Lunaria (A Soulmark Series Finale), page 4
His tone leaves little doubt that any probing on the topic will be dismissed, and so I slip back, wrapping a hand around a cell bar. It's icy to the touch and thankfully grounding.
"What is this?" My fingers trail up and graze the cruel accessory. "Why can't I call the earth? Or my intraflora? I can't even feel them. It's like they're gone."
I stare helplessly at my hand, gripping the cold metal. The vines underneath my skin are frozen in place, and what flowers they own are rendered to buds.
"A gift from the Stormrow Clan of sorcerers. Something to make sure we can't misbehave."
I shoot my widened eyes his way. I knew several things about the Stormrow Clan thanks to my time with the Trinity Coven. I knew they weren't to be trusted and their loyalty was easily bought. I knew they hurt Aunt Mo. My regard flicks across the way to Jax.
I knew Jax was one of them. Is one of them? The pack and the coven didn't particularly like Jax, but his kindness to me had thus far been indisputable.
The rokama's second statement rises to the front of my mind. Unwittingly I drag my sights down the length of his neck. He's dressed in layers. A light-colored shirt is visible beneath the collared pullover he wears, and so is the collar fitted around his neck. My heart skips a beat.
"I see the sorcerers gifted you too," I remark. A hollow note in my words betrays the flare of empathy I feel at the silver shackle.
"Yes. It's a variation of their original prototype. It's meant to subdue our abilities and strength... your other friends and I were their first test subjects."
For a time, I stay mute. The information settles over me like a weighted blanket, cocooning me in its wretchedness. Poor Alekos and Celosia. I catch his stare as I run my fingers across the metal encasing my neck and harden my heart.
"So, the great rokama was taken down by mortal men? Did your dark father the Storm Bringer fail you? Or was it your kinds' notorious, single-minded blood-lust that failed you?"
He growls at the slight and rears back from the bars of my cell. I try to hold back my fright at his violent movement but flinch, nonetheless. Unexpectedly, he lurches back toward my cell as he catches my reaction. His hands secure themselves around two bars, and he leans his face into the void between them.
The rokama's face devolves to shadows in this new position. They drape across his hunched brow, below his eyes, and spike a downward path from his frowning lips.
"I corrected you once before, allow me to do so again. The rokama you speak of are rogues with not the mind to know friend from foe. Do not insult me again with such callous contempt, and I shall not list the shortcomings of your kind,” he speaks at last. My lips part in astonishment as blood rushes to my face. I prepare to retort, but he speaks again. “Their numbers were great," the rokama continues, answering my original question, "and your friends useless in the endeavor for our lives. Capture was inevitable."
I slink back to the corner of my cell, watching and waiting for his next move. But the man—the beast, I correct myself with haste—remains in his hostile stance. Tearing my eyes off him, I study my grim surroundings. Our cages span greater lengthwise than their width, and the stone floor and walls soak up the cold with remarkable ease. The cold begins to permeate my jacket. How long have we been here?
"Why did you bring us here? Where is here?"
He brushes off his menacing glower in favor of one of condescension. "Where do you think you are?"
I bristle and cross my arms over my chest. "How would I know! I've only ever been in Branson Falls." The rokama shakes his head in mock disappointment.
"You're in Wselfwulf territory... and you and your friends are to be kept as leverage."
"Leverage?"
"Yes," he repeats. "I guess we'll see how much you matter to that pack of wolves you hang around with, or if they'll bother to come after you." I glare back at him. I’m a bundle of nerves and suddenly distracted by the chaos of my thoughts.
He is not the same as he was in the forest. While his temper remains short—much like my own—there is no trace of hope to be found about him. Months, he said during the skirmish on the road. They’d been here with the Wselfwulfs for months. I shrink in on myself and unconsciously search for the rokama’s wings. Where were they?
"They will come for us," I say at last. Because Atticus said he would... and Atticus has never lied to me before. The notion does little to ease the knot of worry in my stomach.
