository in her mind, and unfurling through every bit of her skull. It was like an awakening, and for a moment she saw light surrounding every object she could see.

When the light cleared, Cianna saw things more vividly than she had before. Colors stood out to her eyes in ways she hadn’t even thought possible. In fact, everything seemed to
glow
with color, rather than just
having
color.

The ruby of the bloodied ground danced up to her as the fallen set her down. Cianna could see the color like light, like sound, wavering to meet her feet.

There was pressure in her back, and Cianna rolled her shoulders to relieve it. Great mounds burst forth from her back, and she bit back a gasp.
That hurt,
she thought, surprised. But that was the only pain she felt with the coming of her wings.

Another pulse of light came from the tower, and when she looked up, a figure emerged from it. She knew that it was her father, though she couldn’t tell precisely how, since every inch of his figure was swathed in shadows.

But the figure stopped at the edge of the stairs to the tower, not coming any closer.

“Master, I’ve brought your daughter,” the male fallen said, stepping closer. Arael made a motion, and the fallen angel stepped back, bowing low in supplication.

Bring me the medallion,
Cianna heard in her mind, and her feet obeyed. But she stopped as a force of pure white light slid across her awareness.

Do not do it, Cianna,
she heard the voice of Pharoh speak in her mind. Then she understood. Arael hadn’t
needed
the medallion, he had
wanted
it. He had intended on killing Pharoh all this time, and destroying the medallion would achieve this end.

Cianna backed further away from the figure at the tower.

You think you have the
will
to disobey?
Her father said again.
You are weaker than me.

“But I’m more than you. I’m half of you, and half of Pharoh,” Cianna said.

“Right now there’s nothing of Pharoh left in you,” the fallen angel said. He reached up and plucked a feather from her wings. When he held it up to her face, Cianna stumbled back.

A black feather.

“No,” Cianna said.

“Fallen, like me,” the voice of her father drifted with ease over the great expanse. “Pharoh has no power over your soul, just as she has no power here. You will give that medallion up, even if I have to take it from you with force.”

Cianna stepped back further, but a ripple of power went through her, a dark force, and whatever reason she knew was swept away. She recognized the power of Arael, and her spirit answered. Cianna dropped to her knees, bowing in supplication to her father.

“Bring her to me,” he said.

The fallen stepped forward, but again that pure force swept over Cianna. She thumped her wings to help her stand and skipped backwards away from the angel, drawing her blade.

The fallen laughed at her, but Arael didn’t. Somehow Cianna thought he had planned this, and he was watching to see what would happen. But when the fallen spoke again, the thought left her.

“You think
blades
can hurt me?” he asked.

“Obviously you’ve never met my blades,” Cianna said.

The fallen came for her, and as she skirted out of his way, buffeting him with her wings, she made a shallow jab into his knee.

He stopped, gripped his knee and pulled away fingers tinted with blood. He looked up at her, his resolve shaken. Disbelieving what had happened, that Cianna had injured him, the fallen looked to Arael for instruction. While he was distracted Cianna darted forward, jamming the rapier deep into his head.

And then a force inside of her welled up, and she let it loose. Power thrummed down the blade like a crackle of lightning, vanquishing the fallen where he stood. He turned to dust, his remains drifting to the bloodied ground.

There, at the tip of her blade, floated a pin prick of light, his essence. She reached for it, feeling the power of the legion coursing through her body. The necromancy called to the point of light, and it responded to her call, floating to her hand.

Cianna gripped the essence, feeling the intelligence of the angel she had smote within the light. She could feel his warmth, she could feel his power. And when she placed it on her tongue, she could feel the sustenance his death brought to her body.

She closed her eyes.
Such power
, she thought.

When she opened them again the world was cast in shadowed light through the veil of blackness that covered her eyes.

There was another here, one of the
host
, and Cianna would feast on her light as well.

Behind her there was a gasp, and Cianna turned eyes that were now only globes of blackness on the blonde behind her. White wings lifted into the air behind the angel and she beat at the air, rising off the ground. She turned to retreat, but Cianna wouldn’t let her go.

She flicked the blood off her rapier, and took flight after the blonde.

“Please don’t,” she cried. “I only came here looking for my father!”

The cries for help fueled a hunger deep inside Cianna, and she savagely tore through the air after the angel. Though the angel seemed weak, there was an agility to her flight that gave Cianna the slip several times. But finally she met with her, crashing straight into the angel’s body. Cianna pounded her black wings hard, driving them both to the ground.

“Stop!” the blonde held up her hands, and there was a bright flash, repelling Cianna. The ghost of white power came back over Cianna, shaking the darkness that gripped her mind. She savagely brushed it aside.

The blonde angel looked at her hands incredulously, but as Cianna charged her, she held her hands out and the white light blasted at Cianna again in a tendril of power.

Cianna held up her hand, and darklight responded, connecting to the beam of white light and driving it away. The angel was stronger than Cianna thought; several times she gave ground to her. But there was a shimmer of fear in the girl, and Cianna worked on that.

