Riven by Kait Nolan
Ian tore into the energy bar, scarfed it down in half a dozen bites before guzzling the water. Both hit his empty stomach somewhere around his toes. He’d need more. A lot more. At least a couple of the MREs.
At the cave entrance, Marley went motionless, head cocked as she peered out into the storm.
“What is it?” he asked, his hand already reaching for the bloody knife.
“Someone’s coming.”
Chapter 12
Marley strained to see through the sheets of rain, to make out shapes, sounds, something that would let her know what was coming. But she had only that tickle in the gut she’d learned to trust these last weeks.
“Get back,” snapped Ian.
She looked around in time to see him trying to stand. His eyes shone silver in the dark.
What can you do with nothing left? She opened her mouth to ask, and everything changed.
Ian was gone. She felt a swift kick of panic that quickly shifted to dumbfounded shock. Instead of the cave, she stood on a cobbled street, in a city out of some period film. Cut-stone buildings, joined like row houses, rose several stories into the air. Above their roof lines, she could just spy a castle on a hill in the distance. A half dozen people in—Jesus, were those breeches and…what were they called…frock coats? One middle-aged gentleman tipped his tricorne hat to her as he walked by. Marley just stared. She realized her own clothes were different. She wore some old-fashioned dress, heavy with layers of brocade and lace over a corset that dug into her ribs.
What. The. Hell?
A doorway opened across the street. Ian stepped out. But not her Ian. Instead of the short, military cut, his glossy hair flowed nearly to his shoulders, long enough now that she could see faint hints of red in the strands. He was dressed in a kilt of blue and green plaid. A band of the same plaid wrapped up and over the shoulder of his fine linen shirt, affixed with some kind of silver pin. She didn’t know what all the bits and baubles were called, but he was clearly dressed up for some occasion, and he was nothing short of mouth-watering.
Catching sight of her, his eyes widened, and he hurried across the street to take her arm. “Ye weren’t supposed to be here.” His burr was much broader than she was used to hearing.
“What’s going on?” she managed.
“Not here,” he said, tucking her arm in his.
They passed other houses, shops, more people in the apparel of the period. Horse-drawn carriages and buggies clattered over the cobblestones. Passing a shop window, Marley caught sight of her reflection and started. She wasn’t herself. The reflection showed someone taller, with coiffed blonde hair and softer features. Marley held tighter to Ian’s arm. Freaking out on a public street simply wouldn’t do.
A couple of blocks past a tavern, Ian cast a furtive glance around and dragged her under a stone archway and down a dark, twisting passage that might well have been the start of some medieval maze. They emerged into a little courtyard in the center of a tight cluster of buildings. Dusky light filtered down from the scrap of sky above, but not enough to banish the long shadows.
Ian turned to her, taking both her hands and tugging her close, laying his lips on hers. Marley thought it was hardly the time for a kiss, but she went with it because the whole experience had the surreal quality of a waking dream. He might have looked different, but he tasted like Ian, kissed like Ian. There was comfort in that.
Breaking the kiss, he stepped back just enough so he could beam down at her. She’d never seen him look so unabashedly free and happy.
“Darlin’ Susanna.”
Marley went cold at the sound of another woman’s name on his lips.
“I’ve spoken wi’ your father. He’s given his consent for us to wed.”
She stared at him without a clue what to say or what was going on. But he was still talking.
“—O’ course we’ll have to wait for the banns to be read, and I’m sure your mother, bless her, will want time to plan. She cried when the deal was done. Worries about my carrying ye away like some savage to my keep, as if the estate doesnae have a proper house and furnishings. But your father knows I shall be laird one day.”
Her head spun.
God, he looks so in love. So young.
He finally ran down and gave a baffled little smile. “Say something, love. This is what ye wanted, isnae?”
Something bittersweet and sharp twisted just beneath her heart. Yes, she wanted this. In her own time, her own place, with him, she wanted this. But he so clearly believed her to be someone else.
