Edge of Tomorrow : Chapter Twenty-One
Nov. 17th, 2010 07:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Crimony has it really been a month since I updated this? Yikes. I'm so sorry. Computer troubles are the pits, I'm telling you.
Just a warning for my readers. This chapter? It's a doozy. Remember the M-rating? It's not just for sex. There's some battle-type gore in here, some blood, lots of battle type action, and heaps of drama and angst. Not to mention hints of torture (mostly background), a moment of insanity, and some character death. Yowza.
With that said, take caution in reading, but do enjoy.
Title: The Edge of Tomorrow
Series: Infinity's End
Rating: T to M
Genre: Romantic, Comedic, Erotic, Action-Adventure with a lemony twist of Het and a slice of Slash
Summary: Ione makes a difficult decision when her allies call for her imprisonment, forcing her to flee for her life. In the hands of the Theravada, she meets Gale Arlen, rumored leader of the rebels, and learns what it truly means to choose a side.
The beginning starts here.
It all made Ione very unsettled. Not nervous. She wouldn't call it nervous. But she was agitated. Ready. Her mind prepared and her heart all aflutter. She crouched on the thick branch of the massive redwood that she and Gale had taken as a perch. And she stared towards Meropis, her gaze focused on the jail that held Ophelia and Hayden, but it was little more than a speck in the distance. Not in Grayshire proper – as if the nobles wanted prisoners kept there – but in Moriarty instead. Making their task at least that much easier. But they were still too close to the wall that separated the inner and outer halves of the city.
On the other side of her, Gale stirred. His head was lifted, eyes searching as he no doubt sought the jail housing his former apprentice Cyrus. And across the way, in a similar situation, Ishmael and Helene were also waiting. Like everyone else, they were no doubt anticipating the signal that’d light their assault.
Ione shifted and made the branches rustle. Thereby effectively calling Gale's attention. He looked at her, green eyes glowing like a cat's in the dark. Ione shrugged, fingers looping around the nearest branch above her head.
“It's wet,” she said, voice a little above a whisper but still enough to make Aponi flutter from her hiding place in Ione’s hair.
“It's spring,” Gale returned more stiffly than she was used to hearing from him.
Ione raked her gaze over what she could see of Gale that wasn't obscured by rain and foliage.
He was stiff, shoulders locked in place as he hunched like a stone gargoyle.
“Why are you so tense?”
“This is anger,” Gale clarified with a quiet, bitter laugh. “Fury even.”
Ione blinked. “Oh?”
Gale didn't answer, and yes, she could concede fury to him. She’d rarely seen Gale show anything other than amusement. Embarrassment. The occasional bits of irritation. Lots of desire. He usually had something to say, some witty comeback. This hulking, silent creature was definitely not a happy Gale. This wasn’t her Gale. More like a stranger who’d stolen his face and form. Who masqueraded around with the taste of his aether.
His mouth was set in a grim line with his gaze focused. Ione was trying to do the same, but she couldn't with the knot of rage and guilt that twisted her innards. She turned her eyes back towards Meropis and anxiously awaited the signal. She would save Ophelia and Hayden. She owed the two of them that much.
A tongue snaking out of nowhere was Ione's only warning. And if she weren't more used to it, she would’ve reacted.
“He's worried,” Quetz murmured in Ione's ear. She’d risen off Gale's shoulder to lean towards the other human.
Gale scowled. He grabbed the serpent behind her head and unceremoniously shoved her back into his shirt. His collar gave a hiss in response that would’ve been comical under different circumstances.
“You hush,” he muttered.
And – ah! – there it was. A most familiar blush trying to spread across his face. At least, Ione assumed. It was hard to tell in this dank dark.
Quetz' raspy laughter could be heard from the confines of his clothing.
Ione shifted again, left foot prickling. “Worried?”
No one answered, but they had good reason. From the corner of her eye, Ione caught the flare of bright orange and red that split the rainy sky. It rose towards the clouds like a mushroom, and the sound of a large explosion broke the silent night. Kieran's work at its finest. If there was one thing the mad scientist could do effectively, it was blow shit up.
Ione exchanged a glance with Gale, and they waited a few moments more. It didn't take long before alarms rang out through Meropis, the harsh clanging of thick bells echoing discordant through the night. Another explosion lit the dark on the other side of the massive city. This was sure to confuse the Brigade, already running on skeleton due to the time of night.
Perfect.
“Let's go.”
They dropped from the branches to land with an audible squelch at the base of the tree. Inari and Fenris melded out of the darkness, appearing at their sides. The foursome didn't speak; they already knew what was required of them. And no time was wasted as they used the fog as a cover.
Gale followed Ione, her familiarity with the city much better than his own. Grayshire's prisons were divided into four sectors with varying securities for criminals depending on their offenses. Their spies on the inside had reported that the five rebels were being kept in separate locations. All the more difficult for them to be rescued. All the more obvious a trap to dilute their forces.
It was ridiculously easy to slip through the city. The fog helped to conceal their passing, and Ione knew the ins and outs of the street. She’d run them enough times as a kid and then later on in the Brigade when she’d been new or on punishment detail and had to patrol Moriarty. She led Gale to a guardhouse that was more jail than anything, an imposing building with a wide courtyard in front and to the sides. Its back was to the Grayshire boundary wall but didn’t quite touch. In fact, there was a very narrow alley that ran just behind, the route that most of the Brigade used during shift-changes. Only a member or a former one would even know it was there. And only someone familiar with the shifts would know when it was clear. But fortunately, Ione had been a lieutenant, and she’d had her share of unit rotations through here and the other jails in the city. She knew the layouts and habits of each were virtually identical and that right now was the perfect time to slip in unnoticed.
There was a single guard on the back door. A young and fresh-faced rookie who was dozing on the job. He couldn’t have been older than Ishmael, and it was obvious that this had to be his first assignment. That was the only explanation for why he’d be on the graveyard shift on a weekend. Ione’s whispered sleeping spell effectively turned his little snooze into an outright nap.
“It’ll only last for twenty minutes. We have to be quick,” she murmured as Gale moved ahead of her.
He didn’t bother with the guard’s keys, which were spelled for Brigade use only. Instead, he used a zap of his magic to the undo the lock. Even going so far as to use more to silence the squeaky door as it opened.
“I'll stay here. Keep lookout,” Fenris inserted from by her knees. He slipped off into the fog-covered darkness at her nod, undoubtedly searching for a prime spot to take watch.
Somewhere to their far left, jets of orange and white shot into the sky. Another of Kieran’s firebombs. Sabriel really seemed to be enjoying himself out there, didn’t he?
Gale inclined his head, and they slipped inside. The door closed behind them, but Ione had expected that. She didn’t even glance at it as she led them down a short hallway and to a room that was a combination lounge and break area. The two people inside – a middle-aged woman and a man old enough to be Azriel’s father – went down to a sleep spell as easily as the rookie outside. The office along the far wall was empty when they unlocked it, but as expected, the list of prisoners and their locations was inside.
The jail was only half-full as they made their way to Cyrus’ cell. It was expected this time of year since the winter cold tended to kill off a fair number. Not to mention that it was slackly patrolled, which was the norm for such a shit assignment. Grayshire should’ve anticipated something like this, something like a rescue attempt. Hadn't they set it as a trap? Or had they thought the rebels foolish enough to conduct an all-out assault? Or possibly try and interrupt the execution in the middle of it as Gale had done for his cousin?
Preposterous.
But luck ran out when Aponi suddenly dug her feet into Ione’s ear, and she paused inches from turning a corner. Of course, it wasn’t her luck that ran out. A fact that was proven when she peeked around the edge and found someone she’d never hoped to see again. But now that she had, Ione couldn’t help but smirk. She allowed Gale his own look, and he knew what was going to happen without even needing an explanation.
