Adult-FanFiction.org : Books

Into the Shadows	By : Darksaviour03 Category: M through R > Night Angel Trilogy Views: 1396 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own the Night Angel Trilogy. I do own the Dark Savior Series. No profits have been made from this fan fiction.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Chapter Three

The moon sat high in her perch in the sky, watching over the entirety of Olessa in her effulgent, ivory glory. The sun wouldn't rise for hours. Light snaked along the darkened alleyway, stretching the shadows before her like visions of misshapen monsters. It was a fitting image because only a calculating and cold creature, a monster, could do what she did and turn her back on everything.
Everything, she mused. I am nothing like I once was. The knot that she had since she had left Vaene tightened, lodging itself in the center of her being. Her breath hammered in her chest, making her breasts rise and fall in rapid succession.
Cyras grunted, making a numerical, staccato note, as she walked into the stepped corridor that separated the Merchant Quarter canal from the collective masses of destitute buildings in the Commons.
As if it was a spreading miasma, the stench of the Commons washed over her, overpowering her senses. She felt a wave of nausea as she passed a part of the open sewer that had become clogged. A strange tingle tickled the back of throat, and she fought it back. A sick splattering sound drew her attention, and she immediately wished that she hadn't looked. She placed her leather-clad hand over her mouth and nose and pressed down hard. It wasn't enough to stop the smell of fresh shit from filling her nostrils, though. Where she looked, it lay thick, building up more and more behind the blockage before it. Nobody cared enough about the commoners to have it cleaned up. Maybe Vaene would have done something about it, but it was probably already too late to ever find out.
The strong scents penetrated peasants clothing and skin like blood staining a butcher's apron. Even for someone like Cyras, the stink became a permanent fixture in her livery. She spent much time and energy trying to remove it.
Stopping the crisp, sharp grunts, she halted. Her breath hammered in her lungs as if her entire world stopped at that moment. Hovering her right foot in the air, heat assaulted her flesh. She stared at the muddy cobblestones leading into the Commons. She clenched her teeth, grinding them together in an effort to fight the need that was surging inside of her.
Six, her mind repeated as if it wasn't enough. Her face paled, resembling the snow-covered buildings and land. As if the coldness had snaked inside of her hood, her ears burned. The flesh itched like a thousand tiny insects were biting and stinging her.
Turning around, Cyras lifted her foot and placed it on the step above her current one. Her footfalls echoed in the narrow corridor. The sound reverberated through the thin entrance, spiraling around the middle of the buildings.
Seven, she continued in a rush of relief as her feet hit the stone ground. Her heart slowed its frantic beating, allowing her to take a large gulp of air.
Cyras kept to the middle of the road as she traversed the Commons, careful to stay as far as she could from the rivers of waste water, piss and shit, that ran along the sides. In the other districts, the sewers were directed through the pipes beneath the cobblestones in the middle of the roads. Here, all the detritus of society was laid bare, both in the environment and in the people.
To the side of the road, a lump moved, lifting its arm, and reached up to her with its bloody fingers.
Turning her gaze and narrowing her brow towards the figure in the road, she could barely tell where the man started and the fetid debris of the Commons ended. The distinctive smell of feces rose from him as if it were steam rising from the human waste beside him.
“Spare a silver, milady,” his voice rumbled. Once more, he lifted his hand towards her. Crimson splotches spattered his tattered sleeve. A stream of filth flowed down his arm like a river. Rancid stink wafted off of him, filtering through the air.
Disbelief burned through her body, breaking upon her restraint as the ocean along the shore during a typhoon.
“Move,” she murmured huskily; her words thick with a deep, husky purr.
The world is truly upside down, she thought to herself, if a simple beggar could not recognize who he was propositioning. There was a time, recently, where she didn't have to be side-tracked by simple beggars. Any legend spread like wildfire in the streets, and hers was no exception. The Black Tigress ruled the Commons with an iron first of fear.
However, there were days that she was magnanimous, spreading her coin to the barracks and the corrupt guards to keep the lower section of the city safe. While she assumed the role of Cyras Covelli and had the finest of drinks, foods, frocks, and spices, she would never forget where she came from. Peasants both respected and feared her.
