Villains (24 page)

Chapter 5

Gajan knew nothing but the hunger and the hunt for centuries. He followed the swarm, his form feasting on souls that dropped on battlefields and never thought twice about humans and their wars. The land changed, civilizations rising and falling as Morgana called forth her beasts and forced them on unsuspecting masses. He learned to see the Lands through the eyes of those he took, the name for Terra changing with each new language he learned, every tradition he absorbed. What he knew of the boy he used to be faded, pressed further and further into the darkest part of him, locked away where it couldn’t hurt, couldn’t make him feel guilt, helplessness and devastation. Whatever it was in the Babylonian town with the warrior man, he didn’t want to experience again. His name and the name of the girl who sentenced him to this death was something that could remain lost forever.

Boldness crept into him as he trailed the shores of a place some of the souls he had taken called Greece and fetched up over gray stone buildings. They had funny traditions, killings in arenas and horse drawn chariots and silly attire. They didn’t wear tunics and breeches the way he was used to.

The biggest problem with the city was Noelle Yessenia and Jenima Markesh. It used to be why Vultues didn’t bother fleeing to the Northlands, every battlefield they visited left them starving and braying for sustenance, writhing as hunger careened through them. Valkyries protected souls in little bubbles of fresh, pure energy and it was the one substance Vultures couldn’t penetrate. Gajan had seen the likes of every type of prayers offered to every type of deity but nothing worked to save a soul from his wrath until the Valkyries showed up.

That night Gajan fled over the city, finding the smaller, quieter places in the Grecian countryside. There had to be starving bodies, someone dying quickly enough so he could be fed. Since Noelle and Jenima came from former Lands of Men, places Morgana said were all but destroyed, the hunger grew.

It encompassed him until the potential for passing out cloyed at his insides and begged him for mercy. He wouldn’t give in. He traveled through fields, brushing against tall stocks and grass until he heard someone, something in the distance. It sounded like a girl. She was panting and Gajan’s senses perked up. He couldn’t tell if she was fighting or if she liked it, and that made disgust and repulsion ripple through him. He had no use for fornication, humans were savages when it came to that carnal act and he wanted no part in it. He neared the panting woman and saw her as she leaned up on her knees, her blonde hair forming a long thick braid down her back.

Gajan caught the dagger in her hand and smiled to himself as she thrust it into the chest of whomever it was she had been wrestling with. The man let out an exasperated grunt before lying still and Gajan felt lightheaded. He sprung into action, whisking past the girl who let out a cry at the cold air he provided, folding himself into the sternum and lapping up all the white matter inside. He gasped and choked, not expecting to take hold of the body but it wasn’t ready for death.

He coughed, sitting up, realizing he was naked and grabbed the breeches and tunic next to him, throwing them over the brutish body. There was a dagger stuck in his gut but he left it there, pinpricks of pain shooting through him enough to make his head skirl with disequilibrium.

The girl ran through the tall grass and she was the only one he really needed in that moment—mostly to tell him where he was.

He got to his feet, feeling severely off kilter and wiped his brow with knobby hands, flashbacks crashing into him of a someone named Folki and a something named Snorri. He felt like the man he possessed was a giant, packed muscle on top of hard bone, a strong heartbeat behind a solid wall of chest. He took a few steps, wincing and the girl seemed to notice, throwing a glance over her shoulder. Her eyes widened and Gajan felt like he had been slammed on a rock a thousand times.

Shimma.

He recognized her, but she didn’t realize it was him.

Krishani Mekallow Mekelle Tavesin.

The former Ferryman of Terra.

He tried to withstand all the heat in his extremities as the past returned, blinding him with the kind of pain that made other humans black out. Only this one didn’t. This one was stronger than the others.

Shimma crossed her arms. “You should be dead.”

Krishani tried to find his tongue but it felt swollen and big in his mouth. “Shimma?”