Marley laid a hand on his cheek. “Ian—” She broke off as she caught sight of the men in the shadows behind him.
Before she could shout a warning, they rushed out and grabbed him. She stumbled back. Ian struggled with two of them, jamming an elbow back. With an oof, one man let go. Ian reached for his sword, but the guy was back on him in seconds. He clearly wasn’t as fast or as well-trained in this reality as he was in hers. As she had in Gatlinburg, Marley screamed. But though the sound reverberated through the enclosed space, no one came running.
As the echoes of her scream faded, a third man stalked toward her, eyes flashing a predatory gold. Marley backed up, patting at the dress. But of course there was no stun gun or pepper spray tucked away in her bodice. The man smiled and lunged for her. Marley lashed out, aiming for his nose, but he deflected the blow and wrapped a meaty arm around her, lifting her off her feet.
“Let me go, you bastard!”
“Oh, ho! Such language for a lady.”
Marley continued to struggle as he turned back toward the fight.
Ian held a long, thin knife, and he warred for control of it. He was losing with these odds.
Tensing, Marley rammed her head back against her captor’s face. Something crunched, and her vision flickered black. He dropped her. Scrambling to her feet, she tried to run to Ian. But she got tangled in the yards of skirts and tripped. Determined, she rose again, but something struck her from behind. Pain and dizziness drove her to the ground. Just before her head hit the stone, she saw Ian crumple.
~*~
The screams woke her. Instinct kept Marley quiet as the sounds of agony scraped along her skin. Disoriented, it took her a few moments to separate her own pain from the source of the screams.
Ian!
Marley gasped, tried to raise her head, and almost vomited as the room spun. Fighting past nausea, she managed to get semi-vertical. The manacles on her wrists and ankles made that more difficult. Her body felt heavier than the iron chains, but another bellow galvanized her the rest of the way. Squinting through the bars, she made out the wavering shapes of people in the next room. Wavering, she realized, because it was lit by torchlight. As her eyes adjusted, she picked Ian out of the lineup of ten men. Like the others, he was stripped to the waist, bound to some kind of rack that held him almost crucified. Though a bruise purpled his temple, he wasn’t the one screaming.
That misfortune belonged to the man next to him, who continued to buck and fight. Blood streamed down his chest from some strange series of markings. Certainly the wounds would be painful, but Marley couldn’t figure out what he was fighting. Something moved beneath his skin. His muscles seemed to writhe like snakes, bunching and curling. As she watched, the man threw back his head and shrieked, one long ululating cry that chilled her blood and all but stopped her heart. Blood tracked down his face, garish, terrifying tears. Then he fell forward and was silent.
Another man, short and stocky, stepped forward, checked his pulse, and shook his head. “Dead.”
A robed figure at a table on the other side of the room scratched notes with a quill and ink. His lip curled in disgust. “If a shaman doesn’t survive the procedure, I have little hope for the human. But all in the name of the cause, I suppose.”
The racks were mobile. The dwarf rolled the dead man back and moved to shove Ian into his place.
Human, she thought. He used to be human. She realized she was somehow trapped in his memory
Ian kept up a steady stream of profanity as the dwarf secured the rack, though it was no language she’d ever heard.
The dwarf gave a gallows smile and jerked a thumb at him. “I like this one. I hope he survives the transition.”
The robed man stepped forward. “Let us begin again.”
At first, Marley thought it was a quill and ink. The long, black feather curled over his hand as he dipped it into a pot the dwarf held. But the nib was some kind of blade. It dug furrows in Ian’s chest, mixing the blue liquid with the red of his blood.
Ian’s face drew tight with strain, but he made not a sound until the quill stopped. “Is that all ye’ve got? Ye think I’m bothered by yer wee sticker there?” Blood flowed freely down from the wound in his shoulder.
Hands raised, the robed man began to chant, and his hands started to glow.