The rokama clicks his tongue and lets his hands slide down the metal bars, pushing them through to rest his forearms on the horizontal intersection once more.
"You really believe that?"
"They're my friends," I retort. I step forward, braver than I feel as I point an accusing finger at him. "My other friends came for me, didn't they?" The rokama's lips flatten at my comment, but my victory is short-lived.
"I came for you too, or did you imagine me some figment of your imagination?” I swallow at his cutting response and the jealousy in it. He must notice it, for he takes a moment to compose himself. “You know they won't get to you in time, right? They're going to torture and humiliate your friends in here, just like they did to us. Unless...." Adrian ducks his head, showing off the close shave he's adopted before glancing at me with half-closed eyes. "Unless you help us put an end to all of this."
My confidence falters at the vague offer. The thought of my fairy brethren being punished in my absence strikes at my heart without mercy. The finger I so ruthlessly jabbed at the rokama retreats to my chest, where my fingers then splay over my heart.
"What do you mean?"
The rokama's returning smile is made of flint.
"They know you can influence the Adolphus pack's barrier. They say it wraps around their territory because of a crystal?” My stoic silence is the answer he seeks, for he forges on with new passion. “Help them eradicate it, and this can all be over. We can leave this place behind us and the petty wars of men." He waves a hand dismissively around the room, but his body language is surprisingly tense as he waits for my answer.
"Not gonna happen," a voice rasps.
I gasp and turn to my right. Keenan props himself up onto his elbows, a heavy groan falling from his bruised and busted lips as he does so.
"Keenan!" I move to stand across from him, before dropping to my haunches and stretching out a hand.
"Nobody asked you, dog," the rokama replies with stinging composure. I glance over my shoulder at the giant man. He is nonplussed by Keenan's vehement response. "It doesn't matter, anyway. If she doesn't help, the sorcerer here will."
Somebody snorts. "Not likely."
Relief tears through my body as I sink further into my seat. Keenan's warm hand graces mine, and we hold onto one another.
"Jax?"
"Over here, gorgeous." Jax groans as well, but it is stifled by my palpable sigh of relief. "And for the record—there is no way in hell I'll be helping your merry little band of savages."
A sudden dash of menace crosses the rokama's face. "Everyone breaks, sooner or later."
The sentence is dispensed with such sobriety, I am taken away from myself for a moment. The rokama moves back and thrusts a hand into his pocket to procure a set of keys. He unlocks my cell door and allows it to swing open. He returns the key to his pocket and then eyes me. Keenan's hand tightens around mine.
"What are you—no!"
My shriek is piercing in the dank basement, and Keenan hasn't the stamina to fight against the harsh pull of the rokama as his arm wraps around my middle.
"Let her go!" Jax roars as my hand is peeled off of the cell bar from its desperate attempt of resistance.
Keenan clamps onto my hand with both of his, anchoring me, but it is of little use. The rokama has better leverage, and Keenan is weak. I watch the color drain from my friend's face in horror as his grip slips.
"Luna!" Keenan cries.
Keenan collapses against the cell bars as I’m pulled out of his grasp. The rokama’s arms are bruising around my middle. It would seem though the collars might deny us our supernatural abilities, this beast's muscles have been hard-earned and prove more formidable than Keenan’s.
"Let me go!" I shriek.
But he does not. I am pulled from my cell, kicking and screaming and flailing. The rokama grunts and his panting breath beats close to my ear.
"Time to go. They want to see you."
I whimper through my valiant struggle. "Who?" I gasp as I am thrown over his shoulder. The sight of my friends fading from view as I am taken down a long stretch of hallway. "Who?" I scream. The rokama doesn't answer.
Chapter 3
He takes me up a flight of stairs before dropping me between himself and the door. My ankles protest at the abrupt unloading, but it fades as quickly as it comes. Our glares clash. His rough handling does not surprise me. My displeasure renders no surprise from him either.
"Do us both a favor." The rokama's voice is gruff. "Don't say anything stupid. I know how wound-up your kind gets." His menacing glower slants to the door and in an instant transforms into chilling indifference.
