Blood and Wolf (The Canath Chronicles Book 1) Page 5

  I can’t stand the sight of my mom covered in blood, barely able to stand, unable to lead the way she needs to because of me.

  I can’t stomach the thought of how many died here tonight because of me.

  So I step around my mom, and I meet Maric’s appraising gaze.

  “Years ago you offered me a choice,” I say, “of continuing these tests, or of voluntarily committing myself to imprisonment.”

  “I said that’s enough,” my dad says, spinning toward me and grabbing hold of my arm to keep me from walking any closer to our enemy. “Vanessa, take her—” He tries to pull me toward my aunt.

  But with a vicious surge of strength—one that makes my mark itch and the air seem to shudder—I break free, and I close the space between myself and the sorcerer king.

  “Well I volunteer.” My voice trembles a bit. “Lock me up. I can’t do this anymore.”

  My parents and most of my pack start forward. Without taking his eyes off me, Maric lifts a hand and conjures black flames up from the ground itself, creating a wall that separates our two groups. The rest of his group follows his example, reinforcing that barrier until it burns so fiercely that I can just barely make out my dad’s eyes staring from the other side. They’re wide and furious.

  And heartbroken.

  I force myself not to look at him anymore.

  Not at him, or at my mom as she stumbles to his side.

  I look only at Maric.

  “So let’s just go, then,” I say quietly.

  The sorcerer stares at me. His fingers reach and grip me beneath the chin, lifting my eyes to his as if he’s searching them for evidence of trickery. Which he apparently doesn’t see, because his mouth soon curves into a victorious smirk.

  The fire is not entirely an illusion this time—or else it’s such an advanced illusion that it’s tricking other senses besides sight; a second later I smell the awful scent of burnt fur and flesh, and I hear yelps of pain as members of my pack try to fight their way through to me.

  More pain because of me.

  “Attempt one more intrusion like that,” Maric says with a cursory glance toward that forcefield of flame, “and I will kill her right now.” His hand slides into a light grip around my throat, emphasizing his point. “Which is unnecessary. Because so long as she comes quietly, I don’t see why we can’t take her alive. The prison that lies on our land is more than equipped to contain even the most dangerous sort of magic, after all.”

  It was built, centuries ago, during a civil war fought between the various sorcerer lineages who had taken up residence in the northernmost region of what would eventually become the state of Maine. Built to hold prisoners of war, to withstand the magic of unimaginably powerful sorcerers. So I have zero chance of escaping it, in other words.

  Between that, and the rumors of the torture chambers that lie in the deepest levels of that place, I should be terrified just thinking about it. But instead, I’m picturing the person who told me all those facts about the Blackwood Prison Complex—it was Carys, of course—and all I can think about is that she’ll be much safer with me gone.

  They all will.

  Our pack can just exist now, separate from the politics and problems that come from these council meetings and the forced interaction with other supernatural creatures.

  Maric’s fingers trace the hollow of my throat. I fight the urge to kick him as he lowers his voice and adds: “I’m glad you finally came to your senses, even if the rest of your kind hasn’t managed to.”

  The rest of my kind are getting more frantic. But the flames are climbing higher, and though I can hear their distress—can smell it, even—I at least don’t have to see it thanks to that barrier.

  I should have been focusing on creating a barrier in my mind, though.

  Because my mom’s voice is painfully clear, and I think it’s the only thing that could come close to undoing my resolve at this point.

  (Please don’t do this, Elle. Please.)

  I grab my wrist, and I dig my fingers into it hard enough to draw blood.

  (I’m sorry,) I think back. (I’m so, so sorry.)

  There’s a grand flourish of smoke and flame, a strange stabbing sensation against the side of my head, and I feel my consciousness slipping as I’m dragged away.

  Chapter Six

  I wake up with my hands bound behind my back.

  There’s magic at work in the restraints too, I think, because my full, inhuman strength isn’t enough to even weaken them. They hold fast, and I have to wobble my way to an upright position without the use of my arms. There’s barely enough room to manage it in the cramped space; my elbows scrape the rough stone wall behind me as I rock to my knees and then to my feet.

  In front of me is a black door. Near the top is a small window with bars so thick that the amount of light they let in is basically pointless. There are no windows on the walls above me, either, but when I look up I see a ceiling made of glass, impossibly high above my narrow prison; it’s like I’ve fallen into a deep well, and that pinprick of night sky that I can see is cruel and mocking and impossibly far away.

  Panic swells in me and makes breathing difficult for a moment.

  I close my eyes and try to calm myself down.

  My stomach twists with hunger. My mouth is so dry I can hardly swallow. Even after I’ve managed a few deep breaths, and to get my hands to stop shaking, my vision still dances wildly when I open my eyes again a minute later.

  I agreed to be restrained. To come to prison and be held here, for safety’s sake. I remember that much.

  Did I agree to torture, too?

  To starvation and dehydration?

  My mark burns. It feels like the ground around me is shifting a bit. Maybe I imagined it.

