The Daughter Of Lava (#3 Reclaimed Souls Series) (10 page)

“Look out below!” a voice calls from above us.

We look up just as a group pushes a congealed Patroxi off the roof. As it hits the courtyard’s cobblestone, part of its shell explodes, taking down those close enough to it. The damned thing comes out roaring, screeching, and swinging its wide, claw-like arms.

Before I double over in agonizing pain from the internal screaming in my head, I see it grab one of the monk warriors and tear the hooded figure’s body in half. Instantly, dozens of arrows the size of tree branches embed in the Patroxi’s torso, but its death isn’t quick enough; it swipes at those closest to it, gouging into the tender flesh of its victims.

A pack of hairless dogs rush into the courtyard. Cat is the first at them, her sword as fast as lightning as she dismembers them without the least effort.

“My Goddess,” Roland yells, “your sword-work is a beauty, Cat.”

I didn’t think it possible, but her cheeks flush at the praise.

“We’re not done yet,” she says, her voice breathy. Cat checks her communicator tablet. I faintly hear her fingertips tap against the glass. “There are still a few full-blooded Patroxi left.” She deftly clicks several more times, nods, and places the device away. “It looks like one is in The Gardens. Afterwards, though, we need to get back on track. We’ve already lost a lot of time.”

***

I take the lead. Once back inside the Palace Skyscraper, it’s as quiet as a graveyard.

The gentle sizzling sound of burning wood comes from above us as we near The Gardens, and it concerns me.

“I don’t think we should be in here,” I say, placing my scarf back over my mouth. “Unless you want the ceiling to collapse on top of us.”

Roland also looks up with such a forlorn face, I can tell he’s wished many times for something to end his life for him.

“It would be a sweet relief if it did,” he says mostly to himself.

It breaks my heart. The way his sad eyes explore my own. For a moment, it feels like he is baring a part of his soul to me. Then, I think:
A dark, bottomless soul
.

“Other than the giant Patroxi inside the Palace Skyscraper, Cat, where are the rest?” I ask. We stop at the corner that will lead us to The Gardens.

Cat pulls out her communicator tablet. I watch dumbfounded as she brings up the camera feeds from all around the city, though only a few are actually working. The rest are nothing but static mess.

The outside world is as I expect it to be. Destroyed buildings. Fighting citizens. Fire. Marching soldiers. Flooded streets. Roaming beasts.

“Here.” She points at one camera feed, then switches to another. “And here.”

Each of the huge Patroxis stand motionless, as if they await orders, when, suddenly, above us, probably from the roof of the Palace, a loud
Boom! Boom! Boom!
shakes the building tremendously, as well as the live camera images on Cat’s communicator tablet.
 

“Was that Mr. Underwood’s doing?” I ask as I search their worried expressions. Roland shakes his head and mouths the word
No
. I reach for the wall, hoping for a bit of stability, wondering if the ceiling might actually collapse, only to discover the wall vibrates rather erratically. “Okay, let’s forget about the giant Patroxi in The Gardens. We need to get out of here. And fast.”

I look down in the direction of The Gardens. Roland follows suit. “Just before The Gardens’ door, there is another exit that will take us down,” he says as he grabs my hand and pulls me with him down the hallway.

“No, not
down
,” I hiss. “
Out.
”

Cat follows. “Bad idea, Roland,” she spits out quickly, tapping through a different set of camera feeds, but I can’t see any of the images before she abruptly stashes her tablet away and draws out her sword. “It’s just on the other side—”

My ears pop just as a shattering explosion rips through The Gardens, throwing the doors off their hinges and into flying, shredding, slicing projectiles. More precisely, I know of this is happening rather than actually seeing and hearing it. I’m face down, balled up, and, now, deaf.

The doors miss us somehow.
Thank you, Goddess
. But other, smaller things didn’t. Something’s stuck in my leg; metal shrapnel, or similar. Whatever it is, it’s embedded and I don’t plan to stick around here much longer and dig it out.

Part of the ceiling behind us crashes, effectively blocking any retreat we might have hoped for.

