Lunaria (A Soulmark Series Finale), page 3
"What if they killed them?"
Guilt and remorse weigh down their shoulders as they stare at each other. Atticus swallows.
"Keenan is still there in the pack bonds. I don't know if you can feel it anymore—" her slight grimace gives him his answer "—but he is there. Barely."
"What do you think is going to happen to them?" Winter asks.
Atticus brings her hands to his mouth and presses his lips to the wrinkled center of her palm. Winter's frame relaxes a touch, her tears brushing down familiar paths from cheek to chin.
"We tell Xander," Atticus responds with surprising confidence. A flame on the brink of extinction sputters back to life in his chest. "We make a plan and get them back."
Winter lets her fingers feather across her husband's stubble-lined jaw. "Promise?"
She cannot forget hers to the fairy. And although their deal meant to help Lunaria find her way back to her homeland, Winter thinks it only right to bring her back safely to her second home first.
Atticus's blue eyes turn to stone. "I swear it."
They exit the car and tread up the shoveled path to the house hand-in-hand, hearts held together by the unyielding love between them. Xander opens the door, face flushed with something near excitement, but not exactly. He combs the empty plot of land behind them, and a knot of worry crops up between his brows.
"What happened. Where are the others? Neither of you has picked up your phones in the past few hours," he asks, his voice low and rough.
"We'll explain inside," Atticus replies.
In the kitchen, with mugs of steaming tea cradled between tired hands, they recount their tale from start to finish.
The glory and agony of the curses demise.
The wary journey home.
The ambush.
Their losses.
"I don't think Luna is dead," Winter voices once Atticus finishes. The former she-wolf sinks deeper into her seat. "That man, he knew her. He said that she was... his. He was acting like a man possessed." Her gray eyes trail over each figure in the room; Atticus, Xander, the Aunts, and Diana. "I know it might sound crazy, but I don't think he wanted to see her harmed."
The words come out cautiously; Winter's doubt fracturing their credibility yet planting the seed of possibility regardless. Atticus's lips thin.
"I agree," Atticus says. "Hell, he said he would have given us an out had we handed her over willingly—not that I expected him to honor it. Still... I think they would have kept her alive. Jax and Keenan on the other hand." Atticus's remark comes to an abrupt halt.
The room's inhabitants wear matching expressions of trepidation as the beta composes himself.
"Keenan is still alive," Xander states. "I can feel him. He's hurt, but nothing his lycan healing won’t take care of. I'm doing what I can to lessen the impact of his pain by taking it on myself, but it's difficult to balance with Callie's reaction, not to mention the distance between us."
Winter sat up, alert. "Is she all right?"
Xander gave a curt, single shake of his head. "We had her take something a few hours ago to knock her out."
"We'll keep her supplied with whatever she needs to dull the effects of their soulmark bond," Aunt Lydia says with a matter-of-fact air. "I can't imagine her suffering. To be apart from your beloved, let alone the other half of your soul. It must be torture to know they're in pain and unable to do anything about it." The old witch's severe face softens. "The poor girl looks as if she's gone through hell... and there's no way for her to claw her way back. Not without that man by her side."
The witches and wolves grow silent for a time until Winter coughs gently to regain their attention. She directs her gaze to the tea before her as the regard of the room falls on her.
"What about Jax?" Winter asks.
Tension erupts at the name of the sorcerer. The alpha and beta straighten their spines as the elders put on varying levels of distaste and unhappiness.
"He knew what he was getting into," Diana says, at last, making the lycans in the room stiffen further. Winter casts her gaze upward to the witch with russet-brown skin and a halo of silvery-white hair. The mug scratches across the table's surface as the newly humanized woman pushes it away. Her eyebrows pinch together.
"How can you be so callous?" Winter questions.
Diana lets out a huff. "You've forgotten the history between his clan and our coven. There is no love lost in his absence if it is a permanent one."