Ione just stuck one hand around the corner, aimed, and let her magic loose. Vaughn managed to dive out of the way in the nick of time, but his patrol partner got the full blast. He was down and out in seconds, even as Vaughn rolled to one knee and sought out his attacker. But more magic was already sailing his way. And far too quickly for him to dodge or shield this time.
He might’ve become lieutenant after her, but he hadn’t earned the post like Ione had. He’d only gotten it because Dharva liked him the best out of everyone. Which probably had to do with the fact that they were cousins, not that Ione was supposed to know that. Either way, he wasn’t anywhere near as good a fighter as Ione herself. Not after the last several weeks and the incident with Faye. Ones where she’d finally gotten off her ass and had seriously started training again. Vaughn couldn’t hold a candle to the level of skill of Ishmael or Sabriel. Much less Gale.
He went down in the second volley without even managing to cast anything in return. Pathetic really. Doubly so when she bent down next to him to see that he wasn’t completely out yet, just on the verge of it. Eyes rolling into the back of his head in a manner that told her he’d really feel it when he woke up.
“Nighty-night,” she wished him with a wicked voice and added a sleep spell just because she could. She did, however, resist kicking him between the legs. Vaughn deserved it, but she’d want him to be conscious for that part.
Ione just settled for wiping her hand on his pants and then straightening. She joined up with Gale at the intersection. They made their way through two more before he nudged her in the side, pointing towards a cell several feet away and the man inside barely visible through the bars. His hair was dank and obviously unwashed hair, so dirty that she couldn’t even tell the original color. He didn’t look up at their arrival, barely twitched in fact. The man simply stayed on his cot with his back to the wall and hands folded in his lap as he stared at the floor. His hair shielded his eyes from them, but it was clear he was a lanky man beneath the thin robes. Thin and nearly gaunt. Ione had to wonder if that was a natural occurrence or if they’d been starving him.
“You could look a little happier to see me, Cyrus,” Gale murmured through the bars.
The man – Cyrus – started. His head snapped up, revealing pale irises the might’ve been grey and a lean face. His eyes widened in absolute shock as leapt to his feet in a stubbing motion and rushed forward.
“Master Arlen!” Cyrus' fingers curled around the bars of the door, shock written into his features. “You... What are you doing here?”
“Isn't it obvious?” Gale returned as he pondered the lock, which was a bit more complicated than the one outside. “And didn't I tell you to stop calling me that? I'm no one's master.”
Cyrus muttered something and looked away, gaze falling on Ione. She didn't know Cyrus very well. He was older than her and had graduated from the Conservatory before she had. Ione knew him by name only, and even then, he’d never stood out. All of society had wondered for the longest time what made him so special to be chosen by High Lord Arlen. As odd as Gale could be, most of the nobles would’ve sold their own mothers to be offered an apprenticeship to him. To be personally trained by the head of a great family was an enormous honor and came with quite a bit of clout and acclaim. Cyrus could’ve had nearly any position he wanted if he’d completed his training.
“Where's the key?” Gale asked, giving the bars a test shake.
They didn't even rattle.
Ione shook her head. “It's magically sealed. Keyed to the jailer's signature.”
“Hmmm.” Gale pursed his lips, glaring at the simple lock. “That makes things more complicated.”
His shirt rustled then, and Quetz peeked out from the back. Out of Cyrus’ line of sight.
“Just shove some magic at it, Gale. From what I'm feeling, you're stronger than whoever sealed it.”
She said it all with a casual voice. As though busting out prisoners was an everyday occurrence. Though as a member of the Theravada, maybe it was.
Aponi shifted on Ione’s ear. “Yes, just a short and sharp burst. It shouldn’t be hard.”
Gale held a look of annoyance, but he tried it anyway. The lock more than opened; it melted beneath his finger. First turning red-hot and then dripping to the ground as though the metal were nothing more than candle wax as the door swung silently inwards.
There was a flutter of robes. And then, Cyrus was hugging Gale, sobbing all the while and generally sounding like a royal mess. Ione grimaced and instantly thought that he and Kieran would get along great. Perhaps a reason that they should never meet. Paragon didn't need two men of their caliber. Even Azriel would have a mental meltdown.
“Why didn't you take me?” Cyrus all but wailed.
Which prompted Ione to give him a look of alarm. One that said “shut up or you'll get us all killed!”
Gale patted him awkwardly on the back for a few seconds. Then, he looked helplessly at her. But it wasn’t like Ione knew what to do either. Hysterical men didn’t just throw themselves at her on a regular basis.
“You didn't even ask me,” he continued as Gale managed to pry him away to catch his breath. Watery eyes regarded his former master stubbornly, though the effect was lost when rimmed with red. “You left me behind.”
He was a strange kid. Granted, Cyrus was older than her. But one wouldn’t be able to tell from the way he was acting. Ione certainly couldn't.
“You wouldn't have understood then,” Gale explained.
And rather gently at that, Ione noticed. It was the softest she’d ever seen him, excepting the way he treated Naomi and the other kids of Paragon.
“Well, I certainly get it now,” Cyrus retorted bitterly. One hand rubbed over his wrists as if in remembrance of the shackles that had been locked around them. “You shouldn't have come. We're only bait.”
Ione smirked and motioned over her shoulder in the direction they’d come. “We noticed that part. Not that he put up much of a fight.”
Those pale eyes swung her direction with recognition dawning. “Lieutenant Tegan.” Then, Cyrus paused and tilted his head. “I thought you were dead.”
“Oh, is that the story they're spreading now?” she asked pointedly and glanced at Gale. “You didn't tell me.”
He shrugged and brushed off his shoulders. “Dead or a traitor. Either way, to Grayshire you’re expendable. Don't worry, my dear. Your parents know the truth. That's all that matters.”
Gale had a point. Dammit.
Ione sniffed. “Still, a girl’d like to know when she's been declared dead. I didn't even have a will.”
She jogged over to the nearest window then to peer out. And just in time to see a flare of bright orange in the distance. She grinned and motioned for the two of them to follow her back out the way they’d come. It only took a few minutes to reach the exit.
“We're in the clear,” Fenris announced, trotting back into view when they stepped outside. “The time to move is now. Inari's watching the end of the alleyway as we speak.”
Cyrus gaped at the wolf. “The... The dog spoke,” he said and grabbed Gale's sleeve to tug on it. “Right? The dog spoke?” He did a double-take when he finally noticed Aponi. “There’s a butterfly on your ear.”
“That’s Aponi. And actually, Fenris is a wolf,” Ione corrected over her shoulder, moving to follow him as he padded away from the jail. “And yes, he speaks. They both do. Fenris is rather good at chess so long as you give him enough time to move the pieces with his nose.”
Cyrus goggled at them. It took him a minute to recall how to speak.
“His... nose?”
Gale chuckled. “You'll get used to it.” He clapped his hand on Cyrus' shoulder and steered him out after Ione.
Cyrus just blinked at him and allowed himself to be tugged into the darkness.
* * *
Sabriel’s distraction worked better than they expected. The hallways of the next jail were minimally staffed, and those there were easily dispatched. Inari met them outside the building and gave Cyrus another fright. And together, the fox and the wolf kept an eye on their escape route from the shadows and left the humans to retrieve their allies.
Ione heard the shrieks and was hit with the scent of blood long before anything else. The first echoed long and loud in the halls, an agonizing sound that made them all gag. The latter was enough to cause bile to rise in her throat. Even as her heart thumped in her chest.
No. No… It couldn’t be.