  But after a few more agonizing minutes of lying there, I still have a crazy thought: that I might be able to shift that ground more—really shift it— if I just tried a little bit. That this prison isn’t nearly as formidable and depressing as it looks; it’s just waiting for me to embrace the strength inside me and tear it down.

  Somewhere inside me is a voice saying no, we agreed to be locked up.

  But my survival instincts are overpowering it.

  I don’t want to die here.

  So I start to rattle the bars of my cage a bit. I let my mind slip, giving in to that power I feel sleeping, waking, rising up in me. It shifts my fingers to claws that I manage to scrape against the solid walls despite my handcuffs. It makes my muscles ripple, makes the skin of my arms and legs suddenly feel too tight as those muscles grow larger, stronger—

  The ground rocks beneath me.

  The lighting changes, as high above me the sky changes to a weird shade of light purple.

  I’m definitely not imagining it this time.

  Then I hear a bored voice say: “It’s working, then.”

  I notice a shadow passing over my thickly-barred window—a person.

  My mind snaps back to a bit of clarity, to enough restraint that I can fall fully back into my normal human shape. I deeply inhale, exhale several times before I manage to call out in a scratchy voice that doesn’t sound like mine at all.

  “Who’s there?”

  There’s a light thump against the prison door, as if someone just casually plopped back against it. “The person assigned to guard this door, obviously. Why? Were you expecting someone else?”

  Oh good, smartassery.

  The trait that bonds us all, regardless of species.

  “What did you mean by it’s working?” I demand.

  “They were trying to tear you down to the point that you might slip and cause a fissure. They had a theory that if they starved and dehydrated you enough, it might weaken you to the point that your sleeping power would insist on unleashing itself, causing that aforementioned fissure. And it seems they were right. You must be terribly weak by this point; it’s been nearly three days since they brought you here.”

  I press against that door myself, pressi
ng my cheek to the cold metal. I close my eyes and focus on burying that sleeping power further down inside me.

  I don’t even know who they are, but I still want to prove them wrong.

  I am not that weak.

  “What they are you talking about, precisely?” I ask mysterious other-side-of-the-door guy. “I was taken by the Blackwood sorcerers.”

  “Yeah. Us. I say they, but technically I guess it should have been us, because I’m one of them too, despite my mind constantly rejecting this fact.”

  “Well you…they…y’all—”

  “Cute southern accent.”

  “Shut up. It’s not cute. It only comes out when I get mad.”

  The door vibrates slightly as he laughs while apparently still leaning against it.

  “You all,” I continue, trying not to sound flustered, “that is, the Blackwood Sorcerers. They brought me here specifically because of the danger of me creating those fissures. So why would they try to provoke me now that I’m here? It makes no sense.”

  “Oh, you fell for that, huh?” His voice is full of the sort of sympathy that makes it clear he thinks I’m rather dumb. “The whole ‘we can’t let her destroy the world’ bit.”

  “Well why else would they have insisted on taking me—practically starting a war over me—if not for some sort of greater good?”

  He laughs again. I think it was my use of the words greater good that did it.

  “Not really seeing the humor in the situation,” I growl.

  “Maybe it started off nobly enough, when you were younger. But you want to know the truth?”

  “I asked for it, didn’t I?”

  “The truth is that you have a lot to learn, Little Wolf—”

  “Yeah, don’t call me that.”

  “—starting with the fact that the only good most of my kind now care about is the kind of power that can prove good and useful to them. Which in this case, is…well, you. And your potential talent for ripping apart worlds.”

  Talent?

  What the hell?

  This curse is not a talent.

  I stare up at what I can see of the sky. It’s back to a normal shade of midnight, twinkling with stars. I have a terrible vision of that sky shifting and those stars burning out, and I have to close my eyes and give my head a little shake, trying to keep fear from paralyzing me.

  “They want to harness your ability to summon terrible things from the otherworld, and use that power for the greater evil.”

  “I get it,” I hiss. “You don’t have to keep spelling it out.”

  “Well you weren’t saying anything, so—”

  “So I was thinking. Do you know how to do that?”

  He laughs again, and I swear I’ve never been so annoyed by someone I can’t even see.

  But after a moment he asks, in a voice more thoughtful than I would have believed him capable of: “What were you thinking of, precisely?”

  I don’t hesitate. “I was thinking I would rather die than let them use me like that.”

  Quiet settles over us. It lasts for almost a full minute before I hear him move away from the door. I hold my breath, scared of losing this last anchor to the world outside, even if he was annoying me.

  Then I hear him messing with the lock.

  He opens the door.

  My eyes blink, adjusting to the sudden brightness of the relatively well-lit halls that stretch away from my cell. And there he stands, with his head tilted to the side, studying me for a moment before beckoning me out. I don’t mean for my eyes to stay on him once they’ve finished adjusting, but I can’t help it.

  He is… good looking.

  Painfully good looking.

  A messy-yet-stylish tousle of sandy-blonde hair frames his strong jaw, his deep grey eyes, his sun-bronzed complexion. He folds his arms across his chest—a motion that emphasizes the well-toned muscles of his arms and pulls his white shirt taut across his flat stomach—and he arches an eyebrow.