Grabbing hold of the bars, Marley dragged herself to her knees and tried to get a better look. Before the warlock—for he must have been one—a pool of some black, viscous liquid began to bubble. The chanting grew louder, more forceful. The warlock raised his hands in a gesture of summons, and a shape rose out of the muck. Unlike the Nix, the liquid didn’t sluice off to reveal some other creature. This thing was of the pool. It wasn’t just black; it was somehow the absence of light, of hope. Looking at it, Marley could feel her own despair ratcheting higher.
The warlock carved another symbol into Ian’s chest on the opposite shoulder. Ian had no witty comeback this time. He was too busy staring at the black thing hovering mere feet away. The warlock turned and addressed the thing, speaking in some guttural language. The black elongated into something vaguely humanoid, with two arms that came to sharp, blade-like points. As it reached toward Ian, Marley saw fear etched on his face for the first time. She didn’t understand what was happening, not at first, not until the blades pierced Ian’s eyes, and he began to scream.
Her screams echoed his as the black thing funneled into him through those two, excruciating points.
Not real. Not real. Dear God, don’t let this be real.
Ian strained against his bindings, roaring as the thing fought inside him. Muscles corded and visibly bulked. The dark eyes shot through with silver. The shape of his face bulged and shifted, as if the thing was shoving around, making itself fit inside his very skin. Abruptly, he stopped screaming and stared, panting, at the warlock. Hanks of hair clung to his sweaty face, but even from her cell, Marley could see the silver glow of his eyes. He did not speak. Not even when the warlock traced another symbol in the center of his chest.
Was it even Ian anymore?
“Well, he made it farther than the other one,” said the dwarf.
“We’ll see if he completed the transformation. The athame.” He took the ritual knife the dwarf offered and made a shallow slice across his palm, then a single slash across Ian’s chest. Pressing the bloody palm to the fresh wound, the warlock began to speak.
“Eternal magic of ageless time.
“Heed the call in my rhyme.
“Bind two souls like molten steel.
“Let fire forge the woven seal.”
We were slaves, Ian had told her. Each bound to a single master. As the ground began to shake, she started shouting. “Ian! Wake up! This isn’t real!”
“Me to you and you to me.
“Forever enslaved. So let it be.”
Light burst between them, engulfing the space until she was blind. The weight of silence that followed was suffocating.
“Bring the woman.” The warlock’s order sent another shaft of fear lancing through her.
“No!” Ian’s hoarse cry echoed in the chamber, laced with fear. He was still in there, not body snatched.
Marley scrambled back, blinking furiously, willing her eyes to readjust to the dark. “Ian, you have to wake up from this nightmare!”
The door to her cell swung open. Marley gripped her chains, tried to swing them at the dwarf, but there wasn’t enough slack. He backhanded her, slamming her to the ground.
“Susanna!”
She continued to fight even as the dwarf unhooked her chains from the ring in the floor and began to drag her out of the cell.
“Ian, goddamn it, it’s me! It’s Marley. I’m not Susanna, and this is not real!” She was all but weeping as the dwarf hauled her in front of the rack.
“For pity’s sake, shut up,” said the dwarf.
The warlock wrapped a hand around her arm, hauled her up. Marley tried to kick him, found herself still limited by the manacles and chains. His eyes were flat, emotionless as he looked down at her and smiled. The slow, cold curve of lips paralyzed her. “Appropriate that you should be the first offering,” he said and jammed the knife into her gut.
The world suddenly stopped, her focus narrowing in on that single, shocking point of agony. Ian roared.
The warlock jerked the knife free. “There’s some fear and pain for him to feed on, right enough,” he said, and dropped her to the ground before Ian.
~*~
Susanna fell before him in a graceless heap. Colors swirled around her, so thick they all but obscured his view. Somehow the sight of them called to him, to the ache lodged deep in his bones, to the thing now living inside him. A great and terrifying hunger pulsed through him and, twined with it, a power that reached out toward her without his will or consent. Ian didn’t know what it was, what it would do, and he struggled to pull it back. But his panic was no match for the hunger. The power in him wove through the tapestry of color seeking, seeking.