She broke into a run, ignoring Gale's calls behind her. Ione's senses screamed, familiar aether rising ahead of her. And another one, unfamiliar but rimed in power. Practically breathing with it. Icy tendrils that lashed at her skin as she neared.
Her boots slapped against the stone floor, and Ione blasted the first soldier who came running with a gust of wind. It slammed his body into the wall with a crack. He slumped and bonelessly slid into a heap. Ione paid him no attention, already rounding the next bend. But she skidded to a halt as the corridor, already lined with unoccupied cells, opened into a much larger room. A single chandelier lit the massive space, and for the lack of furniture or decoration, it wasn't that hard for Ione to spot the room's human residents.
Ione saw Ophelia first. Saw the puddle of crimson between the girl's body and her head. The auburn of her hair was stained a ghastly shade, and her face was fixed in a look of shock mixed with puzzlement. And then, Ione saw Hayden. The blade raised over his neck. The emptiness in his eyes as he stared at his betrothed. She saw Holmes' back, his lifted arm. Blood was already splashed on one shirt sleeve because he hadn't cared enough to wipe it away.
In the back of her mind, she saw Grayson and the giant burn scar that marred his back and stretched all the way up to curl into his hairline. She saw Ryder's pain over his lost brother and sister-in-law. She saw Sabriel, single eye and an empty hole where the other should be. She saw Ophelia laughing and so full of life, giddy over her upcoming wedding. She saw Holmes' sneering face.
Ione cracked.
She didn't see red. Ione saw a kaleidoscope of colors, all boiling down to a smudge of thought that became just one word.
Destroy.
Ione felt her blood boil as she dove forward. It was a move without thought, without reason. Without anything but the need to make this man hurt. She didn’t think about the fact that he was stronger. That he was older and more powerful. All she knew was the sharp flare of her aether and the coppery taste on her tongue. The magic as it writhed around her and begged for release. The ring of Ophelia’s shrieks in her ears and the utter despair on Hayden’s face even now.
She made a sound all too much like a roar. Holmes had a split second to start to turn before she was on him, driving him down to the ground from the force of one blow alone. She heard the dim sound of his sword dropping to the floor and someone's startled gasp. Magic rose and collided, swirling energies knocking one against the other in the small space. A howl built in Ione's chest and sought to spill from her lips. She felt a tangle of emotions, all colliding one against the other. Rage and hate and make him bleed because he did it; he killed her, and Ione was too late.
Bone cracked under a fist powered by a mixture of fury and earth magic. More powerful than any she’d ever done before. Flesh gave away underneath her fingernails as she slashed at him with one hand, and something shifted wetly beneath her touch. Beneath the sudden feel of her fingers wrapping around a throat. There was a flap of gold and black in front of her face, but she just jerked her head lower to see around and to stare back into his eyes.
Pain radiated like a heat through her side, and she grunted and retaliated in the only way she knew how – with more pain. They tumbled and rolled, grappling for the better ground, but Ione had wrath on her side. She had blind rage and hatred. Loathing of the deepest and strongest sort. The kind that pulled at aspects of herself she’d never known she had. The parts that told her to kill, to maim and torture. To cause agony. And her magic thrashed like a living thing caught in the throes of ecstasy. Writhing and twisting and churning over his icy aether and crushing it. Melting it away like a snowflake in the scorching sunlight.
His strength suddenly withered beneath her grasp. And she could hear him gasping for air as she forced her knee into his neck. Her fist slammed into his ribs and felt bone crack. The sound echoed but did little to alleviate the fury coiling inside her. It wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She needed more. She needed him to feel it! She wanted him to beg.
Ophelia! Bright smiles and happy eyes and always so eager to please. And now, she was bleeding there on the ground, dead. It was too late. Too late for anything. And that chanted in the back of her mind like a never-ending stream of regret. Not fast enough. Not quick enough. Why hadn’t she believed them sooner? Why hadn’t she listened?
She heard sobs in the background, recognized Hayden’s voice. But that only distracted her from her prey for a heartbeat or two. She turned back to see eyes glaring up at her through her haze of rage. Holmes' wrinkled face was twisted into something vile and proud. No remorse, not a damn drop of it. Even as she grinded her knee further into the soft tissues of his throat.
Her head rang, but she couldn’t be sure if that was from the one blow the old bastard had managed to land or something else entirely. Either way, she tasted blood on her tongue and bile in her throat. Her knuckles were raw as they fell again and again, and her vision swam in a sea of colors. The light blue of Ophelia’s eyes. The almost orange of her hair. The green of her favorite summer dress. The red of her blood as it seeped into the floor.
Belatedly, she noticed the body beneath her wasn't really struggling anymore. At least, not with any real effort. She heard his breath, gasping and gurgling. She smelled the distinct and bitter stench of blood. Was it his? Or was it Ophelia's? That pool on the floor, growing stickier and stickier by the second? Turning brown as even evidence of her life ebbed away?
Someone shouted then. She heard heavy fall of footsteps thundering from behind her. There was a screaming and the wet sound of flesh striking flesh. She saw Holmes' face, repulsive and burning with anger. He spat blood on her as soon as her knee eased up. Ione snapped her leg back into place and just growled, hand rising again.
But fingers wrapped around her wrist. They were somewhat cold fingers, thin and elegant. Like those of an artist. And the aether embracing them felt familiar. Warm and safe. Soothing as it lapped over her like Fenris or Inari when they wanted their heads scratched. It eased over her own power, which paused in the midst of its churning. Instead, it hesitated and then rose up eagerly to meet this familiar magic.
A spark of understanding pierced the fog of fury. She knew this person. This man.
“Stop it,” a voice said in her ear, and lips were pressed to her skin. Right where Aponi should be but wasn’t. “You're not this kind of person.”
She wanted to cry; she wanted to scream. Her head throbbed, and her side throbbed, and her throat was so thick, she could scarcely draw a breath. Something burned behind her eyes. But her cheeks were dry.
“You’re not this kind of person,” Gale repeated. He was directly behind her now, head over her shoulder and chest warm at her back. Like she wasn’t planted on top of another man doing her utmost to keep him from breathing.
“You barely know me,” Ione snapped back.
But she felt oddly drained. Empty. Her limbs were like loose strings as she was physically pulled back, legs not wanting to obey her commands.
“I know enough,” Gale murmured with more patience than Ione would’ve believed him able to hold at this moment and in this place. “Don’t let him take this from you. He doesn't deserve it.”
Ione wanted to snarl. To demand what the hell else Holmes could take from her. But she understood. Faye still lingered in the back of her mind. An accident, she’d been told dozens of times. By Gale himself as he curled up behind her. By her uncle as he cupped her face with his hands. By Sabriel when he’d caught her glaring at the bathwater like it’d personally offended her. Even by Azriel over tea. But she still dreamed at night of arms trying to drag her down into freezing depths. Of fingers jerking at her. Or maybe simply pleading for help. She’d never know the truth either way.
“He doesn’t deserve to take this from you.”
Gale’s hand was firm on her wrist, but his fingers stroked her skin delicately. She allowed him to pull her back several more steps, felt one arm wrap around just under her breasts. As if to ensure that she wouldn’t lurch forward and finish what she’d started. But Ione was too tired for that, too hollow now that her rage had drained away. She barely even noticed as Aponi alighted on her ear again and curled little insect feet in her hair. Ione didn’t even have the brain power to wonder where she’d gone in the first place. All she could do was stare at Holmes as he helplessly rolled onto his least damaged side and coughed up blood.
One of his hands was a gnarled and broken mess that matched his arm. And Ione had a second to ponder on how that’d happened. She didn’t remember doing it. Nor did she remember wrapping her fingers around his throat, but she could see the bruised evidence already forming. A sickly shade of purple against the putrid puce of his face and neck.