  “I’m pretty, I get it. Stop staring, it’s rude.”

  “Assuming people think you’re pretty is rude,” I snap back.

  He gives a careless nod, as if to say fair point. And then he fixes his own stare back on me, studying me so intently that my face flushes uncomfortably hot, and I can’t help but mumble: “So I can’t stare, but you can?”

  “I’m just making observations. Sorry, but I’ve heard your name so many times, it’s just strange to finally put a face to it. You look different than I imagined.”

  “Different?”

  “Shorter.”

  “I’m still tall enough to kick your ass.”

  He laughs again. “Okay, Little Wolf—”

  “Seriously, stop it with that nickname.”

  “—here’s what we are going to do.”

  “We?”

  “Uh-huh. Unless you want to stay here and figure this out on your own?”

  I do not.

  So I manage to bite my tongue and listen, despite a million questions and misgivings about the situation.

  “I don’t agree with our so-called king’s plans for using you, so I’m going to help you get out of this mess, but only if you agree to help me after we’re clear of this place.”

  “Help you with what, precisely?”

  He glances around, checking for eavesdroppers I assume, and then moves forward, backing me into the prison cell once more. I’m reluctant to go, but his body pressing close to me makes me feel lightheaded and stupid. So I quickly choose confinement over contact, and I take a step back.

  I’m intensely aware of the binding around my wrists suddenly. And of how much bigger he is, and how he moves with such deliberate, almost intimidating motions.

  I stand up straighter, trying to appear more formidable as he closes the door behind us—not all the way; just enough that it conceals us and our voices, although he still keeps his low as he says, “I truly want what some of my kind have claimed: Stability. No more chances of that other world leaking through and destroying things and people that I care about.”

  “I want the same thing. Obviously.”

  Misgivings or no, my heart still flutters a bit at the way his eyes seem to lighten with my words.

  But then it sinks just as quickly, because I remember what I’ve heard my entire life: That the world would be more stable if I had never been born.

  Or if I was dead.

  “So I could just kill you, right?” he says. “That’s what you’re thinking.”

  I try to contain the tremor that this statement sends spiking through my blood.

  “Except not,” he says. “Because you see how the world reacts to you being under stress, right? There are a lot of people who have predicted that you being killed might actually rip open an incredible, irreparable fissure—one way more powerful and unpredictable than the ones they’re trying to use you to trigger. So, that’s out.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Right?” he says, either not hearing the sarcasm in my voice or else choosing to ignore it. “What’s really lucky though,” he continues, “is that there’s another option.”

  “Which is…?”

  “The curatorian keys.”

  I hesitate. “Curatorian? Why does it sound like you just made that word up? Are you making all of this up? Is this a trick?”

  “Trust me, I’m not creative enough to come up with this sort of thing. Because this is complicated stuff—I’ve spent years gathering as much information as I can about it all. But we only have time for the short version at the moment.” He does another sweeping check for listeners, and then continues. “So the short version is that there are three of these ‘keys’, spread across the world. Maybe more. But I’m sure of at least three, all of them created at points where the other world—Canath— bled into ours for a prolonged period of time before being closed up. During the ‘closing up’ part, these objects were created as a sort of side-effect. Basically, the immense energy created by the break in the world had to go somewhere
—so it went into those three keys. And the lingering existence of these objects is responsible for the link between Canath and our earth being as strong as it currently is—strong enough that abnormalities like you can trigger things like fissures.”

  “So if the keys were destroyed…”

  “Then bam, the world becomes much, much more stable. Even with you in it.”

  It all sounds too easy. Too good to be true. Too obvious for me to have never heard of it all before. Because I know my parents, my aunts and uncles…they’ve all poured over every book in Uncle Eli’s vast library, trying to come up with some sort of solution to me.

  And for seventeen years, they’ve come up with nothing.

  So I can’t help but ask, “But why couldn’t you just destroy them yourself? Why do you need me?”

  He steps closer.

  I try to back up again, but there’s nowhere to go but into the wall.

  He wavers, hands lifting a bit as if to say he means no harm, and then he reaches for my arm. I tense, but for some reason I don’t try to draw away again. “That mark on your wrist,” he says, his tone quiet and thoughtful in a way that reminds me a bit of Uncle Eli—or his daughter— when he’s about to go off on one of his theoretical rants. “If I’m right, it should help us track down the locations of these keys, and then get them to reveal themselves to us. Along with revealing whatever might be guarding them.”

  “And what is guarding them, exactly?”

  “Long story, those guardians—maybe we save it for later?”

  I start to protest, but in the same instant, a shrill alarm sounds in the hallway, and dread clenches my heart. “What is that?”

  “That would be the security system. Goes off after the door’s been open too long.”

  “Then why in the hell didn’t you close it?”

  “Honestly?”

  I glare at him.

  “Honestly, I forgot. I’m sort of new to breaking people out of prison.”

  I shake my head in disbelief, but he’s not looking at me; he’s leaning out of the cell and coolly darting his gaze back and forth.

  “So you don’t really have a plan for breaking me out? Seriously? None?”