Presently, she was not feeling particularly charitable. Hot rage seared her mind, threatening to spill out, just as she envisioned his blood would were it to. As she thought about her previous meeting with Vaene, her stomach lurched. The volcanic sensation danced from her stomach up to the center of her throat. Cyras blinked.
“It's just one silver, ladyship. Please, my wife and children needs clothes.”
Cyras knew a lie when she heard it. If he did have a wife or a child, he would not have been sleeping apart from them, one pile of shit lying next to the other. It was another ploy to distract her from her destination. Even if she could have felt a little sorry for the man, she didn't have time for pity.
Reaching up, she grasped the edge of her hood and pulled it back with a strong tug. Her light hair tumbled out from the void cast by the hood. As the milky moonlight streamed over her, her hair shone like silver in the night.
His eyes widened, bulging in his pitted countenance. She could read the fear that poured like wine from his gaze. Terror drained the color from his face, rendering it ashen.
She shook her head, quickly. Cyras found no humor in this situation. This waste of humanity had already robbed her of valuable time. Niccolo was unrelenting. When he wanted something, he would work inexorably toward that goal. Knowing that she had to stay two steps ahead of the Grand Master of her order, the Shade, a slight delay in time could cost her her life or, worse, someone else's.
He wheezed, sharply; snorting a bubbling sound through his mucus-filled nose. “Ti-Ti,” he stuttered as if the word refused to leave his mouth. Shrinking away from her as if she had attacked him, his back pressed against the wastes flowing in the gutter. “Tigress.”
She passed him without another glance or thought, for that matter. All over the Commons, the landscape was littered with the homeless of all ages. They were mostly males, though. An unskilled woman could still sell her cunt, she thought with bitterness, but an unskilled man was worthless. Cyras ignored him as he continued to gape after her in horror.
In spite of it all, this was where she was most comfortable. She'd spent the beginning of her childhood in the slums of Glyndon, and while they were cleaner than the Commons of Olessa, it was still a dirty, miserable life. More than that, though, she felt safe. Niccolo wouldn't sully himself by wading through the mire of living garbage, as he so delicately put it. She didn't have to worry about encountering that bastard, at least. That didn't mean he wouldn't send one of his agents after her, but she was better than any of them.
Cyras was being followed. She'd noticed the boy, trying too hard to be inconspicuous, back before she'd left the Noble Quarter. He could have blended himself into the sparse crowds flawlessly, and she would still have noticed him. No one in their right mind would travel from the Noble Quarter and Merchant District into the Commons. She wasn't in her right mind.
Suddenly, guilt assaulted her and spread its malevolent tendrils over her. The knowledge that she had intentionally deceived someone that she loved poked at her thoughts as if it was a vulture plucking at the eyes of a bloated corpse. As he stood there and doubted her love and intentions, her hope shriveled into a blackened figment of what once was and threatened to die.
Her only hope for her lover's survival now rested on the assistance of the few assassins that were loyal to her and hated Niccolo. Trust did not come easy to any assassin, if at all. Cyras was no different. She hated hanging the outcome of anything on the ability of others.
There was only one she trusted enough with her life: Vincento, her only friend left in the order. If anyone else would have approached her with such a plan, she would have thought that they were sent to ensnare her, to collect her head. The Shade did not look upon failure kindly. Vincento was always loyal to her, however.
The only problem with any plan would be that the the newly crowned King of Olessa would not go along with anything she suggested. Her betrayal cast doubt upon her motives, making Vaene see threats that were not there and blinding him to the ones that were. Even though she was true in her actions, he would never consent to leaving the kingdom with her. He had already refused her that simply request.
Plans changed; that was a matter of life. Theirs evolved into something that was bigger than all the conspirators. The only problem was getting her love to trust her and the other assas— Her thoughts were halted.
“Read your fortune?” a feminine voice lilted, ripping the assassin from within herself.