“He killed Ophelia.” Ione said that in a murmur. Just in case Gale had forgotten.
But he just brought her close to him and tightened the arm across her middle. His breath was hot on her ear, aether trying its best to blanket them both. But it was different now, faster and with an edge that didn’t cut her but lashed out instead at the man before them. And his voice when he spoke again was a low and dangerous thing. Just as calm as before but somehow more menacing for it.
“And I didn't say he wasn't going to die.”
Ione frowned and twisted to look at him. He must’ve been sure that all the fight had gone from her because he released her completely. Now standing there without restraint. Ione gazed at him for a second and turned on a heel to survey the massacre. Her eyes immediately fell on where Hayden wept over Ophelia's body as Cyrus stood by helplessly. Ione looked at him, but the man shook his head mutely. There was nothing that could be done for her. Too little, too late. Even magic couldn’t fix something like this. Couldn’t fix a beheading. Couldn’t bring back the dead.
Ione took a step. And then another. And another. Her knees were weak. Her hands were shaking – when had that started? And something dripped down her face. Ione scrubbed the back of one hand frantically across her face, telling herself that such weakness wasn't allowed. Not here. Not where Holmes, in all his bastard pride, could see.
She remembered Faye. Dear Diana, did she remember Faye. Hands grabbing. Enclosing darkness. Icy quiet over her head, in her ears, up her nose. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Pitch black and fighting for her life. The surface so close and far away, fingers scraping at ice. Screaming at the top of her lungs for a face that didn't appear.
Ione drew in a ragged breath. She was glad that Gale had stopped her. And a not so small part of Ione hated herself for that. Hated him, too.
“--an. Miss Tegan!”
She startled out of her reverie. Cyrus stood beside her, waving a hand in front of her eyes. Ione could only blink.
“You're bleeding.”
Concern darkened his eyes. They weren’t gray though. But rather a blue so pale that they were nearly the shade of ice, like waterglass. So familiar. Nearly the same color as Oph—
“No, I'm no--” A questing hand found a trickle that wasn't sweat on her forehead. “Ah, so I am.” She honestly hadn't noticed, but now, that she was thinking about it. “Oww. Here, too.” Her other hand pressed against her side.
A warm palm touched her forehead. Ione would’ve protested, but the tingle of magic that spread from the simple contact was surprisingly gentle. It trickled over her head, down across her shoulders, and over the rest of her body like a warm rain. Wow but Cyrus was really good at this. No wonder Gale had chosen him.
“They should’ve… listened to… me sooner,” Holmes rasped from somewhere behind them.
Ione stiffened. Even as her ears focused on his gurgling voice.
“I always… knew you were… a fucking traitor! A fucking coward… Just like your old man. Just like… that cousin. How’s he seeing… these days?”
It was surprising how much emotion he managed to force into his words. Even as he gasped for air through his damaged throat.
“Sabriel? Oh, he’s just fine. Never better really,” Gale returned. His voice was still low and cold. As warm as the glaciers on the far peaks of Dulan but with a mocking hint. “And the fact that you’re an honorless cretin has never escaped me either. You really should work on that.”
Holmes laughed, and it was a hollow and wet sound. “I… was under orders.”
“That’s just your excuse,” Gale dismissed, and Ione heard a tremor of something in his tone.
Then, there was a rustle of cloth, the sound of Holmes drawing in a hissed breath. Something snapped in the tense quiet, and Holmes keened in the back of his throat.
“Tut, tut.” Gale clicked his tongue. “At least be a man. Admit your own ruthless desires. Your own weakness. You enjoyed every minute of it.”
“Like you?” Holmes wheezed. “Takes a lot… to kill a man… when he's down.”
“And it takes a coward to kill a helpless woman,” Gale retorted, and the sick squelch of metal piercing flesh echoed behind her.
Ione didn't flinch. Neither did Cyrus. They didn’t even turn around as his magic poured over her and drew the worst of her injuries to a close. The skin was stretched pink and shiny over the wounds. She’d have scars, not that Ione cared.
Holmes chuckled. It was an eerie sound. Ione drew her hands into fists, breath coming in short pants. She stepped back to Gale’s side without even realizing it. And something crawled around in her chest, coiled around her heart, and bit down deep. She wanted to hurt him. He’d killed Ophelia. And now, he was mocking them.
“And look… at that? Now… your little whore… has come to… join in the fun.” His wrinkled face twisted into a parody of a smile. “Like taking… the Wyndhams’ dirty seconds… do you? But Celestine… had her too… didn’t he? Can’t even… do me in… herself. Has to get… you to do it. Can’t do… more than… spread-- Arrr…”
He let out a grunt as Gale’s boot crunched down on his unbroken hand and ground it into the stone floor. Ione saw her lover’s magic flare in a visible aura around him before he could pull it back in. But he had his own smile then, frosty and frightening.
“You,” he said then, so very cool and collected. “You’ll either speak to my lady with respect. Or you won’t speak ever again.”
Gale didn’t even glance at her as he paused. He just contemplated Holmes with a bland sort of assessment before taking a half-step forward. Aponi’s feet tugging on her ear was her only warning, but the deed was already done. Gale's hand rose and fell so quickly that Holmes couldn't even flinch. Ione wished she could experience some kind of horror at watching his death. But she shocked herself with her own apathy. With the buzz of relief that sloughed off into numbness. Not even the following tickle of Cyrus’ magic as he finished her healing made her feel anything.
Gale straightened after a few heartbeats. The blade dangling from his fingers dripped blood to the ground in an eerie cadence that resounded in her head.
“We have to hurry,” he put in quietly and in a low monotone that betrayed no emotion, even as his gaze fixed on her face. “Someone will get suspicious soon. Our work here’s done.”
“I'm not leaving her,” Hayden spoke for the first time, voice raw and aching. He dragged an arm across his eyes as he looked up at his rescuers. “I won't leave her here for these... monsters.”
Ione opened her mouth, but Gale was already there. He was at Hayden’s side, looking as composed as she’d ever seen him and not as if he’d just killed a man.
“I wouldn't dare leave her behind,” Gale said with such honesty that they couldn’t help but believe as he knelt down next to her.
Bells pierced through the night as his hand slid beneath her back. And the building shook on its foundations, likely the last of Sabriel’s distraction. They didn't have much time.
Gale picked Ophelia up, holding her limp weight effortlessly, even as Cyrus produced a cloak from somewhere and took the gory task of collecting the other parts of her. Ione led the way, and her arm around Hayden’s shoulders was the only thing keeping him on his feet. She didn’t bother to give Holmes a second glance as they left, and the expected stirring of regret didn't come.
Not when she slipped with the others following her example. Not when she crept from Meropis like a criminal, dodging the Brigade patrols and listening to Sabriel’s hard laugh echo above them. And not when they met the others in the forest and made a roundabout path back towards Paragon. Towards home.
Not that night. Or the next day as they travelled. Not even later when she curled up in her bed with Fenris and Inari, Aponi on her ear and Quetz around Gale’s neck. Not even as Gale stroked his hand down her back and whispered into her hair.
There simply was no regret for him, for Holmes. But for Ophelia, there was plenty.
* * * * *
a/n: .... Ouch. That was one of the most difficult, and best chapters of the series. It's where this story gets harsh and proves it's not all comedy and games. There's but one more chapter after this and then we dive into Whispers of Yesterday.
As always, feedback is most welcome and appreciated. *ducks to avoid flying projectiles*
Just a warning for my readers. This chapter? It's a doozy. Remember the M-rating? It's not just for sex. There's some battle-type gore in here, some blood, lots of battle type action, and heaps of drama and angst. Not to mention hints of torture (mostly background), a moment of insanity, and some character death. Yowza.
