Bind the Soul (16 page)

“Take it,” Samael ordered softly.

She swallowed hard and reached for the Sahar. Careful not to touch his skin, she lifted the chain until the Stone rose from his palm. Heart pounding, she slowly closed her other hand around it. It was heavier than it looked, strangely dense, alien against her skin. But she felt nothing else. No sudden heat or surge of power.

Samael’s hand closed around her wrist. She flinched, though his touch hadn’t hurt. His hands were warm. She’d expected his skin to be cold. He pulled her hand closer to him.

“Open your fingers.”

She obeyed. He laid a fingertip on the Sahar. His eyes went out of focus as his attention shifted to some internal sense. For five minutes, they sat unmoving while he did whatever it was he was doing.

He eventually refocused on her. She shrank slightly.

“Commune with the Stone,” he ordered.

“I—I don’t understand.”

“Attempt to connect to its power. You have already done this, if unintentionally.”

Panic flared inside her. She had no idea what he meant but dared not say so. Breathing fast at the prospect of failing, she looked at the Stone and concentrated. Nothing happened. She tried to recapture the feeling from the one time she’d used it. Tried to will the power into her. Tried to make some sort of connection—even as she wondered how the hell she was supposed to mentally connect with an inanimate object. It didn’t make sense.

Once it was clear she wasn’t making any progress, Samael began making suggestions. None worked. He tried holding the Stone at the same time as her to see whether he could commune with it instead. With each failure, she expected fury, but he merely told her to keep trying and continued suggesting new strategies, everything from mediation to visualization to getting angry. She attempted everything he suggested. Nothing.

Finally, he lifted the Sahar from her hand and sat back in his chair. He pushed his pale braid off his shoulder and rolled the Stone between two fingers. Piper clenched and unclenched her hands.

“I am disappointed, Piper,” he said softly.

“I—I tried everything. I don’t know how. I told you I did it by accident.”

“You must find a way to duplicate that accident.”

“I’m sorry.” She fought back tears, desperation clawing her insides. He was going to send her back to the bastille. “I’ll keep trying. I—I’ll figure it out.”

“Perhaps you will be better motivated next time. I hope for your sake that progress is made.” He rose to his feet.

“No—I’ll keep trying—please, let me—”

Samael walked out of the room.

Raum’s fingers pinched her arm. She swallowed back her pleas. He dragged her from the seat and steered her across the room and out into a side hall. The tears she’d held back in front of Samael trickled down her cheeks.

“I tried. I really, really tried,” she choked.

Raum didn’t reply. He guided her back through the luxurious manor. The bastille was several buildings away, the elaborate complex joined by covered courtyards and arching hallways that acted as bridges. She barely noticed the daemons they passed—until she glimpsed one with iridescent red hair. She stopped dead and turned.

The draconian walking in the other direction noticed her attention and paused. He was maybe fourteen, his hair rumpled like a typical teenager’s. He had three half-healed cuts across his face and one arm strapped to his chest to keep the injured limb from moving. He wore black clothes similar to Raum’s but carried no weapons.

She and the young draconian stared at each other. His dull eyes were paler than Raum’s, almost ice blue. Curiosity flickered in them as he glanced at her prisoner’s garb.

Raum reached for her. She stepped away and faced the draconian.

“Where’s Ash?” she asked sharply.

Surprise flashed across the draconian’s face and his gaze darted sharply to the left. Piper turned in that direction. A window alcove offered a shocking view of the hovering planet, as well as a view of a long, low building set in a corner of the compound.

“What’s that building?” she demanded, looking back at the draconian.

His eyes were wide and horrified. He backed away. Raum swept past Piper. Before she could react, he’d backhanded the young draconian across the face with enough force to throw him to the floor. The boy scrambled to his feet, hand pressed again his face and blood running from the corner of his mouth. He slashed a hateful glare at Piper before breaking into a run and vanishing around the corner.

She planted her feet to keep from cowering as Raum turned to her.

“What’s that building?” she asked again.

He grabbed her arm in a painfully tight grip and hauled her down the hall. She half-jogged to keep up, trying not to whimper. He didn’t loosen his grip until they reached the bastille. Two black-clad jailors came forward to take her.

Raum bent down, putting his face close to hers. “I underestimated your capacity for manipulation, Piper. I won’t forget.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“You took advantage of a child. Now I have to beat him for his error.”

“You—no, don’t—don’t do that!”

“I have no choice. He should have known better.”

The two jailors took her arms. The draconian watched as they dragged her backward, his face colder than she’d ever seen it.

“No—Raum, don’t hurt him. It was my fault. Beat me instead. Punish me!”

The force of his stare diminished as he slid back into his chronic apathy. He looked at her jailors. “Take her back to her cell. No rations.”

“Wha—Samael didn’t say no rations. Raum? Samael didn’t say that!”

The draconian walked away just like Samael had, leaving her to her fate without a second glance.

CHAPTER 10

T
WELVE
hours later, she thought she might be going crazy.

During the night, she got clever by stuffing her blanket over the grate in her cell and lying on top of it. It wasn’t quite as warm as wrapping up in the blanket but it kept the rat-things out. Unfortunately, that left her no distractions. Hunger. Thirst. Cold. Tired. So tired.

Terror crawled through her veins. Hysteria tickled the edges of her mind. The other thought plaguing her, one that refused to go silent, was her guilt over the draconian youth. Yes, she’d shot that question at him hoping he would give something away. All the draconians trapped by Samael would know each other and would likely have a general idea of where one another were. As he had. But she hadn’t expected Raum’s reaction. She hadn’t expected the boy to be punished. He hadn’t answered her; he’d just looked in Ash’s direction—a simple, innocent reaction to someone snapping a question in his face. She hadn’t wanted him to be hurt for it. Her fault. Her selfish mistake.