Shock jolted through her as if the astonishment was a strike of lightning. She had always prided herself for her constant state of awareness. Cyras had been so distracted by her own contrived thoughts that she had not seen this other woman approach.
She silently chastised herself for her lack of awareness. Paranoia ate at her heart, coiling around her tightly like a serpent. Cyras knew that Niccolo would stop at nothing to possess or ruin her, likely both, and he would.
“What the hell are you doing in this shit hole?” Cyras questioned immediately, an edge to her voice.
When a war broke out between the kingdoms, several such women, known as Magi, would sit upon the King's Council. They offered insight to certain events that could secure the victory. Even when they did not sit upon the council, they still found work. Many noble-woman, who were thick with child, would pay inordinate fees to know the gender of their baby. Those women sought to secure a future for their house. Entire futures depended on the unusual magick, and those who practiced it understood it.
However, they did not venture into the Commons. None in that district could afford their brand of advice. Even though she seemed docile —young with dark eyes and hair — and not a threat, Cyras would not put it past Niccolo to send someone who was seemingly harmless.
Lifting her arms up and reaching out with her hands, she grasped the woman's upper arms tightly. As the magi squeaked, the assassin snarled and burrowed her nails into the exposed flesh. “I'll ask you one more time. Why. The. Hell. Are. You. Here?”
“Open your heart to love once, and the world, along with all whom you love, will be destroyed,” the magi whispered. Her voice was eerie and strained, as if she was speaking over a great distance. Strands of her hair rolled back and forth, brushing against her supple skin. As her eyes rolled upwards into her head, she convulsed in Cyras' grasp. Ivory fabric swayed on her thin figure like leaves blown back and forth in a wind storm.
Again, the hot, ivory pain twisted around her heart. Moisture lined her eyelashes, threatening to spill forth. Never in her life did she think that the events of one night would cause an avalanche in her life. Images of the King of Olessa and his cold, unfeeling gaze scorched her insides, forcing her to remember the pain that razed the foundation of her soul.
What good would it do to mourn a relationship that she knew could never be? She felt torn in half, as if Vaene had torn a part of her away, thrown it deeply in a dungeon, and kept the only key securely around his neck.
“Open your heart to love again, and the world will be saved, though you cannot save the ones you love.”
Remorse wrapped its grasping hands around her heart, squeezing the muscle until sharp pains radiated from her chest. Once before, she had felt that terrible, viscous emotion. She held the little boy in her arms, looked his father in the eyes, and slid the knife across the child's throat.
Like a dagger aimed straight at her lungs, air stuck in her body. Fury blistered inside of her, blackening her emotions beneath the torrid flood of unwanted thoughts. Before meeting Vaene in the market place months ago, she only had her regret. For her repentance and her own sanity, she would never take another contract against a child.
It is not the only thing that I won't do, she thought to herself. Cyras would never love another man. She would never let another man influence her actions or thoughts again. No, no other could hope to effect her like he could. Vaene was the only one who inspired the emotions that were so foreign to her.
Just as quickly as the woman entered the trance-like state, it was over. She gazed at Cyras with her dark eyes wide with terror.
“How could you possibly know that?” Cyras asked her, focusing on the other woman. Her hands still grasped the flesh of the others shoulders; her nails creating thin, red lines in the skin.
“All possible outcomes of the future weave around us like paths in the forest. I am a simple guide, pointing out the trails. I know it is confusing. However, you have two options set before you. Open your heart to love one time, and the world, along with all whom you love, will be destroyed. Open your heart to love again, and the world will be saved. There is nothing you can do to save the ones you love. I am sorry.”
She couldn't help but think the words did not apply to her. Oozing over her like slime, the guilt coated her body in a layer of shame. For her to love a second time, Vaene would have to see past her faults. More so, he would have to see past her actions a decade ago. He would have to know her secret and accept it. No, that was an impossibility.
Her quest for love ended when Niccolo outed herr. Vaene had both killed her and spared her life at the same time. Destiny had chosen for her to be alone. She would end the Shade's life, but she would be alone with her children, or she would die in the act. It didn't matter much to her anymore.
Cyras pushed the magi away in horror and disgust. She was shaken, and what followed shook her even more, down to her very core.