With that said, take caution in reading, but do enjoy.
Title: The Edge of Tomorrow
Series: Infinity's End
Rating: T to M
Genre: Romantic, Comedic, Erotic, Action-Adventure with a lemony twist of Het and a slice of Slash
Summary: Ione makes a difficult decision when her allies call for her imprisonment, forcing her to flee for her life. In the hands of the Theravada, she meets Gale Arlen, rumored leader of the rebels, and learns what it truly means to choose a side.
The beginning starts here.
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Chapter Twenty One
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It rained. Great, fat drops that slithered down Ione's neck and into the warm confines of her shirt. The mist was thick over Meropis, bathing everything in a grey fog that cloaked the ground and rose to a height nearly that of the shortest building’s roof. The silver crescent of the moon would’ve provided some light were it not concealed by the thick clouds of rain. And everywhere around them, the forest was still and silent, save for the sound of the rain striking the leaves. Chapter Twenty One
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It all made Ione very unsettled. Not nervous. She wouldn't call it nervous. But she was agitated. Ready. Her mind prepared and her heart all aflutter. She crouched on the thick branch of the massive redwood that she and Gale had taken as a perch. And she stared towards Meropis, her gaze focused on the jail that held Ophelia and Hayden, but it was little more than a speck in the distance. Not in Grayshire proper – as if the nobles wanted prisoners kept there – but in Moriarty instead. Making their task at least that much easier. But they were still too close to the wall that separated the inner and outer halves of the city.
On the other side of her, Gale stirred. His head was lifted, eyes searching as he no doubt sought the jail housing his former apprentice Cyrus. And across the way, in a similar situation, Ishmael and Helene were also waiting. Like everyone else, they were no doubt anticipating the signal that’d light their assault.
Ione shifted and made the branches rustle. Thereby effectively calling Gale's attention. He looked at her, green eyes glowing like a cat's in the dark. Ione shrugged, fingers looping around the nearest branch above her head.
“It's wet,” she said, voice a little above a whisper but still enough to make Aponi flutter from her hiding place in Ione’s hair.
“It's spring,” Gale returned more stiffly than she was used to hearing from him.
Ione raked her gaze over what she could see of Gale that wasn't obscured by rain and foliage.
He was stiff, shoulders locked in place as he hunched like a stone gargoyle.
“Why are you so tense?”
“This is anger,” Gale clarified with a quiet, bitter laugh. “Fury even.”
Ione blinked. “Oh?”
Gale didn't answer, and yes, she could concede fury to him. She’d rarely seen Gale show anything other than amusement. Embarrassment. The occasional bits of irritation. Lots of desire. He usually had something to say, some witty comeback. This hulking, silent creature was definitely not a happy Gale. This wasn’t her Gale. More like a stranger who’d stolen his face and form. Who masqueraded around with the taste of his aether.
His mouth was set in a grim line with his gaze focused. Ione was trying to do the same, but she couldn't with the knot of rage and guilt that twisted her innards. She turned her eyes back towards Meropis and anxiously awaited the signal. She would save Ophelia and Hayden. She owed the two of them that much.
A tongue snaking out of nowhere was Ione's only warning. And if she weren't more used to it, she would’ve reacted.
“He's worried,” Quetz murmured in Ione's ear. She’d risen off Gale's shoulder to lean towards the other human.
Gale scowled. He grabbed the serpent behind her head and unceremoniously shoved her back into his shirt. His collar gave a hiss in response that would’ve been comical under different circumstances.
“You hush,” he muttered.
And – ah! – there it was. A most familiar blush trying to spread across his face. At least, Ione assumed. It was hard to tell in this dank dark.
Quetz' raspy laughter could be heard from the confines of his clothing.
Ione shifted again, left foot prickling. “Worried?”
No one answered, but they had good reason. From the corner of her eye, Ione caught the flare of bright orange and red that split the rainy sky. It rose towards the clouds like a mushroom, and the sound of a large explosion broke the silent night. Kieran's work at its finest. If there was one thing the mad scientist could do effectively, it was blow shit up.
Ione exchanged a glance with Gale, and they waited a few moments more. It didn't take long before alarms rang out through Meropis, the harsh clanging of thick bells echoing discordant through the night. Another explosion lit the dark on the other side of the massive city. This was sure to confuse the Brigade, already running on skeleton due to the time of night.
Perfect.
“Let's go.”
They dropped from the branches to land with an audible squelch at the base of the tree. Inari and Fenris melded out of the darkness, appearing at their sides. The foursome didn't speak; they already knew what was required of them. And no time was wasted as they used the fog as a cover.
Gale followed Ione, her familiarity with the city much better than his own. Grayshire's prisons were divided into four sectors with varying securities for criminals depending on their offenses. Their spies on the inside had reported that the five rebels were being kept in separate locations. All the more difficult for them to be rescued. All the more obvious a trap to dilute their forces.
It was ridiculously easy to slip through the city. The fog helped to conceal their passing, and Ione knew the ins and outs of the street. She’d run them enough times as a kid and then later on in the Brigade when she’d been new or on punishment detail and had to patrol Moriarty. She led Gale to a guardhouse that was more jail than anything, an imposing building with a wide courtyard in front and to the sides. Its back was to the Grayshire boundary wall but didn’t quite touch. In fact, there was a very narrow alley that ran just behind, the route that most of the Brigade used during shift-changes. Only a member or a former one would even know it was there. And only someone familiar with the shifts would know when it was clear. But fortunately, Ione had been a lieutenant, and she’d had her share of unit rotations through here and the other jails in the city. She knew the layouts and habits of each were virtually identical and that right now was the perfect time to slip in unnoticed.
There was a single guard on the back door. A young and fresh-faced rookie who was dozing on the job. He couldn’t have been older than Ishmael, and it was obvious that this had to be his first assignment. That was the only explanation for why he’d be on the graveyard shift on a weekend. Ione’s whispered sleeping spell effectively turned his little snooze into an outright nap.
“It’ll only last for twenty minutes. We have to be quick,” she murmured as Gale moved ahead of her.
He didn’t bother with the guard’s keys, which were spelled for Brigade use only. Instead, he used a zap of his magic to the undo the lock. Even going so far as to use more to silence the squeaky door as it opened.
“I'll stay here. Keep lookout,” Fenris inserted from by her knees. He slipped off into the fog-covered darkness at her nod, undoubtedly searching for a prime spot to take watch.
Somewhere to their far left, jets of orange and white shot into the sky. Another of Kieran’s firebombs. Sabriel really seemed to be enjoying himself out there, didn’t he?
Gale inclined his head, and they slipped inside. The door closed behind them, but Ione had expected that. She didn’t even glance at it as she led them down a short hallway and to a room that was a combination lounge and break area. The two people inside – a middle-aged woman and a man old enough to be Azriel’s father – went down to a sleep spell as easily as the rookie outside. The office along the far wall was empty when they unlocked it, but as expected, the list of prisoners and their locations was inside.
The jail was only half-full as they made their way to Cyrus’ cell. It was expected this time of year since the winter cold tended to kill off a fair number. Not to mention that it was slackly patrolled, which was the norm for such a shit assignment. Grayshire should’ve anticipated something like this, something like a rescue attempt. Hadn't they set it as a trap? Or had they thought the rebels foolish enough to conduct an all-out assault? Or possibly try and interrupt the execution in the middle of it as Gale had done for his cousin?
Preposterous.