In the long, empty silence, her brain plucked up other worries for her to agonize over. Micah’s parting words kept coming back to circle in her thoughts: Blood Kiss. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good, but she had no way of finding out what it was. Despite that, her mind kept prodding it like a sore tooth, searching for answers that weren’t there.

The jailors eventually returned. Her exhaustion, the hunger and thirst, all took second place to desperation. This time, the stares didn’t bother her as they passed through the complex; she was too focused on her task of communing with the Sahar. Making something happen. Making progress—any progress.

The jailors led her back to Samael’s office. With a cursory tap on the door, one of them pushed it open and the other shoved her through. The door was shut behind her.

Samael sat behind his desk, waiting. His presence weighed on the room like a toxin in the air.

“Piper.” His blade-sharp stare sliced her. “I hope you will not disappoint me today.”

She mumbled her agreement. He watched her. She stood by the door, staring at the floor, afraid to move.

“Sit.”

She crept to the chair in front of his desk and sat. Her head spun.

Samael studied her some more. She hunched her shoulders, keeping her gaze fixed on her scabbed, bruised feet.

“I wish to test a theory,” he said. “I suspect you are not in the proper mindset to duplicate your first success with the Sahar. I think we need to recreate similar circumstances of desperation.”

Her eyes widened. That sounded bad—really bad. “N-no, I—I can do it. I’ll get it this time. I will.”

Her knees trembled. Samael motivated people through torture. Was he going to have her tortured to make her properly desperate?

The side door leading to the sitting room opened. She looked up. Raum walked in, followed by someone else. She stared at the daemon, trying to figure out why he seemed familiar. Tall, older, long brown hair tied back in a low ponytail, a neat goatee. His face meant nothing to her, but there was something about his hazel eyes . . .

The daemon seemed to recognize her too. His eyes widened slightly when he spotted her, his steps slowing.

“Did you complete your examination?” Samael asked.

The daemon turned toward the Hades Warlord, his gaze razor sharp. “Yes. It seems to be working as you intended. The combination is causing severe mental stress as well.”

The daemon’s voice was a deep baritone with an exotic layering of accents—and she realized who it was. Her heart leaped into her throat. The daemon was Vejovis, the Overworld healer.

She remembered her first meeting with him vividly. Five weeks ago, he’d been impersonating a doctor to heal patients in the same medical center where Piper’s father had been recovering after the Gaians had attacked the Consulate. The healer had saved Ash’s life that day, perhaps trying to make up for failing to save Ash’s sister years before.

She opened her mouth—and Vejovis swung his gaze her way. His glare hit her like a punch to the gut. She snapped her mouth shut.

“How long?” Samael asked calmly, his heavy gaze observing the silent interaction between them.

“Maybe two weeks if he doesn’t go mad first.”

Samael nodded. “One more then and we’re finished.” He gestured to Piper. “How is she?”

Vejovis gave her a critical look but didn’t move any closer. “Dehydrated and starved. Obvious, isn’t it? Some of those bites on her feet look infected. Treat them if you want her alive next week.”

Samael’s voice cooled. “That’s the extent of your exam?”

“You don’t need a healer to tell you what you’ve done to her.” An icy pause. “Our deal is complete.”

“Fine,” Samael said. “You’re sworn to silence. Do not forget. You may go.”

Vejovis nodded curtly and turned. He met Piper’s eyes as he passed. Sadness shadowed his gaze. He walked past her and left the room.

She watched him go, feeling as though she were shattering inside. When she’d seen him, hope had sparked inside her. Vejovis had helped Ash twice before. Maybe he could help her. But he’d walked away as if she were already dead. The ashes of hope choked her.

“Let us continue,” Samael said, rising to his feet.

Panic flared through her. Oh God. Was he going to torture her? She had to get it right on her first try. She had to figure out the Stone in one shot.

Samael circled his desk and headed for the side door. Raum pushed her into line behind the Warlord. She followed Samael through the doorway, fighting the blinding need to run. Her knees shook and her breath came fast.

The fight against panic consumed so much of her attention that she didn’t immediately notice the other people standing in the room. When she saw two black-clad jailors, terror seized her muscles and she stopped dead. They must be the torturers. In front of them stood a woman, also in black. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, her makeup dark and dramatic on her sculpted features.

Her smile was acidic. “This must be her.”

Piper gasped and stepped backward. She thumped into Raum and her knees almost buckled.

“Get a hold of yourself, sweetheart,” the woman said, smirking. “We aren’t here for you.”

She stepped aside and Piper saw what she hadn’t noticed before.

There was a fourth person, on his knees between the two jailors. Even before the woman grabbed a handful of dark hair and yanked his head back, she knew who it was.

“
Ash!
” she screamed.

She lunged forward. Raum grabbed her upper arms and hauled her back. She hung in his grip, her heart breaking.

Ash’s eyes were black as pitch. They rolled toward her but she couldn’t tell whether he recognized her. A cruel metal bit—the same kind used by prefects—was strapped to his face and would have a hidden metal plate pressing down on his tongue, preventing speech. His cheeks were hollow, his face gaunt, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes.

His bare torso told the story of the last five weeks. She could count his ribs. His skin, normally a warm honey-tan, was pale and sickly. Cuts and bruises marred his chest and stomach, some old, some fresh. Thick manacles joined by a foot of heavy chain trapped his arms behind his back and, if the bruises and dried blood around his wrists were any indication, they’d been in place for some time.