The magi seemed to shrink before her; her youth and beauty faded. She shriveled into a frail, old woman wrapped in a ratty shawl. Hairy warts popped out all over her wrinkling face. As if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, she tottered off, muttering incoherently to herself.
Setting her mouth into a grim line, the assassin turned her attention from the departing hag to her unwanted follower.
It was not beyond Cyras to lose the boy following her. In fact, it would have been a simple task for her, but she knew who had sent him. She didn't want to go into hiding, not anymore. There was one chance she could take to save the newly crowned king of Olessa. It would require her to stand up to the man who had tormented her for as long as she could remember. She would have to overcome the fears of a lifetime in order to save the man she loved, even if it was unrequited.
Fear wound inside her, rotating in her stomach and arching upward to her throat. It was the usual terror that accompanied thoughts of Niccolo. For three decades, Niccolo drowned her in a sea of bruises and insults only to leave her to recover for the next visit.
No more! her thoughts howled at her. Courage bubbled inside of her, threatening to take control of her body. It wrapped her in its embrace like a comforting cocoon. She reached out mentally and grasped the imperceptible prowess.
Immediately, unpredictably, she turned around and strode directly toward the boy, taking purposeful steps. Her footsteps rang hollowly against the cobblestones, echoing in the tight space of the alleyway.
His eyes went wide, and he froze instantly in fear.
Before he could flee, she was upon him. Thrusting her right hand forward, she clutched him by his ragged collar. Her other hand rose. A dagger seemed to materialize in her grasp, and she held the point to his quivering throat.
He struggled against her, grasping at the leather of her sleeve. The tiny fingernails burrowed into the material as if they were miniature blades tipped with poison. The smells of despair and abject poverty drifted off of him, turning her stomach.
“I'm not going to ask who sent you,” she growled, pressing the tip of the blade against his carotid. Any more pressure, and she would quickly be standing over a fresh, young corpse. “I'm not stupid.”
Opening his mouth, a tiny squeak ejected from his body like a stream of vomit. He remained still in her grasp. If he would have moved, the edge of the dagger would have drank deeply from his neck.
In promise of future pain should he not cooperate, Cyras brought the blade up and dragged it across his cheek.
He hissed inwardly, and blood blossomed in a thin line, cascading down his young face. The sanguine liquid dripped from his chin and mixed with the refuse of humanity littering the stony ground.
“Go back to the Shade,” she demanded. “Tell him that if he wishes to be rid of me, then he must face me himself. I'll even do him the favor of coming to him. Tell him I will be at his estate at dawn tomorrow. Tell him that this plan of his ends now. Can you manage that, boy?”
Nodding, droplets of blood sprung forth from his face. The crimson meat underneath his skin was exposed to the air.
“If you are luckier than I, he'll only kill you for your failure,” she continued, not really acknowledging his answer. Violently, she shoved him to the ground.
As he brought his hands up, the blood spiraled from his face and plopped into the pile of human excrement beneath him. By the time he had gotten up and brushed himself off, regaining the small amount of composure that an apprentice of Niccolo's held, she was gone.
….................
Cyras had been waiting outside Niccolo's estate for two hours before the sun peeked over the eastern hills. She had nowhere better to wait for him to make his decision, and she knew he was doing just that. As the boy sprinted back to his master like a whipped dog, she had followed the boy. She saw him hesitantly enter the estate, but she hadn't seen him come out. She knew that that was because he was never going to. The Shade didn't suffer failure lightly. In fact, he didn't suffer it at all. The bumbling idiot would have gotten himself killed sooner or later.
Gazing at the entrance, she tried to summon the courage that she would need to face her tormentor. Apprehension gnawed at her, building painfully within her stomach. She hated that feeling, hated the weakness of it. As she built a secure wall around herself, her fears cracked the foundations.
Niccolo appeared in the grand doorway of his not so modest estate. A pony-tail rested on his shoulder secured with a thin, ebony silk ribbon. A breeze pulled on his silken clothes, ruffling the soft material as it clung to his flesh.