My cheeks heat with the rush of blood. "My kind?"
His obsidian eyes peer down at me, and he takes his time to examine my rigid posture and balled hands upon my hips. Something like amusement flickers in his gaze.
"Yes, your kind. Fiery. Foolish. Yappy–"
"Excuse me!"
The rokama has the gall to smile. All remnants of his indifference drop in favor of this miraculous view. I am stunned and speechless. The rokama I crossed paths with in the Hollow Woods never smiled. They only ever deigned to show me their violence-marked canines as they hunted down my kind for sport. As my stunned expression remains, the rokama’s pleasure fades into something unreadable.
He inches closer, hand rising toward my face as concentration lines his forehead. The calloused pad of his thumb rubs along the parted seam of my lips before sinking to my chin.
"This wasn’t part of the deal. I’m sorry. You need to trust me now and listen to my command. Behave." His instruction is a rumble from deep within his chest. My eyes widen as I stare into his eyes. "Or else."
The rokama hooks an arm about my waist and drags me back up over his shoulder. My breath leaves me as a surge of panic floods my body.
"Where are you taking me?"
He does not reply. There is a gentle clang, and then a succinct click before a rush of cold air hits my backside. Light engulfs us, bright and unyielding as the rokama carries me around this new level. My white hair obstructs the majority of my view, but there are gaps that I can peek through.
Debris litters the floor in the form of long, thin pieces of pale yellow. In some spots, they are piled into small heaps, along with bits of earth and dirt. The scent could be comforting–damp, musky earth–except it is tainted by the overwhelming presence of body odor and blood. My nose crinkles as I struggle with the urge to gag, but the rokama's well-massed shoulder makes the task difficult as it digs into my lower abdomen. The farther we go, the more voices I overhear. I careen my head to the left and right as best I can, endeavoring to dislodge the arm pinning me down. If my wings would obey my command, my efforts might be successful.
People begin to appear in my vision. Some faces dance with cruel amusement and others without any emotion at all. It is the expression of the latter that put my struggles to an end. I slump against the rokama's back, and weakly catalog my surroundings.
The floor is a cool gray and the walls are a rusty red. There is an abundance of the yellow debris in this area, enough so that it's gathered together into blocks. People sit upon them, their clothes reminiscent of mason fairies with their sturdy and sensible fashion to keep them warm and protected. Masons are fairy craftsmen. They're builders and makers, and sometimes guardians and fighters. Yet, where the masons of my kind exude security and safety, these men and women wear their aggression like stony armor.
A gentle squeeze is given to my thigh before the rokama slips me off his shoulder and places me in front of him. I'm allotted only a moment to register his expressionless face before he spins me around to face the Wselfwulfs. I stumble from the force of the rokama's guidance and the men and women surrounding us chuckle. Blood rushes to my face as I peek at them, head bowed.
"So, you're the fairy? The famed key to the Adolphus pack's survival... thus far."
The woman who addresses me sits atop a makeshift throne. I allow my sly study to linger briefly upon her before it skims over the raised wooden platform her seat rests upon.
"I remember you," she continues. The woman leans forward in her seat, and her long, lustrous honey-auburn hair swings in waves to frame her angular face. Her sculpted cheeks draw my eyes to her red lips that are inclined upward in false warmth. "You killed several members of this pack with your strange woodland magic. Moreover, you helped our enemies put into place that horrific forcefield. Do you have any idea the number of wolves who've been fried because of that thing? You’re lucky I don't string you up to a car battery and give you a taste of your own medicine."
The color drains from my face. I open my mouth to defend myself but think better of it and drop my violet orbs to the ground submissively.
I can feel my pulse through every extremity. It beats with a ferocious candor that is a mighty challenge to subdue. I fear they all can hear it, and balk when I realize, they most certainly can. Lycan supernatural abilities run from inhumane strength to enhanced hearing and sense of smell.
"What's your name?"