There’s only one-way to go: the door that leads
down
. It’s only a few feet away, but it might as well be a hundred miles by the way the fire grows and everything collapses around us. The heat licks at my feet as I attempt to crawl away. I’m aware of movement to my left as smoke rolls in. Roland or Cat. I don’t know. Lifting up some of the wood paneling, the stitches in my shoulder stretch—though that particular injury seems like a lifetime ago—and as my other arm feels around, I find Roland.

His hand clutches mine and together we stagger up, crouching low in the black smoke, and search for Cat. We find her under a large metal beam, unconscious. Together, and wordlessly—not that we could even hear each other anyway—we shift the beam as best as we can. The floor, ceiling, and walls continue to rumble angrily.
 

Roland picks her up just as the floor drops a foot or two.

Oh, Goddess
, I hiss internally as my eyes round.
I’m not meant to die here
. Trapped. Scared. But I’m not alone. A warm, wet hand clasps around mine as the floor gives way even more.

I stare into Roland’s eyes and for a brief second, his mouth quirks into a lopsided grin. He must be in shock. Or maybe I am.

Then the floor collapses completely and we go down with it.

Twenty-One

T
IME
. I
T
WEAVES
AROUND
me like a cold blanket. I open one eye, see nothing but blurriness. It feels like I move on my own accord and then forget what I saw, what I did, or even who I am as blackness creeps back in.

This happens again and again, like a bad dream that I cannot wake from. I know, somehow, that something warm grips my hand the entire time. It squeezes me, and this reassures me when I know that, with my whole heart, nothing can truly reassure me as war rages on. The war outside. The war between my heart and my soul.

At last, I wake up and stay awake, fully aware that I’m not in control of anything anymore.
Was I ever?
I’m pulled up and forced to walk. No words. My ability to hear is severely impaired, and it feels like all I can hear is a dull, but everlasting, ringing tone.
 

But I know Roland is in front of me. I can smell him. And Cat? Does he still carry her?

Wherever we are, it’s dark. With my free hand—the other is still possessively clutched by another—I feel crumbly, unfinished walls against my palm. It takes me several minutes to discern that we’re in a small passage, like a little hidden gem of a secret tunnel inside the Palace Skyscraper.

The tunnel leads to a stone staircase. The air is thicker here, warmer, as we head lower into the bowels of hell. Soon, an orange hue below plasters our ghastly shadows against the stone wall. Before me, Roland’s flickering shadow silhouettes his and Cat’s prone profile together.

So he still carries her. Good. But she’s out and between the three of us, she’s the only one who’s truly a warrior. With her out of commission, I feel that our chances of surviving dwindle significantly.

Explosions go off in the distance. In the mountains, the Old City, or somewhere else, I know not. I only know that Roland will lead us outside of this god-forsaken Palace. Or, I hope so.

At some point, though I don’t remember, Roland releases my hand. Now he opens a door a floor or two above the flames below. I look down. Heat blasts my face instantly, but not before I get a glimpse of orange-red moving lava-water. That’s the only way I can describe it. Not quite water and not quite lava. Some sort of a combination of the two.

Questions fill my mind, but I’m not prepared to form them as I walk into the other room with Roland.

At first, I assume the lava-water is there because of what’s going on outside, but then I wonder if it hasn’t always been there. Like a natural heating source for the Palace, like hot water running through tubes to heat up a room.

Considering all of our immediate concerns, this isn’t one of them, and I let it drop from my mind. But because of this and the water purification chamber the group traversed earlier, I begin to wonder if there’s a lot more to Roland Rexus than meets the eye.

Inventor? Protector? Lover?
 

Yes, no, maybe.

The air turns cold—freezing almost—and I recognize that we’re in one of the subbasements. My lab is here. We turn a corner. The catwalk’s lights turn on, illuminating from below, and Roland stops in front of my lab door.

He moves aside, his lips move, and while I can’t actually hear what he says, it’s clear to me that he wants me to open it. I wonder what for.

I press my hand to the door, it vibrates, and then swings open on command. Once inside, I inspect the room. It’s as I left it. The entire left side, still scorched from my angry-experimentation-riot after taking The Pale Waters, is a black, burnt blight in an otherwise crisp, sanitized room.

Roland lays Cat down on the only serviceable table, straightens her clothes, and gently pushes the stray hair out of her face.

Lovingly.