And came up against a wall of stone.
Somehow that was wrong. The inkling of it drifted through his mind before dissipating in the face of a fresh wave of panic as he saw the crimson stain spreading across the front of her dress. The pool of blood beneath her was growing. Too big. Too much.
With a roar, Ian wrenched free of the bindings and dove toward Susanna. A part of him raged, demanding vengeance of the men who’d done this to her, to him. But vengeance could wait. He hit his knees and gently, so gently, turned her over. She wilted back, exposing the wound, and Ian all but felt his heart stop. He’d seen enough war, enough wounds to know she was dying.
Susanna’s hand was freezing. It felt small and fragile in his, as if growing more insubstantial with every throb of the faint pulse in her wrist. Ian gathered her close, pressing a hand over her abdomen to staunch the bleeding.
As soon as he touched her, he felt the snap as something in him latched on. Some kind of energy began to flow into him, at once slaking and stoking the hunger. He was feeding on her. Somehow, the fucking bastards had turned him into a human leech. No, not human. Not anymore.
In his arms, she was shaking. “Ian.” Her voice was thin and weak as vellum.
He had to stop. Whatever he was taking from her, he had to stop.
Ian made to move his hand, but hers shot out, clamped around his wrist with a strength that belied her condition.
“Don’t,” she croaked. “Not afraid. Never afraid. Of you.”
Around them, the vast clouds of purple shifted to something softer, warmer. That was wrong too. The dissonance rang through him. She should be afraid. She was afraid.
“Not Susanna,” she gasped. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. “Not real. Wake up Ian.”
She’d screamed it before, as they’d dragged her from the cell, but he hadn’t really heard or understood. He stared down at her, gripping tight, as if he could hold her to life by sheer force of will. He felt the…flavor of her change, losing the hints of bitterness and ash. Something stronger, brighter came pouring into him. In his arms, she seemed to shrink. The blonde hair went dark. The sweet, soft face narrowed. The eyes staring up at him with fierce determination shifted to violet.
Confusion twisted his brain, obliterated by dawning horror.
“Marley.”
She actually smiled at him, a tight, pained curve of her l
Out of his nightmare. But how?
Ian shoved the question ruthlessly aside, focused on stopping the living nightmare around them. The warlock Nikandros froze, that hideous smile of ecstasy a white slash against his dark beard as Ian’s power poured into him. The dwarf, too, stopped moving.
Marley exhaled, relief spiraling up in a cobalt stream.
“It’s going to be all right.” The lie lay bitter on Ian’s tongue. More of Marley’s life pulsed hot and wet beneath his palm.
“Of course it is. You’re in control now.” Her eyes were unfocused as they looked up at him.
Such trust. Such faith. She was the only one who’d ever had any in him. And this was how he repaid her. Even now, soaking up the warmth of her emotions like the parasite he was. But he could no more stop it than a sponge could cease to absorb water.
“Ian?”
He swallowed, paused a moment to stroke her hair back, until he was sure he could speak without his voice cracking. “Yes, love?”
“I’m cold.”
Careful of the wound, he gathered her close. Weakly, she burrowed in, pressing her cool face against the curve of his throat. Unlike when she’d come out of the shadow, she didn’t even have the strength to shiver now.
“Seems to happen a lot lately. Don’t I remember you promising something about a roaring fire and mulled wine?”
Ian’s chest constricted. “Anything you want,” he whispered, his eyes burning.
The manipulation took little effort. Not with the life force of her emotions pulsing bright inside him. The dingy stone walls shifted into glossy wood and wide windows overlooking magnificent snowy vistas that glowed blue against a palette of night. Sumptuous, deep-cushioned furniture was arranged in a horseshoe around a blazing fire, the only light in the room. Two glasses of wine appeared on the low coffee table. White because he couldn’t bear to see the dark shades of red. Beneath them, a soft sheepskin rug covered the wide-planked floor. It was, down to the last detail, a perfect fantasy.