The question is delivered from a new voice and with unexpected geniality. It’s notably different from the edged remarks of the female, so much so, I sneak another look to the platform and eye the man seated at the she-wolf's side. He radiates confidence with his fingers laced and laid to rest across his chest.
The smile he wears is a better attempt at benevolence, but my gut warns me to be wary.
"Lunaria," I answer, brushing my hair behind my ears. I feel acutely out of place in my days-old clothing and dirtied winter coat.
"My name is Noah Alvah, and this is my betrothed, Carrie Wselfwulf." Without hesitation, he casts a glance toward the woman seated at his side, takes her hand and brings it to his lips. The foxy brunette shifts in her seat, her spine straightening naturally as she rolls her shoulders back and peers down her nose at me. I swallow my discomfort and clasp my hands together to stop their shaking.
Noah's dark eyes return to me with expectation, and the rest of the pack follows suit. My hands constrict around one another.
"Congratulations?"
My timid reply earns a raucous amount of laughter. I cringe and slip back a step, bumping into the hard muscles of the rokama's front. My face burns brighter as I awkwardly shuffle forward.
"My, my–" A smirk crawls its way across Carrie's lips–"It seems she is a simpleton like the others. This will be far easier than we expected."
"Now, Carrie, that's no way to treat our guest." Noah's words hold an underlying amount of steel that captures the room's attention. Carrie stiffens minutely and her smirk falls to a hard line as she glares at her betrothed. Noah stands, unperturbed by his fiancé’s reaction, and walks to the end of the platform. Carrie, not to be outdone, stands and strides forward as well, but her approach does not cease. She hops off the platform and lands on nimble toes, regaining her stride in a single step toward me.
"Tell them," she demands, her voice cold and stern as she locks eyes with me. My heart seizes. "Tell everyone what a simpleton you are."
My hands twist about one another before moving to wrap around my middle. I shake my head. "I'm n–"
Her hand snatches at my hair.
I yelp, the note pitching higher when an opposing hand blocks the move. I trace the opposing hand back to the body behind me. The rokama's brawny arm is held taunt, but a glance at his face shows his features are held even tauter. A feral tension holds itself poised at the edge of his eyes as he stares down the she-wolf.
I look back to Carrie. Her lips are pulled back to show us the full set of her sparkling white teeth. "I was so hoping you would do that," she remarks. "Ferris."
Whomever she calls comes forward. Their scurried movement cataloged by the littered floor. A brief set of words are spoken in a tongue I'm unfamiliar with, and then the rokama issues a pained growl and releases Carrie. She snaps back her wrist, only to pin her glare on me once more. Her blue eyes shine with madness.
The whimper I relinquish is preemptive as I throw one last desperate look over my shoulder to the rokama. His hands are fastened around the collar at his neck, which pulsates a red light. Before I can decide what to do–cower, help, or scurry back–the decision is out of my hands and in Carrie's. Fingers snare themselves in my short snowy hair. They scratch along my scalp and drag a terrible cry from my lips as I stumble.
"Where were we?"
Carrie's question is positioned directly at my ear, but she receives only a mewl from me. Her glossy red lips soar upward at my pitiful utterance, and with my peripheral vision, I watch her slowly lean back to scan the crowd with satisfaction. Carrie's grip tightens as she shoves me down.
Instinct tosses my hands out in front of me to break my fall. They meet the cold slab with a jarring force. The sting of scratches tingles my palms, but I manage to hold back my answering hiss. Instead, I shrink further into my position and away from Carrie's vicious hand.
"Enough."
Carrie laughs at Noah's order, her sights still burning holes into me. She squats down, her knees cracking and leather pants squeaking with the motion. "Tell them," she orders me, her smile brighter than the sun.
Tears corrupt my line of sight. "I'm... a simpleton." The room erupts in laughter at my soft-spoken words.
The rokama fires off another snarl at my compliance. I swallow and peer over at him. He breathes heavily. One fist is planted against the ground, knuckles white. The other rubs at his collar, now back to its normal state. He keeps his hate-filled gaze leveled at Carrie.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Carrie mocks, rising to her full height and dusting off her hands.