She froze as she watched the dawn light stream down from the heavens and illuminate the wrinkled face of her master. This was a side to Niccolo that many did not see. He cursed time as it turned him into a feeble old man.
A wolfish smile graced his features, darkening the shadows on his haggard complexion. His grin curdled her blood and stomach.
Cyras felt a wave of panic as he strode down the staircase to her silently, the smile never leaving his face, his dark eyes never leaving hers. She began to doubt, her resolve burning away in the face of the man that had tormented her since she could remember. There was never a time that she hadn't been horrified of him.
Narrowing her gaze, she tried to calm the emotions inside her that were rising like the treacherous tide of the Blackening Sea to the East. She was still terrified now, but she knew that she had to act. A part of her that she tried to deny for so long knew that Niccolo would not be content until all of his plans came into fruition. Vaene's life hung in the balance. When he accomplished the death of the newly crowned king of Olessa, the Shade would turn to her children. Camilla and Carmine would cease to be of use to him, and he would either kill them or worse. Suddenly, her life didn't matter, anymore.
Fighting the urge to break down and give in to her master, she set her jaw, unable to give voice to her intentions just yet. Guilt spiked within her, causing her to hesitate. She would not cave to his threatening demeanor.
“People are talking, Tigress,” Niccolo droned in the voice he would so often use before “teaching her lessons”. Those lessons often left her bleeding and unable to walk for two days.
“People are talking, Tigress,” the elder man hissed. His lips pulled backwards into a snarl, betraying his usual deceptive calm manner.
She averted her gaze from him. Her light hair swung forward, covering her eyes. Clutching her hands into fists, she dug her nails into the palm of her hands. Blood blossomed in a narrow band.
“I know you have been sneaking out to meet that boy,” he continued to press her. His back straightened as he pulled himself up to his full height. Fire seared deeply within his gaze, roiling on itself.
“I-”
“I don't want any excuses, Tigress! You're mine! ” he bellowed at the young girl. Swinging his hand backwards, his fist slammed into her yielding young flesh.
The child shrank, winding her arms around her chest.
“I have to make sure that you won't forget it,” he whispered as he unlatched the buckle on his belt.
Not this time, her mind screamed. This time she would face her fears because she had something worth fighting for. Long ago, Niccolo had convinced her that she wasn't worth any more than a hole to fuck. She wasn't doing this for her. She was doing it for Vaene and her children. And if she happened to find redemption in the act, even if she failed, all the better.
“You sniveling, shit-nosed, little maggot,” Cyras sneered, trying to stoke his ire. “You seed-swilling, little dick, backender. You think I came to talk? You're more fucking stupid than I gave you credit for. Do they call you the Shade because you don't have a shadow of a fucking clue?”
His eyes flared dangerously, but he didn't move. That tipped his hand, if only slightly. Cyras surmised that he wasn't alone, wisely. There would be at least two other men with him, likely just inside the manse. She would have to keep goading him, to get him to move too far away from his protection.
Reaching downward, she placed her hands on the hilts of her daggers. She recognized the crazed look in his eyes, having seen it lurking there for as long as she could remember. Again, the urge to bend to his whims overcame her. Clenching her teeth together, she focused her attention on those behind him.
Inside the estate's doors, she could make out the shadowy shapes of four men. Their hoods were pulled up, and they blended into the dim shadows rapidly vanishing to the light. She knew that he wouldn't have faced her alone.
“Still a little Glorendine gutter rat, despite my best efforts,” Niccolo responded, his lips quivering in the joy of insulting her. “The only thing I managed to accomplish was turning you into a Glorendine gutter whore. A slight improvement. At least your cunt is worth something. Too bad the mouth can't be fixed.”
As she continued to survey her surroundings, taking stock of the threats (seen or imaginary), she tuned out his diatribe. She looked up at the darkened windows and saw two more men. They had their crossbows trained on her.
A realization overcame her, growing in its revelation. The simplicity of the thought surprised her.
“You're a coward, Niccolo.” Cyras glared coldly as she spoke with the conviction of her sudden discovery. In the moment of her epiphany, the fear melted away. She smiled at him, and he knew immediately; his hold on her was broken.