She unleashed the might of her necromancy into the bolt, and instead of fighting it any longer, Cianna drank in the power, pulling on the white light. The pure power pulsing down the bolt didn’t effect Cianna, because she was consuming the essence of the angel.

Before long the angel faltered, her energy drained to the point of exhaustion. Cianna fluttered her wings and glided the distance to the angel.

When the blonde slid off the tip of Cianna’s rapier it was in a puff of dust, leaving behind only a pin point of light.

Cianna gripped the light, pulling it toward her. This one was warmer than the last, and there was a familiar hum to it. As Cianna placed the light on her tongue, she tasted the essence of Josephine, and a name burst into Cianna’s mind: Russel.

Deep inside the recesses of her mind, Cianna recognized the name.

Grace existed in darkness.

The pain in her broken body allowed her spirit to transcend to a place where pain couldn’t reach, to a place where thought and needs were irrelevant. She stood on a white shale road. To her right came the whispers and sighs of an ebbing and flowing ocean. To her left, off in the darkness, there existed a white glow, indistinct, like ethereal fog over a cemetery.

There was no sign of the moon. The moon was dark. It was her moon. The moon that called to the Crone aspect that she, the Moonchild, existed in.

The white shale road stretched before her into oblivion. Behind her there was nothing but a wall of shadows. Grace let her feet carry her over the shifting road, on into the night that wasn’t night. It was power. It was her power.

In time her feet carried her to a crossroads, and as she neared it, she felt her power grow.

At the center of the crossroads, where normally there would be a town marker giving direction, instead sat an iron-framed mirror. As she approached, her heart quickened. She knew within the mirror existed her truth, the way out of this darkness of the land between life and death.

But the creature that lived within the mirror wasn’t Grace. It certainly looked like Grace, with a startling black robe that made her skin appear paper thin, waxy, and dead. Her eyes were painted in scarlet, her hair combed back, like a silver lake flowing over her shoulders.

The figure studied Grace. Upon the reflection’s shoulder sat a raven. In her hand the other Grace held a scale.

The figure didn’t speak, but when it had pleased itself with its study, she motioned for Grace to follow. The reflection turned away from her and walked further into the nothingness that existed beyond the surface of the mirror.

As if knowing precisely what the figure wanted, Grace stepped into the mirror. The surface broke over her like cool water, refreshing her, enlivening her.

Once again Grace knew pain. Crippling, mind-numbing pain. But only for a moment, before her body shifted, turned liquid. Then, with the feeling of her bones pulling through her skin, Grace was lifting up, drifting and shifting around shapes that bound her.

There was a thrum of death in the air, and it called to her spirit.

Once more Grace knew physicality, her body taking shape. Only after she was fully formed did Grace open her eyes and see the ruination of Lytoria. Her eyes studied the fallen buildings, the smoldering ruin of houses under fallen stones that glowed with an angry fire. Another power called to her then, shifting her awareness from the fallen bodies and onto something worse — the march of the dead. The noise of the dying and the dead came to her ears in a rush of sound that nearly deafened her.

She stood atop the rubble that had become of the High Basilica, looking down as an army of madness swept through the streets.

Burning flesh wafted to her nose, harrowing her spirit.

She called out to the death before her with the power of the dark moon that hammered in time with her heart. The army of the dead stopped their progression and turned to her. The humans continued fighting.

“Lay down your arms,” Grace said. Though she didn’t speak louder than needed, her words were carried through the streets. As she spoke, her words chimed off the buildings. The song of Chaos in the stones of Lytoria stopped its malignant thrum and changed vibration. Once more the song of the Goddess lifted into the skies.

The locusts died where they flew, hammering to the ground like rocks heaved up into the air only to plummet back to the earth.

Now that the locusts had died, the light of the sun broke free from the darkness of the swarm to alight on buildings, but only for a moment.

There was a reverberation to the air, and time seemed to stand still. The sun stopped its downward journey to the western horizon. Grace peered to the west, feeling her ancient enemy there, in the mountains.

And then came the shadow, a pallor that clung to the sun like black wool pulled tight over its brightness, and the Great Realms was plunged into darkness.

Everyone turned to look at the darkness hanging over the sun, and though they wondered what had happened, each and every person knew in their souls what was coming.

“This is far from over,” Grace spoke into the still air. “The legions of the damned come. We need to prepare.”

“Grace?” a voice spoke somewhere to her right, higher up than her. Grace turned to see Dalah staring down at her. Blood was soaked into the woman’s yellow robe, and her blonde hair was a tangled mess around her plump face.

“Dalah,” Grace said, and smiled. “We need some help, wouldn’t you think?”

“Just a little,” Dalah said, and then laughed. “I thought you were dead!”

“This is all well and good,” Laphrael said, pacing up to Grace. She could see that he now only had one wing, the other nothing more than a bloody lump on his back. “But the danger is not yet over. I can feel the legions of fallen coming closer, pressing in on us. I’m sure you can feel it too, like bugs on your skin, increasing as they near.”

Grace nodded, folding her hands before her.