She seemed even more confused and angry than before. “How did you find my name?” She kept a good distance but with a few long strides Krishani caught up to her. She eyed the dagger in him like she might pull it out and slide it across his neck but he fell on his knees in front of her, burying his face in his hands. Someone he used to know, someone who wasn’t part of this endless nightmare.

“It’s me,” he choked, trying to keep the flickers of Kaliel’s Amethyst eyes at bay, trying to keep the deepening sadness from shocking the body into a coma.

Awe and confusion crossed Shimma’s face. It took her awhile but when he glanced at her, it seemed to dawn on her. “Krishani?”

He nodded and she ran.

He didn’t understand but he tried to run after her, the body strong but the wound causing his side stitches of throbbing pain. He thought he had lost her until he climbed over a hill and saw a village tucked into a valley, dusk on the horizon, hearth fires lighting walkways between huts and tents. He threaded his way through the village, a heavy rock on his chest until he saw her at the edge of the village, planning to flee. “I’m not…”

“You should be dead,” she said again her lower lip trembling. She had said that before, about the man but this time she meant it about Krishani. Wrapping her arms around herself she tilted her chin up to meet his penetrating gaze.

“You didn’t die in the storm?” He couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit of relief because it was Shimma, one person in a sea of thousands he had met on the warpath, and she was intact. She seemed older, worn, and brittle but alive.

She raised her eyebrows. “I took the feorn to Avristar,” she snapped.

Krishani hung his head, remembering the last time he had seen her, the way his fist cracked along her jaw, the way she collapsed. He didn’t go back to see if she was okay, at the time he didn’t care. He shouldn’t have cared now, but she was salvation in the eye of a neverending storm. He needed her more than he was willing to admit. “What is this?” He was so lost on what he was, why he stole the soul and took the body and why it stitched his memories back together causing nothing but searing hatred to rumble through his veins.

Shimma shook her head as if to say not here and kept her distance as she led him to one of the tents. It seemed to be hers, mismatched quilts tossed on the floor, some kind of cards with symbols on them in a wrap of fabric, rucksacks against the canvas, torches, drums, and other odds and ends in the corner. She sat on a quilt laid out on the mud and motioned for Krishani to sit. He did reluctantly and let her stare at him for awhile, thinking.

“Necromancy,” she said after a long while.

Krishani straightened up; hoping that the longer he held on the easier it would be to control all the emotions fighting inside him. It wasn’t as bad in this body, human bodies were worse, like he was being burned, skinned and drowned at the same time. This body was more indifferent than the others he had almost survived in.

“I don’t understand.”

Shimma raised an eyebrow. “Necromancy is used to raise the dead. You’re using necromancy to keep that body alive. It should be dead.” Before he could protest she pulled the knife out and he felt like he was deflating, the power he used to have to hold on fading with each passing second. He gasped, gulping in breath after breath, but he had to lie down to feel remotely comfortable.

“I can’t hold on.…” he sputtered, feeling the Vulture ripping the insides apart, turning organs to liquid.

“You don’t have very long in that body, and you should feel lucky you even have a few moments.” Shimma leaned in closer. “You’re an abomination.”

“How … long?” he managed through clenched teeth, the body coming alive with spasms that forced him to kick out involuntarily.

Shimma stood, shrugging. “Not long. You’ll be dead by sun up.”

And before Krishani could answer, before they could talk about the millions of things in his mind she flung her rucksacks over her shoulders, packed up her drums and flutes and fled the tiny tent. Krishani was left there with burning pain in his lungs, crackling aches in his fingers and the fresh sodden thought of Kaliel. As much as he wanted to hate her, he wanted Shimma to tell him what had happened to her.

Where was she?

Would he ever see her again?

Pain reached a crescendo, bones fracturing as Krishani fought hard to hold on. It was no use, blood stained the quilt, and the Vulture kicked against the ribcage, dissolving the heart to a pile of sludge until Krishani had no choice but to break out of the body in a whiplash of cold, his cry hitting the air as a loud screech until like all the other times, his mind shattered, fragmented shards of everything he used to be splattering against the starry night sky.

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