“Kill her!” he shouted suddenly; fear palpable in his voice. “Dispose of this trash!”
Cyras didn't wait for his retinue to converge. She charged up the stairs, leaping at Niccolo with her blades drawn. Cyras didn't expect to survive, but she didn't need to. She only had to kill Niccolo. Without a head, the guild would collapse into itself as everyone fought with each other in the power vacuum.
She noticed the two guards in the window first. They leveled crossbows at their shoulders.
Thwack.
Two bolts were propelled towards her. One sailed over her head as she ducked. She still moved forward.
Cyras spun away from the second, but she was not fast enough. It grazed her upper arm, slicing through her assassin's garb and gashing the flesh. She didn't stop moving forward.
Screaming primally, she lunged at Niccolo.
He drew a dagger. Niccolo knew that he would have to protect himself, at least until the guards got there.
She collided with him and slashed at the side of his neck.
His shoulder took the blow, though, as his arm lifted to deflect her attack. He cried out in pain as the dagger slashed into the flesh, as it struck hard against bone. Yet, her aim was not true. He would survive.
Cyras brought the blade back for another attack. The dagger shimmered, silver and red, in the early morning light. As her weapon screamed in its descent, it was stopped short. Two large hands gripped her forearm. She'd lost her chance to kill Niccolo.
As the guards pulled her off their master, Cyras struggled. Her hair flashed brilliantly in the sun's gaze.
One man held her arms, the other her legs. She flailed in their grasp, almost breaking free, but was unable to escape. They held her tightly as Niccolo stood, gloating, before her.
“Did you really think you could kill me, Tigress?” Niccolo murmured. He lifted his left hand and caressed her cheek softly. Dirt clung to his leggings, blackening the knees of the silken trousers.
She jerked her head away from him. Nausea spread through her body, heating her as if she was in the middle of an inferno.
With a disgusted look, he reached out and dragged his blade across Cyras' cheek.
Searing pain enveloped her face. Blood flowed freely from her skin in a thin line, cascading down her cheek, curving around her jawline, and dripping from the point of her chin.
Suddenly, a cerulean mist began to coalesce around her. Inexplicably permeated by a calmness that she knew wasn't her own, she stopped fighting. She stopped thinking about Niccolo. Cyras stopped worrying about revenge. The only thought that occupied her mind was Vaene. The only feeling that surged through her was the intense purity of love.
Niccolo drew back his dagger, meaning to plunge it into her chest. The tip of his blade glittered, reflecting the hatred in his eyes. With her fear of him vanished, she knew that he understood that he would never be safe from her. At that moment, she realized that she was the best assassin in all of Arathea.
It didn't matter. These were her last moments on the planet. Soon, she would meet Vittore and be thrust into his embrace. The only thing that concerned her was Vaene. Serenity overcame her.
Cyras' pupils dilated, and crimson coated her green eyes. The liquid swirled inside of her gaze, rotating painfully within the woman. Still, she could not feel anything besides affection for the man she was giving her life for.
Blood dripped from Niccolo's nostrils, trickling over his thin lips and onto the cobblestones of his estate. His arm arced upwards.
With a sharp inhale of breath, Cyras felt her body leave her. Iciness overtook her, spreading to every cell of her body as if she was being encased in a glacier. She was content to be judged for her crimes against Vaene.
The man nearly fell over when the blade wasn't stopped by the force of hitting her body.
Cyras was gone. The only thing that remained was a thick cloud of blue mist in the vague shape of a human form. Vapors gyrated violently in that form, swirling vigorously. Her livery puddled in a heap on the ground like water.
“Vittore!!!” he shouted and stabbed the dagger upwards to the heavens. “She was mine! Why do you deny me?! Vittore!!!”
The mist rushed forward, ferociously expanding to a climax. In a deafening roar, it billowed forward and charred the grass, the walls of the manse, the flesh of the guards behind him, and, even, Niccolo's skin, itself.
…..................
