A Cursed Hunt (The Wings & Witches Series Book 1), page 14
Tensing her thighs against her Bold Wing, she pulled her leather gloves off. The huntress mark was still a garish pink, raised from her flesh. She stared down at it and it stared back. When she tried to imagine the man on the other side of the mark, all she saw was a bland gray color. He must have wrapped his hand.
Clever.
She should have been able to get a view of his surroundings using the eye on his hand, but he’d stopped her from gaining any further clues as to where he was. All there was to guide her was the tug in her chest and that only seemed to work well in proximity. Still, she took hope in the fact that they were fated. Their destinies were intertwined by this curse. She’d find him again. And this time, she wouldn’t let him go.
16
Remis
What had been peaceful, now only felt exhausting and slightly creepy, Remis thought. His concentration slipped for probably the millionth time and their small raft slowed to match the natural pace of the current.
The day had come to an end and the moon hid behind several large clouds. There was hardly any light to calm the stress of not being able to see where they were going. Water splashed against rocks along the river banks and the occasional sound of something leaping in and out of the water had become their music. He tried not to let his attention drift to the trees, where often he found the glowing eyes of animals watching them as they went.
As far as he knew, they’d made good ground following this river, but he’d never spent this long holding onto his connection to the magic of this world. Now every time he envisioned it, his palms grew slick, and his grip on it weakened further.
For a while, Percy and Merritt had taken turns napping. Now that it was night and the dragonis would be active, they both stared up at the stars overhead. They’d built the raft large enough that the three of them could lay side by side on their backs. Every curve of the tree limbs underneath them was painfully noticeable, and no matter how he tried to move he couldn’t find a comfortable spot. He sighed and let them drift, not caring that he wasn't pushing them as quickly as they could go.
“Quit moving,” Percy whisper-shouted. “You won’t stop rocking the boat.”
Remis forced himself still. The numbness of the salve was beginning to wear off on his shoulder and though they’d made sure to cut the knots and smaller branches from the wood, a lump in the log was digging into the wound. He’d continued with Percy’s help, to treat it as the physician had, and it was healing at a remarkable pace. He tried his best not to think about it because every time he did it sent him on a spiral.
It all started with the fear of the dragonis. How absolutely terrifying it had been to be speared on its talon and lifted off the ground. His body gave an involuntary shudder as he remembered with stark clarity how quickly he’d been torn away from his friends and how gravity stretched his body out and tore muscles in his shoulder.
Thinking about the dragonis only led him to think about the warlord and his physician. All the strange things she’d kept in her room had made them all uneasy. Jars of fingers and eyes. He specifically avoided the image in his memories of the glass filled with entrails. She’d treated them quickly enough. He’d assumed she was tired, annoyed, and wanted to be back in bed. Yet the timing had been…coincidental. No sooner had she wrapped up Remis’ wound than he felt the hot warning forcing him into action. While Percy’s accusation of her being a witch was perhaps uncouth, it sounded entirely accurate. And if she wasn’t the witch hunting him, perhaps she had known the witch and tipped her off.
His body had moved on its own accord. He’d had enough sense to make sure his friends came with him, but it had been the curse itself that had shot him into action. He traced a finger over the fabric that covered the eye. What an odd thing it was to be connected to someone he didn’t know with no clue as to why.
These thoughts were a spinning vortex within his head; eventually they started over and again he’d go down the same hole. All of it starting with the dragonis and ending with her.
The witch had only been a dark shape at a distance. One that wasn’t even easily distinguishable with the thick cloak around her body, but her long hair had caught on the wind. He wanted so badly to know her face. When she finally caught up with him, would he have time to ask her his questions? He couldn’t fathom dying without reason.
Would she make it quick?
Would she drag it out?
Who was she?
Who was she to him?
He’d already thought of all the terrible things he’d done. Most of which started and ended with never taking his lovers seriously. Once he’d forgotten to tip the help. Another time he’d tripped a stranger who’d been dragging their child along like a piece of luggage rather than a human boy. None of that sounded like reason enough.
Time was going on and on and there was nothing he could do but think. This was perhaps worse than death. At least death was supposed to be peaceful. He’d no longer exist, his body would be given back to the earth, and that would be the end of it. Depending on how long it took for the witch to catch up to him, he wondered what the chances were of him losing his sanity.
The flow of water under them picked up speed. Remis opened his eyes, entirely too aware that he’d had nothing to do with it. The river was naturally speeding up. Water splashed over the edges of the raft, rocking them with the movement. Remis’ fingers curled against the logs under him as he tried to sit up.
Remis heard a shushing sound. It reminded him of the noise his mother would make if he was being too loud at the market, except this sound never ended. It continued in one long unbroken note that grew louder the farther they traveled. After several hours they’d grown used to the noise of the river, the rushing sound of water, but this sound was different. It was more.
“What is that?” Merritt sat up. “What are you doing?”
“I’m not doing anything,” Remis answered, his voice rising with his worry. The shadowed silhouette of trees passed at a frantic pace as their raft darted down the river, following the curve of a long bend. Still, the sound grew louder, the waters more rough and urgent. The current thrashed against them, soaking through their clothes as they clung to the wood.