But luck ran out when Aponi suddenly dug her feet into Ione’s ear, and she paused inches from turning a corner. Of course, it wasn’t her luck that ran out. A fact that was proven when she peeked around the edge and found someone she’d never hoped to see again. But now that she had, Ione couldn’t help but smirk. She allowed Gale his own look, and he knew what was going to happen without even needing an explanation.
Ione just stuck one hand around the corner, aimed, and let her magic loose. Vaughn managed to dive out of the way in the nick of time, but his patrol partner got the full blast. He was down and out in seconds, even as Vaughn rolled to one knee and sought out his attacker. But more magic was already sailing his way. And far too quickly for him to dodge or shield this time.
He might’ve become lieutenant after her, but he hadn’t earned the post like Ione had. He’d only gotten it because Dharva liked him the best out of everyone. Which probably had to do with the fact that they were cousins, not that Ione was supposed to know that. Either way, he wasn’t anywhere near as good a fighter as Ione herself. Not after the last several weeks and the incident with Faye. Ones where she’d finally gotten off her ass and had seriously started training again. Vaughn couldn’t hold a candle to the level of skill of Ishmael or Sabriel. Much less Gale.
He went down in the second volley without even managing to cast anything in return. Pathetic really. Doubly so when she bent down next to him to see that he wasn’t completely out yet, just on the verge of it. Eyes rolling into the back of his head in a manner that told her he’d really feel it when he woke up.
“Nighty-night,” she wished him with a wicked voice and added a sleep spell just because she could. She did, however, resist kicking him between the legs. Vaughn deserved it, but she’d want him to be conscious for that part.
Ione just settled for wiping her hand on his pants and then straightening. She joined up with Gale at the intersection. They made their way through two more before he nudged her in the side, pointing towards a cell several feet away and the man inside barely visible through the bars. His hair was dank and obviously unwashed hair, so dirty that she couldn’t even tell the original color. He didn’t look up at their arrival, barely twitched in fact. The man simply stayed on his cot with his back to the wall and hands folded in his lap as he stared at the floor. His hair shielded his eyes from them, but it was clear he was a lanky man beneath the thin robes. Thin and nearly gaunt. Ione had to wonder if that was a natural occurrence or if they’d been starving him.
“You could look a little happier to see me, Cyrus,” Gale murmured through the bars.
The man – Cyrus – started. His head snapped up, revealing pale irises the might’ve been grey and a lean face. His eyes widened in absolute shock as leapt to his feet in a stubbing motion and rushed forward.
“Master Arlen!” Cyrus' fingers curled around the bars of the door, shock written into his features. “You... What are you doing here?”
“Isn't it obvious?” Gale returned as he pondered the lock, which was a bit more complicated than the one outside. “And didn't I tell you to stop calling me that? I'm no one's master.”
Cyrus muttered something and looked away, gaze falling on Ione. She didn't know Cyrus very well. He was older than her and had graduated from the Conservatory before she had. Ione knew him by name only, and even then, he’d never stood out. All of society had wondered for the longest time what made him so special to be chosen by High Lord Arlen. As odd as Gale could be, most of the nobles would’ve sold their own mothers to be offered an apprenticeship to him. To be personally trained by the head of a great family was an enormous honor and came with quite a bit of clout and acclaim. Cyrus could’ve had nearly any position he wanted if he’d completed his training.
“Where's the key?” Gale asked, giving the bars a test shake.
They didn't even rattle.
Ione shook her head. “It's magically sealed. Keyed to the jailer's signature.”
“Hmmm.” Gale pursed his lips, glaring at the simple lock. “That makes things more complicated.”
His shirt rustled then, and Quetz peeked out from the back. Out of Cyrus’ line of sight.
“Just shove some magic at it, Gale. From what I'm feeling, you're stronger than whoever sealed it.”
She said it all with a casual voice. As though busting out prisoners was an everyday occurrence. Though as a member of the Theravada, maybe it was.
Aponi shifted on Ione’s ear. “Yes, just a short and sharp burst. It shouldn’t be hard.”
Gale held a look of annoyance, but he tried it anyway. The lock more than opened; it melted beneath his finger. First turning red-hot and then dripping to the ground as though the metal were nothing more than candle wax as the door swung silently inwards.
There was a flutter of robes. And then, Cyrus was hugging Gale, sobbing all the while and generally sounding like a royal mess. Ione grimaced and instantly thought that he and Kieran would get along great. Perhaps a reason that they should never meet. Paragon didn't need two men of their caliber. Even Azriel would have a mental meltdown.
“Why didn't you take me?” Cyrus all but wailed.
Which prompted Ione to give him a look of alarm. One that said “shut up or you'll get us all killed!”
Gale patted him awkwardly on the back for a few seconds. Then, he looked helplessly at her. But it wasn’t like Ione knew what to do either. Hysterical men didn’t just throw themselves at her on a regular basis.
“You didn't even ask me,” he continued as Gale managed to pry him away to catch his breath. Watery eyes regarded his former master stubbornly, though the effect was lost when rimmed with red. “You left me behind.”
He was a strange kid. Granted, Cyrus was older than her. But one wouldn’t be able to tell from the way he was acting. Ione certainly couldn't.
“You wouldn't have understood then,” Gale explained.
And rather gently at that, Ione noticed. It was the softest she’d ever seen him, excepting the way he treated Naomi and the other kids of Paragon.
“Well, I certainly get it now,” Cyrus retorted bitterly. One hand rubbed over his wrists as if in remembrance of the shackles that had been locked around them. “You shouldn't have come. We're only bait.”
Ione smirked and motioned over her shoulder in the direction they’d come. “We noticed that part. Not that he put up much of a fight.”
Those pale eyes swung her direction with recognition dawning. “Lieutenant Tegan.” Then, Cyrus paused and tilted his head. “I thought you were dead.”
“Oh, is that the story they're spreading now?” she asked pointedly and glanced at Gale. “You didn't tell me.”
He shrugged and brushed off his shoulders. “Dead or a traitor. Either way, to Grayshire you’re expendable. Don't worry, my dear. Your parents know the truth. That's all that matters.”
Gale had a point. Dammit.
Ione sniffed. “Still, a girl’d like to know when she's been declared dead. I didn't even have a will.”
She jogged over to the nearest window then to peer out. And just in time to see a flare of bright orange in the distance. She grinned and motioned for the two of them to follow her back out the way they’d come. It only took a few minutes to reach the exit.
“We're in the clear,” Fenris announced, trotting back into view when they stepped outside. “The time to move is now. Inari's watching the end of the alleyway as we speak.”
Cyrus gaped at the wolf. “The... The dog spoke,” he said and grabbed Gale's sleeve to tug on it. “Right? The dog spoke?” He did a double-take when he finally noticed Aponi. “There’s a butterfly on your ear.”
“That’s Aponi. And actually, Fenris is a wolf,” Ione corrected over her shoulder, moving to follow him as he padded away from the jail. “And yes, he speaks. They both do. Fenris is rather good at chess so long as you give him enough time to move the pieces with his nose.”
Cyrus goggled at them. It took him a minute to recall how to speak.
“His... nose?”
Gale chuckled. “You'll get used to it.” He clapped his hand on Cyrus' shoulder and steered him out after Ione.
Cyrus just blinked at him and allowed himself to be tugged into the darkness.
Sabriel’s distraction worked better than they expected. The hallways of the next jail were minimally staffed, and those there were easily dispatched. Inari met them outside the building and gave Cyrus another fright. And together, the fox and the wolf kept an eye on their escape route from the shadows and left the humans to retrieve their allies.
Ione heard the shrieks and was hit with the scent of blood long before anything else. The first echoed long and loud in the halls, an agonizing sound that made them all gag. The latter was enough to cause bile to rise in her throat. Even as her heart thumped in her chest.