I know he cares for her. Loves her, even, but it isn’t an all-consuming, fire-burning-your-heart love. It’s companionship. Friendship. Loyalty. Family.

Cat, out of everyone else on this damn continent, is his only family. He might love me. He might care for me. His heart and soul may burn in ecstasy for me. But Cat, his trusty chief of staff, is who he stares at worriedly.

Until now, as I come to stand beside Roland and observe her, I hadn’t considered the idea that she might be dead. The marks on her skin glisten and glow. I press fingers into her neck, grateful to feel a strong pulse there, but the act actually hurts me.
 

Then I see it. My right arm is burned, red and blistered, the clothes ragged and torn off from the shoulder down.

I suck in air to keep from screaming as everything in me—and I mean everything—comes to life.
How did I not know?
My mind wasn’t ready, so it numbed me from the pain.

Suddenly, everything burns. My skin. My fingers. My leg. I stare at my leg. I’m stupefied by what I see. From the knee down, it’s a bloody, burnt mess. Because of the explosion upstairs, metal shrapnel digs into my flesh, undisturbed, surrounded by fevered skin.

I chew hard on my lip, tongue, to keep from crying. From the pain. From my failure. From seeing Cat unresponsive on the table. But I can’t stop the tears from forming and then spilling down my cheeks.
 

I let it come. Quiet sobs rack me, or, if I am sobbing out loud, saving grace has it where I can’t hear a thing anyway. I feel Roland’s gaze. His hand is on my back. Warm. Soft. Inviting. Forgiving.

Finally, I look up and see him. Even through my tears, I
really
see him for who he is. His face is uneven, but handsome. He appears younger with his hair pulled back, his strong jaw visible and masculine. The scars seem to melt away, fading into a reality that no longer matters. He’ll earn fresh scars, as will I, if we live through the day. And I’ll cherish each and every one of them.
 

I see his flaws with his perfections. His heat draws me in, and I find that I cannot look anywhere else but at him.

I see, feel, breathe his desire to make the continent a better place. His undying love, dedication, and persistence mixes with a stubborn nature and possessive demeanor, yet, in spite of all that, he owns a patient mind and an understanding soul.

A sad thought hits me: I don’t deserve him. I never will.

His hand moves up from my back, gently over my shoulder, then to my face. His thumbs glide over my tears, wiping them away, and I give him a watery smile. His fingers travel to my neck and then he fixes my disheveled hair, refastening it into a fresh ponytail.

“That’s better.” His mouth moves, but I can barely hear the syllables. He pulls me in, his lips find mine, and he kisses me tenderly. Nothing urgent. But soft, gentle, and loving. When the kiss ends, his thumb lingers at my lips, probing, gliding, and I kiss it, but Cat distracts us—happily—when she suddenly sits up.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” she says, half-serious, half-sarcastic as she checks herself. “Continue on. Pretend I’m not here.”

Roland immediately embraces Cat, but she pushes him away, though a small smile graces her lips. I move in to hug her, too, but she puts her hands up, halting me.

She studies me a moment, focusing on my head for some reason.

“What?” I mouth elaborately.

“At least the explosion got rid of that hideous Patroxi helmet. You looked ridiculous,” Cat says. I’m able to read her lips. Roland laughs, and so do I. Then Cat, checking the time, continues on, “We’re behind schedule, Roland.”

Twenty-Two

B
EFORE
WE
LEAVE
THE
lab, I retrieve the Feeble Princess’ Pale Waters and shove the vial into the only useful pocket I have left. It clatters against my communicator tablet.

I’m fairly certain that Roland brought us here just so that I could get the vial. At the end of the day, in my mind, I’m still only a research assistant. Nothing more, and, after my break of allegiance with the Grandfather, nothing less.

Both Roland and Cat have interesting expressions as they observe the left side of my lab, and I can see the questions forming in their minds, but whatever they might think or want to ask stays forever unasked. Had the situation been different, I know I would have received hell, and deservedly so.

I move to open the lab’s door and I wait for them to come out so I can follow in whatever direction they take us. Roland first, Cat second. As she passes, I notice that her injuries appear to be less harsh than I remember them to be. The scratches are lighter, almost nonexistent, and the bullet hole in her arm is gone. Sealed. Only a tiny red dot mars her smooth, tattooed skin.