Bereft: Foretold

30 | An Altered World

The marsh waiting beyond the eave of the open window was just as grim and morose as ever, and I ignored the chill bite of autumnal air clawing at my back. The rising breeze brought scents of the briny sea and cemetery clay into the dark sitting room, a peculiar mix of this world's primordial beginning and its abyssal end. I breathed it in and reflected on the mire's perpetuity.

Despite the years lingering between my periods of residency, Cuxiel's domain never changed.

I perused the volumes gathered on my shelves in search of a specific cipher I knew to be stashed among the accrued collection of poetry and epics. At least, it had been here. It could have been moved without my knowledge. My fingers hesitated on the bent spines and rough edges as the breeze filled my nose and my shoulders slouched. 

Tired. I was tired. My search for the weapon had proved fruitless so far, and the unrelenting pace I'd adopted in its pursuit was taking its toll. 

Exhaling, I sank onto the armchair's edge and braced my arms against my knees. The shifting of the cushions arose a new scent from the chair, and as the smell of orchids overtook the heavier smell of impending rain, my gaze flicked toward the open bedroom door.

My rooms were quiet and empty aside from my own presence. 

"Where has she gotten to now?" I pondered as I again noted my shadeborn's absence. I had—foolishly—hoped she'd spend her time at the manor in my quarters and thus out of trouble, but I knew Sara well enough now to understand her inexplicable need to explore and puzzle over the unknown. The universe had cursed her with the ability to attract danger: after all, the woman had managed to intrigue me and the attention of a murderous cult. 

I stared into the belly of the blackened hearth, fingers feathered across one eye as I leaned on my arm. Thoughts of surrender played through my thoughts and I considered them with a passive curtness. I despised surrendering, but I also despised flinging myself headlong into problems that lacked solutions. Expecting different results from perpetual repetition is insanity, and I wasn't insane. Not yet. 

Holding a hand to my face, I allowed flames to course through the fine bones inside my bent fingers and silently admitted the possibility of the weapon's nihility. 

Was my quest doomed to fail? Should I bother to try at all?  

Somewhere in the hall beyond my quarters, an Aos Sí let out a cry of alarm that was succeeded by a clatter of rapid footfalls. My narrowed gaze flashed toward the door as it shuddered and flew open, and an unfamiliar man stood at the threshold, his hair a mess of brilliant red locks piled atop his head like cooling lava. His countenance was too alien to be from this realm, the angles too sharp and the long slope of his ears too exaggerated to belong to an Aos Sí.

While his face was unfamiliar to me, I recognized the man's eyes. They were an amber color shaded with variations of orange, and I'd seen them peering from the face of a cat before. It was the Druid Lionel, the one that had taken to following Sara—and in his arms was my shadeborn.

Her middle was redder than the Druid's hair. Redder than my eyes. It dripped to the floor and left bizarre patterns on the wood.

I was across the room in an instant, yanking the woman from Lionel's arms into my own. "What have you done?!" I snarled as Sara's head lolled against my chest and my fingers slid along her jaw, seeking a pulse. No, this hadn't been Lionel. I knew it hadn't been the Druid. The beat of her heart inside her veins was as weak as a child's. Her blood soaked through my shirt and warmed my skin. "What happened?!" 

Lionel answered with a shrug and I swore I'd take a bite out of the bastard's heart for his casual disinterest. I hefted Sara higher against my front and hurried into the bedroom. Heedless of the blood and the sheets, I laid her down and my hands flew to the hem of her ruined blouse. The material tore without protest as I ripped the front of it open and sought Sara's injury below her ribs.