No. No… It couldn’t be.
She broke into a run, ignoring Gale's calls behind her. Ione's senses screamed, familiar aether rising ahead of her. And another one, unfamiliar but rimed in power. Practically breathing with it. Icy tendrils that lashed at her skin as she neared.
Her boots slapped against the stone floor, and Ione blasted the first soldier who came running with a gust of wind. It slammed his body into the wall with a crack. He slumped and bonelessly slid into a heap. Ione paid him no attention, already rounding the next bend. But she skidded to a halt as the corridor, already lined with unoccupied cells, opened into a much larger room. A single chandelier lit the massive space, and for the lack of furniture or decoration, it wasn't that hard for Ione to spot the room's human residents.
Ione saw Ophelia first. Saw the puddle of crimson between the girl's body and her head. The auburn of her hair was stained a ghastly shade, and her face was fixed in a look of shock mixed with puzzlement. And then, Ione saw Hayden. The blade raised over his neck. The emptiness in his eyes as he stared at his betrothed. She saw Holmes' back, his lifted arm. Blood was already splashed on one shirt sleeve because he hadn't cared enough to wipe it away.
In the back of her mind, she saw Grayson and the giant burn scar that marred his back and stretched all the way up to curl into his hairline. She saw Ryder's pain over his lost brother and sister-in-law. She saw Sabriel, single eye and an empty hole where the other should be. She saw Ophelia laughing and so full of life, giddy over her upcoming wedding. She saw Holmes' sneering face.
Ione cracked.
She didn't see red. Ione saw a kaleidoscope of colors, all boiling down to a smudge of thought that became just one word.
Destroy.
Ione felt her blood boil as she dove forward. It was a move without thought, without reason. Without anything but the need to make this man hurt. She didn’t think about the fact that he was stronger. That he was older and more powerful. All she knew was the sharp flare of her aether and the coppery taste on her tongue. The magic as it writhed around her and begged for release. The ring of Ophelia’s shrieks in her ears and the utter despair on Hayden’s face even now.
She made a sound all too much like a roar. Holmes had a split second to start to turn before she was on him, driving him down to the ground from the force of one blow alone. She heard the dim sound of his sword dropping to the floor and someone's startled gasp. Magic rose and collided, swirling energies knocking one against the other in the small space. A howl built in Ione's chest and sought to spill from her lips. She felt a tangle of emotions, all colliding one against the other. Rage and hate and make him bleed because he did it; he killed her, and Ione was too late.
Bone cracked under a fist powered by a mixture of fury and earth magic. More powerful than any she’d ever done before. Flesh gave away underneath her fingernails as she slashed at him with one hand, and something shifted wetly beneath her touch. Beneath the sudden feel of her fingers wrapping around a throat. There was a flap of gold and black in front of her face, but she just jerked her head lower to see around and to stare back into his eyes.
Pain radiated like a heat through her side, and she grunted and retaliated in the only way she knew how – with more pain. They tumbled and rolled, grappling for the better ground, but Ione had wrath on her side. She had blind rage and hatred. Loathing of the deepest and strongest sort. The kind that pulled at aspects of herself she’d never known she had. The parts that told her to kill, to maim and torture. To cause agony. And her magic thrashed like a living thing caught in the throes of ecstasy. Writhing and twisting and churning over his icy aether and crushing it. Melting it away like a snowflake in the scorching sunlight.
His strength suddenly withered beneath her grasp. And she could hear him gasping for air as she forced her knee into his neck. Her fist slammed into his ribs and felt bone crack. The sound echoed but did little to alleviate the fury coiling inside her. It wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She needed more. She needed him to feel it! She wanted him to beg.
Ophelia! Bright smiles and happy eyes and always so eager to please. And now, she was bleeding there on the ground, dead. It was too late. Too late for anything. And that chanted in the back of her mind like a never-ending stream of regret. Not fast enough. Not quick enough. Why hadn’t she believed them sooner? Why hadn’t she listened?
She heard sobs in the background, recognized Hayden’s voice. But that only distracted her from her prey for a heartbeat or two. She turned back to see eyes glaring up at her through her haze of rage. Holmes' wrinkled face was twisted into something vile and proud. No remorse, not a damn drop of it. Even as she grinded her knee further into the soft tissues of his throat.
Her head rang, but she couldn’t be sure if that was from the one blow the old bastard had managed to land or something else entirely. Either way, she tasted blood on her tongue and bile in her throat. Her knuckles were raw as they fell again and again, and her vision swam in a sea of colors. The light blue of Ophelia’s eyes. The almost orange of her hair. The green of her favorite summer dress. The red of her blood as it seeped into the floor.
Belatedly, she noticed the body beneath her wasn't really struggling anymore. At least, not with any real effort. She heard his breath, gasping and gurgling. She smelled the distinct and bitter stench of blood. Was it his? Or was it Ophelia's? That pool on the floor, growing stickier and stickier by the second? Turning brown as even evidence of her life ebbed away?
Someone shouted then. She heard heavy fall of footsteps thundering from behind her. There was a screaming and the wet sound of flesh striking flesh. She saw Holmes' face, repulsive and burning with anger. He spat blood on her as soon as her knee eased up. Ione snapped her leg back into place and just growled, hand rising again.
But fingers wrapped around her wrist. They were somewhat cold fingers, thin and elegant. Like those of an artist. And the aether embracing them felt familiar. Warm and safe. Soothing as it lapped over her like Fenris or Inari when they wanted their heads scratched. It eased over her own power, which paused in the midst of its churning. Instead, it hesitated and then rose up eagerly to meet this familiar magic.
A spark of understanding pierced the fog of fury. She knew this person. This man.
“Stop it,” a voice said in her ear, and lips were pressed to her skin. Right where Aponi should be but wasn’t. “You're not this kind of person.”
She wanted to cry; she wanted to scream. Her head throbbed, and her side throbbed, and her throat was so thick, she could scarcely draw a breath. Something burned behind her eyes. But her cheeks were dry.
“You’re not this kind of person,” Gale repeated. He was directly behind her now, head over her shoulder and chest warm at her back. Like she wasn’t planted on top of another man doing her utmost to keep him from breathing.
“You barely know me,” Ione snapped back.
But she felt oddly drained. Empty. Her limbs were like loose strings as she was physically pulled back, legs not wanting to obey her commands.
“I know enough,” Gale murmured with more patience than Ione would’ve believed him able to hold at this moment and in this place. “Don’t let him take this from you. He doesn't deserve it.”
Ione wanted to snarl. To demand what the hell else Holmes could take from her. But she understood. Faye still lingered in the back of her mind. An accident, she’d been told dozens of times. By Gale himself as he curled up behind her. By her uncle as he cupped her face with his hands. By Sabriel when he’d caught her glaring at the bathwater like it’d personally offended her. Even by Azriel over tea. But she still dreamed at night of arms trying to drag her down into freezing depths. Of fingers jerking at her. Or maybe simply pleading for help. She’d never know the truth either way.
“He doesn’t deserve to take this from you.”
Gale’s hand was firm on her wrist, but his fingers stroked her skin delicately. She allowed him to pull her back several more steps, felt one arm wrap around just under her breasts. As if to ensure that she wouldn’t lurch forward and finish what she’d started. But Ione was too tired for that, too hollow now that her rage had drained away. She barely even noticed as Aponi alighted on her ear again and curled little insect feet in her hair. Ione didn’t even have the brain power to wonder where she’d gone in the first place. All she could do was stare at Holmes as he helplessly rolled onto his least damaged side and coughed up blood.