"You've clearly forgotten his true allegiance is to Jakob Vrana, not the Stormrow Clan," Atticus says. "Weren't you listening before? The wolves weren't the only thing that came to attack us on that road, it was the Stormrow Clan as well. It's obvious they're in league with the Wselfwulfs, and since Jax has thrown in with us, you sure as hell can bet, they'll have some kind of revenge in mind for his betrayal."
"Atticus is right. We wouldn't have succeeded in breaking the curses or in getting back the tonic's ingredients without his help. Let’s not forget he asked for nothing in return for his help." Winter's reasoning rubs at the witches. The older women exchange knowing glances with one another, but their expressions retain their displeasure.
"I doubt the sorcerer would be eliminated if the other two are alive," Diana says. Her arms cross over her chest as her face darkens. "If nothing else, they'll be prodded for answers about our weaknesses and plans."
Silence reigns again in the room.
Each and every occupant knows only too well that prodded is but a kinder way of saying torture. Which begs the question in each of their minds: How long will it take them to break?
From opposite ends of the kitchen, Diana looks to Xander. The man mirrors her stance impeccably with arms held tightly over his chest and a look of fierce thunder rolling across his features. She gives him a discreet nod.
"You and I both know what this means," she says with a lofty tilt of her chin.
Xander smirks grimly back and gives a one-shouldered shrug; war. "We knew we couldn't avoid it forever."
An almost imperceptible "ahem" breaks all imaginings of battle orchestrations and warfare preparations by the leaders of the Trinity Coven and Adolphus pack. The group looks to the main hallway in unison. The woman is tall, thin, and graceful with her shoulders, confidently rolled back. Her glittering blue eyes glimmer with anticipation. The newcomer's mouth twitches skyward as she locks eyes with her mother, Maureen Clybourne. Maureen, painted in scarlet and black scars, returns the gesture and banishes the unease drenching the room.
"The antidote is ready," Charity says.
Xander sucks in a breath. Diana places a hand against her heart.
"Thank the Goddess," Diana proclaims and walks forward. "And you've tested it? You're sure?"
Charity nods. "Three women volunteered. We administered what was left of the poisonous tonic Winter accidentally gave to Zoelle. They succumbed to the same slumber as Zoelle," Charity pauses to take a breath. "After we made up the antidote from the list Atticus and Winter were able to retrieve from her family, we delivered it to the volunteers. They're all awake. Now all that's left to do is lift the last of our stabilizing spells on Zoelle before delivering the antidote to her." Charity's face turns serious. "We anticipate that she'll be unstable between the lifting of our spells and administering the antidote. We'll need to be swift with the delivery."
Raw energy crackles and snaps through the room as Diana steps forward, her hands coming to rest on her hips. The wolves shift uneasily, while the others remain unaffected.
"Lead the way." The group wordlessly follows after Lydia's prompt.
As far as basements go, the Trinity Coven keep theirs moderately well-kept and dry. Sturdy bookshelves line the walls, filled with jars of questionable means and contents. A stack of boxes sits ignored in the farthest corner of the underground space while taking center stage is a long and slender table piled with blankets and a sleeping witch. A dozen or more women stand anxiously at the ready for what is to come, their lips sealed shut in deference to their elders.
The Clybourne women stand at the foot of the table, while Diana and Lydia station themselves at the head. Xander walks to the table's edge, his hand working its way around the limp wrist of his fiancée and downward to intertwine their fingers.
"It may be wise to have one more present to balance our equation," Charity advises. "Vamika?"
A woman with skin reminiscent of dusty auburn steps forward, her long dark hair swaying softly behind her as she studies the people around the table with apprehension.
"You're a talented witch,” Charity says. “Do not be afraid."
The encouragement brings the woman forward. She too takes hold of Zoelle's hand, lacing their fingers together before shooting the lycan across the table a small smile.
"Linda, give the antidote to Diana. Lydia, tilt Zoelle's head back a touch—yes, like that—and hold her head still." Charity casts a glance at her mother, who dips her head serenely to her daughter as they join hands. "We'll recite the counter-enchantment, and the antidote should be administered immediately after."