Darkness surrounded the lanky man, bathing him in its solitude. A single candle sat beside the long, copper basin. His bright eyes glittered dangerously in the low light reflected from the long taper. Durzo Blint touched the water with his hand, testing it. Scowling, he stared into the clear depths. Tufts of blond hair fell forward into his eyes.
The house was relatively quiet. Durzo preferred it that way. It gave him time to examine his thoughts and to wind down after the day. Faint, guttural snortings of the animals in the other room drifted through the paper thin, ruined walls.
His safe-house was not impressive, by any means. Blint preferred it that way. When establishing a hide-out, one should choose the least expensive home in the district, he knew. Through societal stigma, he was virtually invisible. No one wanted to be associated with the poorest of the territory.
Turning his attention back to the water, he thought it was acceptable. Lifting his arms, he stripped off his clothing piece by piece. He folded the frocks perfectly and place them neatly on the chair next to the room's entrance.
As he stepped towards the basin, he stopped. His brow knitted together.
A strange blue mist amalgamated in the air above him. The miasma twisted forward and twirled backwards. Like a dancer, it spun around, pivoting into itself. Iciness seeped into the air and nipped at his exposed flesh.
He stood and tilted his head upward towards the phenomenon trying to study it. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen. And, in his long life, he had seen some strange events.
Suddenly, a woman's form materialized in the center of the mist. Her legs were curled up to her chest as her hands wrapped around her knees. Light-colored hair clung to her shoulders and the tops of her cleavage.
The vapors containing the strange being burst forward. Wind from the explosion ruffled his hair, blowing it back from his forehead. Sapphire fog rushed forward and peeled chunks of wood from the walls.
She collapsed on top of him. Like him, she was naked. Durzo didn't have to see her to be able to tell that. He could feel the soft warmth between her legs touching him. Her upper thighs pressed against the outside of his.
Turning her head back and forth quickly, she looked around her wildly. Strands of her hair whipped against her sharp features. Wisps ran down the length of her jawline. She was clearly disoriented.
He studied the woman, judging if she was a threat or not in a split second.
Blood trickled down her cheek, pouring from a fresh wound. Puckered skin curled around her sides, licking the flesh underneath her breast. A dotted, jagged line skipped across her cleavage.
As his gaze flickered down her body, there were more scars. Some were tiny, puncture holes where the skin had healed. Others were much longer. They traversed her flesh in every direction. A couple on her stomach crossed older ones that he knew were caused by a dagger. On her right side, there was a crescent shaped one, and a chunk of her flesh was removed.
“Get off” she yelled in a language Durzo hadn't heard in more than a century. The inflection brought back the memories of a time he had spent so long trying to forget. She moved forward, causing fire to ignite in his loins.
“You're the one on top of me!” Blint argued, using what he remembered of that language. Durzo had an affinity for languages. He rolled his hips underneath of her, sliding himself against her.
Her eyes widened, opening in shock. Then, the initial shock turned to revulsion. Disgust lurked deeply in her gaze.
“Or, do you want me to 'get off' in a different way?”
She sat up, inadvertently pressing herself harder against him. A hiss escaped her lungs and rushed pass her lips. With the ferocity of a trapped animal, she swung her arm to slap him.
Durzo caught her wrist. “You don't want to do that,” he warned. He squeezed, feeling the tender bones beneath the flesh shift delicately in his grasp.
Holding her arm tightly, Durzo searched her feral eyes intensely. She had the eyes of a fighter, the spirit of a killer. His eyes flicked downward. Besides the scars, she had the body of a dancer. She used his momentary distraction to renew her struggling. He squeezed her wrist with the power of his Talent, and she stopped, straining not to vocalize her pain.
Suddenly, a large, gleaming sword dropped from the air above them. It twirled through the air, end over end, and the point stuck into the floor next to his head. Keeping his grip strong, he turned his gaze quickly to the sword, then back to her eyes.
“I'm going to ask you one question before I let go of you,” he stated calmly. “You better consider telling me the complete truth, if you value your life.”
Cyras scowled but acquiesced with a defeated shrug.
“Who the fuck are you?”
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Into the Shadows