One of his hands was a gnarled and broken mess that matched his arm. And Ione had a second to ponder on how that’d happened. She didn’t remember doing it. Nor did she remember wrapping her fingers around his throat, but she could see the bruised evidence already forming. A sickly shade of purple against the putrid puce of his face and neck.
“He killed Ophelia.” Ione said that in a murmur. Just in case Gale had forgotten.
But he just brought her close to him and tightened the arm across her middle. His breath was hot on her ear, aether trying its best to blanket them both. But it was different now, faster and with an edge that didn’t cut her but lashed out instead at the man before them. And his voice when he spoke again was a low and dangerous thing. Just as calm as before but somehow more menacing for it.
“And I didn't say he wasn't going to die.”
Ione frowned and twisted to look at him. He must’ve been sure that all the fight had gone from her because he released her completely. Now standing there without restraint. Ione gazed at him for a second and turned on a heel to survey the massacre. Her eyes immediately fell on where Hayden wept over Ophelia's body as Cyrus stood by helplessly. Ione looked at him, but the man shook his head mutely. There was nothing that could be done for her. Too little, too late. Even magic couldn’t fix something like this. Couldn’t fix a beheading. Couldn’t bring back the dead.
Ione took a step. And then another. And another. Her knees were weak. Her hands were shaking – when had that started? And something dripped down her face. Ione scrubbed the back of one hand frantically across her face, telling herself that such weakness wasn't allowed. Not here. Not where Holmes, in all his bastard pride, could see.
She remembered Faye. Dear Diana, did she remember Faye. Hands grabbing. Enclosing darkness. Icy quiet over her head, in her ears, up her nose. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Pitch black and fighting for her life. The surface so close and far away, fingers scraping at ice. Screaming at the top of her lungs for a face that didn't appear.
Ione drew in a ragged breath. She was glad that Gale had stopped her. And a not so small part of Ione hated herself for that. Hated him, too.
“--an. Miss Tegan!”
She startled out of her reverie. Cyrus stood beside her, waving a hand in front of her eyes. Ione could only blink.
“You're bleeding.”
Concern darkened his eyes. They weren’t gray though. But rather a blue so pale that they were nearly the shade of ice, like waterglass. So familiar. Nearly the same color as Oph—
“No, I'm no--” A questing hand found a trickle that wasn't sweat on her forehead. “Ah, so I am.” She honestly hadn't noticed, but now, that she was thinking about it. “Oww. Here, too.” Her other hand pressed against her side.
A warm palm touched her forehead. Ione would’ve protested, but the tingle of magic that spread from the simple contact was surprisingly gentle. It trickled over her head, down across her shoulders, and over the rest of her body like a warm rain. Wow but Cyrus was really good at this. No wonder Gale had chosen him.
“They should’ve… listened to… me sooner,” Holmes rasped from somewhere behind them.
Ione stiffened. Even as her ears focused on his gurgling voice.
“I always… knew you were… a fucking traitor! A fucking coward… Just like your old man. Just like… that cousin. How’s he seeing… these days?”
It was surprising how much emotion he managed to force into his words. Even as he gasped for air through his damaged throat.
“Sabriel? Oh, he’s just fine. Never better really,” Gale returned. His voice was still low and cold. As warm as the glaciers on the far peaks of Dulan but with a mocking hint. “And the fact that you’re an honorless cretin has never escaped me either. You really should work on that.”
Holmes laughed, and it was a hollow and wet sound. “I… was under orders.”
“That’s just your excuse,” Gale dismissed, and Ione heard a tremor of something in his tone.
Then, there was a rustle of cloth, the sound of Holmes drawing in a hissed breath. Something snapped in the tense quiet, and Holmes keened in the back of his throat.
“Tut, tut.” Gale clicked his tongue. “At least be a man. Admit your own ruthless desires. Your own weakness. You enjoyed every minute of it.”
“Like you?” Holmes wheezed. “Takes a lot… to kill a man… when he's down.”
“And it takes a coward to kill a helpless woman,” Gale retorted, and the sick squelch of metal piercing flesh echoed behind her.
Ione didn't flinch. Neither did Cyrus. They didn’t even turn around as his magic poured over her and drew the worst of her injuries to a close. The skin was stretched pink and shiny over the wounds. She’d have scars, not that Ione cared.
Holmes chuckled. It was an eerie sound. Ione drew her hands into fists, breath coming in short pants. She stepped back to Gale’s side without even realizing it. And something crawled around in her chest, coiled around her heart, and bit down deep. She wanted to hurt him. He’d killed Ophelia. And now, he was mocking them.
“And look… at that? Now… your little whore… has come to… join in the fun.” His wrinkled face twisted into a parody of a smile. “Like taking… the Wyndhams’ dirty seconds… do you? But Celestine… had her too… didn’t he? Can’t even… do me in… herself. Has to get… you to do it. Can’t do… more than… spread-- Arrr…”
He let out a grunt as Gale’s boot crunched down on his unbroken hand and ground it into the stone floor. Ione saw her lover’s magic flare in a visible aura around him before he could pull it back in. But he had his own smile then, frosty and frightening.
“You,” he said then, so very cool and collected. “You’ll either speak to my lady with respect. Or you won’t speak ever again.”
Gale didn’t even glance at her as he paused. He just contemplated Holmes with a bland sort of assessment before taking a half-step forward. Aponi’s feet tugging on her ear was her only warning, but the deed was already done. Gale's hand rose and fell so quickly that Holmes couldn't even flinch. Ione wished she could experience some kind of horror at watching his death. But she shocked herself with her own apathy. With the buzz of relief that sloughed off into numbness. Not even the following tickle of Cyrus’ magic as he finished her healing made her feel anything.
Gale straightened after a few heartbeats. The blade dangling from his fingers dripped blood to the ground in an eerie cadence that resounded in her head.
“We have to hurry,” he put in quietly and in a low monotone that betrayed no emotion, even as his gaze fixed on her face. “Someone will get suspicious soon. Our work here’s done.”
“I'm not leaving her,” Hayden spoke for the first time, voice raw and aching. He dragged an arm across his eyes as he looked up at his rescuers. “I won't leave her here for these... monsters.”
Ione opened her mouth, but Gale was already there. He was at Hayden’s side, looking as composed as she’d ever seen him and not as if he’d just killed a man.
“I wouldn't dare leave her behind,” Gale said with such honesty that they couldn’t help but believe as he knelt down next to her.
Bells pierced through the night as his hand slid beneath her back. And the building shook on its foundations, likely the last of Sabriel’s distraction. They didn't have much time.
Gale picked Ophelia up, holding her limp weight effortlessly, even as Cyrus produced a cloak from somewhere and took the gory task of collecting the other parts of her. Ione led the way, and her arm around Hayden’s shoulders was the only thing keeping him on his feet. She didn’t bother to give Holmes a second glance as they left, and the expected stirring of regret didn't come.
Not when she slipped with the others following her example. Not when she crept from Meropis like a criminal, dodging the Brigade patrols and listening to Sabriel’s hard laugh echo above them. And not when they met the others in the forest and made a roundabout path back towards Paragon. Towards home.
Not that night. Or the next day as they travelled. Not even later when she curled up in her bed with Fenris and Inari, Aponi on her ear and Quetz around Gale’s neck. Not even as Gale stroked his hand down her back and whispered into her hair.
There simply was no regret for him, for Holmes. But for Ophelia, there was plenty.
a/n: .... Ouch. That was one of the most difficult, and best chapters of the series. It's where this story gets harsh and proves it's not all comedy and games. There's but one more chapter after this and then we dive into Whispers of Yesterday.
As always, feedback is most welcome and appreciated. *ducks to avoid flying projectiles*