Exhaustion had been dragging his body down for several long hours but it was quickly replaced with the heart-pounding fear of the unknown. Remis threw himself to his stomach, plunging his fingers into the icy claws of the river. He tried to slow his breath, though every time he breathed in he got a face full of water that caused him to sputter and spit.
Shit. Shit. Concentrate.
He dove into his power, the plunge into the realm that all magic exists in was as bitter as the waves that rocked them. His mind wandered with the angry cascades of water. Heart pounding in his chest, his mind reached for every edge of the river, feeling for the source of that terrible sound. Nature raced ahead of them, the river straightening out and then widening. Their raft lurched forward again, gaining more speed.
Remis felt the water fall away, his magic dropping and sending his stomach up into his throat. He let out a gasp.
“Waterfall,” he said too quietly to be heard over the sound of the river. “Waterfall!” he shouted.
“What?!” Percy’s voice had gone squeaky.
No. No…he had to slow them down. They were going to plummet over the edge if they couldn’t get out of the river now.
“Remis, dammit. Do something!” Merritt demanded.
Remis didn’t need to see him to know that his friend had gone deathly pale. He could practically feel his friend’s panic as fresh and terrible as his own. Remis squeezed his eyes closed, using his adrenaline to guide him into a state of focus. He was the river, he was the water, and he would slow them, turn them, guide them to safety. What power he had strained against the strength of the river, their progression only slowing minimally as he fought the current.
This isn’t going to work. I’m not strong enough.
I can’t. I can’t.
“Remis!” Merritt shouted. He let go of the raft to place a hand on Remis’ arm, fingers curling brutally into his bicep.
Their raised voices could hardly be heard now over the violent crashing of the water. The river dragged them forward threatening whatever lay below. He tried to force their raft to move, even if only to the river’s edge so they could claw their way out of danger but if he was able to move them, even if only slightly, he couldn’t tell.
His mind called imaginings of them toppling over the river and into deadly rocks. Pictures of their bodies bloodied, mangled, and most certainly dead filled his mind’s eye. There was no stopping this. No stopping nature.
“Hold on! Hold on!” Remis screamed, his throat going hoarse. He couldn't be sure that his friends even heard him, the waterfall was all he could hear around the hectic beating of his heart in his ears.
The raft tipped, threatening to launch them off.
And then they were falling.
Remis felt gravity snatch his body weight from the wood and throw him violently down and then down some more. He swore he felt the cold of the water at his back, the fall finally done but everything went black and then he didn’t feel anything at all.
Air rushed into Remis’ burning lungs. Every breath scraped down his raw throat and came out in a torrent of coughs. Wet clothes clung to his body weighing him down against the mud. Panic prickled down his spine, the only sign that he was still alive, that his body was still mostly intact. Most of his flesh tingled with that near numb sensation from the cold of winter.
He blinked his eyes open, flinching at the bright light that assaulted him. Dirt caught under his fingernails, his hands curling against the rock-studded ground, as he coughed. The sound of the river was a gentle lullaby behind him now. Remis looked ahead, letting his blurred vision adjust until several leafless trees came into view. A puddle of vomit lingered near his head. He scowled down at it and wiped at his mouth with the back of his sleeve. So the waterfall hadn’t killed him. That was good news at least. If he’d survived it surely his friends had too.
Lifting his head, a dull pounding began inside his skull, and as he turned to take in his surroundings, he found a pair of polished leather boots. His attention trailed up the body of the person who stood before him. Leather clung to the shapely curves of a woman, a sword strapped to her hips, a cloak fluttering in the breeze behind her, and a hood drawn over shadowed features.
“You’re hurt,” she said, more a statement than a question. She reached out, offering a hand.
Remis pushed himself to his knees, reaching for the woman’s hand. His gaze fell on her outstretched palm as he reached for her. A raised scar-like eye watched him. Sucking in a violent breath he toppled backward, catching himself against sharp rocks that dug into his palms. Terror shot like an arrow down his spine.
“You.” He pointed an accusing finger, hating the way his hand trembled.
Fear mingled with blatant curiosity until he felt as though he might be sick again.
She smiled under her hood, a sly spread of lips, and a flash of teeth. Remis wished then that he could see her face fully, he wanted…no he needed to know exactly what she looked like. He imagined her withered, wrinkled, and with a monstrous gleam in her eyes.
“Me.” She purred.
17
Meira
Meira clung to the harness strapped across Mrithun’s back. Together they’d flown steady sweeping circles around camp, even turning away Quincy’s replacement. Sleep wasn’t something Meira imagined she’d be able to get. It was too bright out here, far different from the dense darkness of Mount Ridmond, and her mind was stuck replaying that damn dream.
Though she was seated on top of her Bold Wing and there were no threats in sight, Meira had the feeling she was falling. Over and over again, her stomach would lurch up into her throat and her limbs would feel terribly light. The first time her entire body tensed up, preparing for a landing, but she’d never moved from Mrithun’s back. It was nearly an hour later that the huntress mark burned so terribly on her hand that she’d ripped her gloves off and shoved the damn things into her waistband.