Charity takes the silence as a complete understanding and turns to face her mother.
"Beo vrae emptum dios.
Nuno tiestom varas, quelae ostprium!"
The basement balks as the words are spoken with fearless resolve. The lights quiver. Their weak beams fading from existence before flaring with brilliant light. Several light bulbs blow out in time with the painful gasp released by the dark-skinned witch on the table.
"Now, Diana!" Maureen instructs as Zoelle fails to recover her breath and seizes on the table. Everyone plays their part. Xander and Vamika hold steady her upper body without releasing their hold on her hands, while Lydia keeps Zoelle's head still. Diana moves with speed and accuracy, tipping the vial into her granddaughter's gaping mouth. The witch sputters and coughs as the liquid falls down the back of her tongue and into her system.
A long moment passes, stretched thin with anticipation.
"Why isn't it—" Xander's snarled words cut short as Zoelle's body slumps with relief against the table. Her chest rises and falls without hindrance, but with a fervent pursuit of the air. Her dark lashes begin to sweep up in fluttering waves. "Zoelle?"
The alpha's voice cracks with desperate hope.
A groan escapes from Zoelle’s throat as her head turns slowly to the side. Her sight sets upon her fiancé like an old habit and a smile comes to life on her lips.
"Mm?" Her sleepy utterance breaches the tension in the room. Grateful sighs resound from the gathered and a few cheer.
Zoelle makes no immediate move to sit up until she realizes several pairs of hands are placed upon her. She looks about her surroundings in confusion as all but Xander release their hold on her.
"What's going on?"
With a short cry filled with longing and gratitude, Xander reaches out and cups his soulmark's face before delivering a kiss worthy of the end of the world. A gentle cough, followed by a slightly louder one, breaks the pair apart. Diana smiles knowingly at Xander as he remains nearby Zoelle's side and helps her sit up.
"Gran?" Zoelle murmurs in confusion as Diana comes to her side and hugs her fiercely. "What happened? Last I remember, I was in the kitchen with..."
Diana slips back as Zoelle's voice trails off. The dark-skinned witch frowns. Her eyes are marked upon a faraway spot as she recalls what she can. Her throat bobs in strangled repetition as she surveys the room again. Her brown eyes land upon Winter's stark white hair and alabaster face.
"I—" Zoelle's frown deepens, and she scans the room’s occupants again.
Xander squeezes her hand in reassurance. "What is it?"
Her worried eyes fall to him. "Where's Luna?"
The room comes to a hush. The handful of people with the acute knowledge of Luna's possible whereabouts are uneasy to address the issue just yet, but not everyone. Winter shuffles forward.
"She's... gone," Winter says gently before an intense gleam takes over her gray eyes. "But we're going to get her back. We're going to get them all back."
Zoelle's face goes ashen.
++
Lunaria
What stirs me to consciousness first is the smell. The ripe scent of sweat and mold in the dank, cold air. I shiver, and it ripples across my body in painful spasms. Lifting a hand to my lips and nose, I recall the last memory I can conceive. Waking in the back of some rocking vehicle as panic promptly arrested me. Yet, not seconds after my waking, I was smothered with a cloth that smelled vaguely sweet. My shout of fright died off as consciousness abandoned me once more.
Wherever I am is impossibly dark. A single light brings a small radius of visibility to my desolate corner and provides me with a single image of gray. Gray, uneven floor and gray, rough walls.
A whimper bubbles up from inside me as I slump against the wall supporting my body. It is abrasive and unyielding, but as my head pounds with unhappiness, its frigid touch relieves the pressure building behind my eyes. The inside of my mouth is hopelessly tacky. I lick and smack my lips, and work to swallow the uncomfortable lump in my throat leading to a startling discovery.
My hand reaches up to my neck and lands against the cold metal.
"What...?"