She looked down into her palm and this time instead of seeing the darkness of whatever wrap he’d had on his hand, Meira’s mind tunneled through the connection where she’d found him sprawled across the ground in a puddle of his own vomit. His hand was stretched over his head, reaching for her, that identical mark to hers facing up. There was a moment where she wanted to take his hand in hers, filled with those vulnerable lingering feelings from her recently returned memory. The desire soured as she wondered why she was cursed to hunt the man.
Meira was little more than a projection of magic, an image given form in his mind with enough reach to see his surroundings which she took in with greedy appreciation. The world around them, visible as it was, held a hazy ethereal look at the edges. She took in the trees and the flow of the river behind him. The Mitus River? she wondered. It was the only river that had been near where she’d seen him last. Apart from that, there were no other clear signs as to where he was; it was just him, the forest, and the water behind him.
Not real. This isn’t real. She could see where he was because the mark had been uncovered and this connection between them brought her to him but as she held still she could feel Mrithun underneath her and the wicked lick of wind across her face. The vision of him grew fuzzy as she felt her reality around her and she frantically focused on his drenched form until everything became clear again.
A twig snapped under her boot as she took a tentative step forward. His chest rose and fell, shallowly. The man was alive at least. Meira cursed herself for the inkling of worry that grew for him. Should she want him dead? Wouldn’t that make everything easier? Fix whatever wrong he’d done in another life? She took another step, content to study him and the way his dark hair fell over his face. The ghost of a beard now graced his jaw, dark stubble that circled his parted lips.
He sucked in a breath, the sound accompanied by a series of rattling coughs. Meira straightened, unaware that she’d even leaned forward as if to reach out and touch him.
His dark eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot as he looked around and pushed himself up. All the while Meira watched him. His body trembled and though she couldn’t feel what he felt she knew he must be freezing. Even his cloak was waterlogged.
The moment he noticed her, his eyes trailed her body. Heat followed the movement up her legs, hips, and then to her face like the ghosts of the hands she remembered touching her in her dream. She was thankful her hood covered her face so he couldn’t see the way her cheeks turned red hot as their gazes locked.
Damn him. He was terribly beautiful and that would explain why she felt her insides get all fluttery though she loathed the feeling entirely. She couldn’t stand under his scrutiny for a moment longer for fear she’d burn up.
Crimson spread like watercolor over the shoulder of the white shirt underneath his blue waistcoat. Blood.
“You’re hurt.” She reached to help him up, not certain if they could even touch in this in-between realm they met in.
Those near black eyes landed on her bare palm. Her gloves, she’d taken them off the moment the mark had begun to hurt. She nearly startled at her own uncovered mark.
His gaze turned accusatory. “You.” His voice was rough as he pointed.
That was fear that she saw flicker in his eyes. Good. He knew her, knew what she was to some extent.
With a smile, she pulled her hand back and let it settle on the pommel of her sword. “Me.”
“Who are you?” To his credit, his voice didn’t waver. Remis staggered to his feet, almost stumbling back into the river before he righted himself. “What do you want with me?”
He was scared, no, terrified of her. She liked that, thrilled at the idea of it. He was the pretty little prey, her rabbit. She was the predator that stalked him, a vicious wild cat ready to sink her teeth into him.
Meira prowled forward. Her eyes caught on the way his white shirt became sheer and caught herself annoyed that the waistcoat he wore covered the majority of his torso. Though he was a lean man, the definition of his arms was clear. She remembered the sliver of her dream, the way his body felt under her hands.
Remis’ eyes widened as she neared, his attention flicking to her hand on her weapon. She let her fingers flex against the smooth handle and watched as his muscles tensed. Those full lips of his parted and Meira thought of the taste of his wine-addled tongue.
Fury sliced through the memory. Whatever he’d done to her, whatever she couldn’t recall that was so terrible she’d tied them with this curse…it had to be greater than whatever stupid love story they might have had. Hatred begged for her to rip her weapon from its sheath. The way her mind propelled her to think of him as she’d remembered him last night was an inconvenience. One she was determined to work around.
“Do you not know what that mark means?” Meira let the words drip from her tongue, a slow, sensual tease of danger.
His throat bobbed but his voice held firm, disgust tainting the words. “There is folklore of you witches.”
She wished that after all these years she’d grown numb to the Empire’s hatred of her kind. After all, there wouldn’t be folklore if witches hadn’t been hunted to near extinction. Furthermore, Remis’ opinion of her shouldn’t matter. He’d be dead as soon as she could get her hands on him. The weight of anger and shame fell over her. She masked it with a smirk.
“Only good things, I presume.”
The sound that came out of him, a rush of breath, was almost a laugh. “The stories are true then? You’re murderers. That’s what this is, isn’t it? A game? You’re hunting me for your own amusement.”
He thought so little of her, of witches. He assumed she’d done this to herself for the sake of killing some time? For a little fun?
Emperor Grandith Augustine and his hatred for witches had led the entire damn continent to believe that witches were monsters. That somehow women with an ounce of talent for drawing off the magic of this world were out trying to set villages on fire, eating babies, and otherwise creating chaos.