Fear lances at my heart as I jerk from my corner and inspect the foreign object with both hands. My coat rustles loudly with each frantic tug upon the restraint latched around my neck. What is it? Why won't it come off?
Nothing I do issues my release. No calling for assistance from the plant life I harbor beneath my skin. No summoning of the earthen magic I control. Nothing.
Panic eats away at my sensibilities. I waver to my feet, unbalanced both physically and mentally as I careen without thought to my right. My fingers wedge themselves between the encasing metal and my flesh as exhaustion begins to take hold of me.
This is bad. Bad, bad, bad—
Something skitters across the floor. I stop, though my heavy breathing does not. With my fingers snug between my affliction and neck, I can feel the tingling anticipation of dread at my nape, threatening to spill over and color the dull stone ground with my sick apprehension.
"Hello? Is anyone—" My teeth sink into my bottom lip as I scoot closer to the dim light. "Is anyone there?"
A tepid light flickers on from overhead, and then another. Together they depict the space in stark relief. I’m in a cell. A prison. And beyond the black iron which encases me, there is another to the side, and two more across the way that are drenched in darkness. A scuffing noise snaps my head to the left. My eyes alight upon a shadowed figure standing in the farther reaches of the light. They stand outside the prison walls.
"Hello?" I say, my voice quivering.
Though my inquiry is passive and small, the man shuffles forward. I recognized him at once.
The man who attacked Winter.
The rokama.
Adrian.
My back hits the wall before I can blink. He treads forward until he is before my cage. The expression on his face is unclear, and I study it with fear in my heart. The deep cut across his nose that first caught my attention when we found him in the road is mostly healed, but a broad bump now resides there. His dark eyes are all the more fearsome here—wherever here truly is—for there is no distinction from the black pitch of his irises from his pupils. They are but two black orbs that view me with a frank appraisal.
The clench of his jaw is subtle as his eyes drop to my neck.
"They weren't supposed to put one on you." His voice intones his displeasure. "I told them you wouldn't be a threat, and I would keep you under control.” He sighs loudly. “But I don't make the rules here. You got the same treatment as your friends."
The rokama loops an arm through the cell bars and lets it rest across one of the connecting horizontal ones. At my lack of response, he jerks his head to the side. I follow the direction of his motion and see the cell next to me is occupied by Keenan.
"No."
I rush to the set of bars that divides our spaces and drop to my knees. Reaching an arm between the slim area, I squeeze my body through as much as possible in an attempt to reach him. He lies a foot away unconscious.
"Please," I whisper to his silent form, though my sense of urgency grows. "Please, wake up. Keenan, please!"
"You'll never make it through." The rokama's words are clipped. "Not with the collar around your neck."
Everything inside of me stills before my body swells with anger. I reel back with surprising calm and face the beast who hunted me from one realm to the next. My heart’s content. The thought brings fire to my veins, one not fully fueled by anger.
The rokama takes in my new posturing with narrowed eyes. Though I remain on my knees, I am the picture of defiance with my shoulders jutting back and my nose thrust high like Aunt Lydia so often did in the face of... anything.
"Where are my other friends?"
The rokama's eyes flash with danger. His cheeks hollow, and the fullness of his lips shrink as they press together tightly.
"Where are they?" I ask again, my voice shaking with indignation. I stand, though the simple motion makes my head swirl uncomfortably. Closing my eyes, I rub them with the heels of my hands to ease the ache traveling through to the rest of my body. When I open them, his features are once more arranged in casual disinterest. There is no hint of anger in his eyes. There is nothing.
"One," he says, gesturing toward Keenan with a flick of his wrist. "Two." He angles his head back, swinging his gaze along with it briefly before pinning them back on me.
Jax. My heart flutters with hope. I take two steps forward to peer into the dim light of the cells on the other side of the room. Squinting, I spy half a leg in the cell diagonal to mine. The sparse light of the room shines dimly off the metal accents of Jax’s stylish boot.
"Where are the rest of my friends? The ones who came after me?"
"Somewhere else."
