“You can’t hold your breath that long.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. The lake’s not that deep. And besides, all you have to do is blink me in. You’re the Druid King, so I know you can do it.”
Pendaran and I stood in his private quarters, away from the main temple and courtyard. The breeze over the lake stirred the white curtains that hung on either side of the large opening to Pen’s private dock. He stood framed in the space while giving me his lame-ass excuses.
“You’re being a bit overprotective, aren’t you?” I asked. It was one thing to keep Ahkneri hidden and protected from the outside world—it was detrimental, in fact. But I wasn’t just anyone. I had every right to see her if I wanted to, more right than him for sure.
Pen turned and glowered at me, and I had to grudgingly admit, he was intimidating. Maybe if I hadn’t seen him turn into a dragon, things would be different, but once that image was seared into my mind, it was hard not to be a little leery of the guy.
“My borders are being crossed. My kin are at risk. Protective?” he asked mockingly. “Damned right I am. Why do you want to see her?”
“I just want to talk to her, to try and communicate. I have things I need to ask her, and she’s the only one who can answer.” If she chose to. “Look, I’m the one who wanted her protected in the first place. I’m lying to my boss and my superiors; I even lied to my own kid to keep her secret. Letting me in that cave won’t change anything, but it might save my life, which I’m kind of partial to, so . . .”
He stared at the water, arms crossed over his chest, profile as stubborn as his body language. “I stay with you the entire time.”
“Fine.” Even though we’d been through battle together and had trusted each other, it didn’t mean Pen trusted me with this. I supposed I couldn’t blame him. Anything could happen in that cave. Hell, if Ahkneri decided she wanted to take a tour of Atlanta’s hot spots, who was I to say she couldn’t take over my mind and make me release her? There were things that could go wrong. Very wrong. Having the Druid King by my side was a bonus.
Pen faced me, placed his gigantic hands on my jacket-clad shoulders, and we were off.
“Don’t move yet.” His deep voice filled the darkness as my weight settled back into me. “The floor is rocky.”
A light flared, followed by another. Sconces on the damp bedrock walls held dancing arcane light. It was green and dim, but enough to allow me to see.
The underwater cave was enormous, holding a huge air pocket deep beneath the lake. Water dripped in loud echoes. It wasn’t cold like I’d expected, but warm and humid. Pen reached out and snagged my hand. “This way.” He pulled me along like I was an errant child, still reluctant to have me in his private space.
The cave floor was uneven and filled with loose rocks. Even though I didn’t like being led around, I was grateful for the strength of Pen’s hand since it kept me from falling and twisting my ankle on more than one occasion.
Lights flared as we passed between rocks as high as my shoulder, finally coming to Ahkneri’s resting place.
Pen stopped and released my hand.
I’d forgotten how stunning the sarcophagus was, how large and significant. The thing had been carved out of one enormous piece of agate, so smooth it gleamed in various colors of honey, flaxen, and cream. Not a single marking lined the body. Only the thick agate lid bore a line of script around its perimeter—the same type of script on my arm.
As beautiful as it appeared, I now understood it for what it really was: a prison.
“I’ll wait over here.” Pen’s deep voice echoed in the cave as he picked his way over the rocks to a flat oval depression in the ground. I shouldn’t have been unprepared when he shifted into his dragon form, but just seeing it took me by surprise.
The light bounced off his black scales as he circled and then lay down, giant jaw resting on his front legs, wings folded against his back. He was so large I could hear his breathing from where I stood and see the slits of his nostrils move in and out with each breath. His eyes blinked and then stared at me calmly, quietly, that weird abalone color filtering across the irises.
Ahkneri hung at the edges of my mind, always that welcome, that whisper of acknowledgment. I turned back to the sarcophagus. Now that I knew more of what she’d gone through thanks to Sandra and the dream I’d had in Fiallan, I wanted her to be free. She’d been totally shafted. All she’d wanted was to live her own life, and to suffer like this was unimaginable and unfair.
Would this be my eventual fate? The thought left me a bit sick to my stomach.
I need to know, Ahkneri. I placed my hand on the smooth agate and pleaded in my mind. I need to know how to defeat Sachâth. Part of me thought the obvious: if she knew, then she would’ve defeated it a long time ago. But then knowing and actually doing were two different things.
I felt her smile. Weird, that. Please. Tell me.
I will show you instead.
Immediately, I was taken out of time and reality. I wasn’t sure if my body was still standing there in the cave or if I was really standing, in the physical sense, on the wide, level rock on a vast red plateau. But I sensed I was just a visitor, not part of the scene, not able to affect or alter anything around me.
Not that I could move if I tried. The scene playing on the plateau rooted me to the spot.
Ahkneri was there, dressed in some badass black armor and it wasn’t the polished, gleaming type; it was dented, bloodied, and spiked. Her black hair was in two long braids; she had what looked like war paint on her face—stylized symbols slashed across one cheekbone and around the corner of one eye. She held Urzenemelech in her hand, and the blade glowed like my arm had glowed.
She and five others, four males and a female, all armored, all wielding swords, fought against what I knew had to be Sachâth, only it wasn’t just shadow, it was like them, a physical body, but male and without the armor. The shadows were there, too, like an extension of its body, seeping from its skin like smoke, swirling around it, lashing out. The shadows were its armor and its weapons.
Red dust flew in the wind, grunts and steel echoed over the plateau. The fight was hard, nasty, and brutal.
It appeared as though they worked in three pairs. Each pair consisted of one without a helmet and one with. Ahkneri and a male. The other female and a male, and then the two males. The two females and male who fought without helmets were on point, and their partners worked in rotation with them, defending, giving them time to regroup and attack when necessary.
I was pretty sure since Ahkneri was without one, that the ones without helmets were First Ones, and the ones with were Disciples, and they were no less intimidating than the divine beings they protected.
The shadows flowing from Sachâth got a piece of the male First One, slicing through his arm, severing it. It fell, still gripping the sword. Before he could dodge, the shadows curled around him, enveloping him, and then like some fucking porcupine, shot him through with spiky shadows wherever there was a break or weakness in the armor. The First One’s wings shot out—wings as white as snow—released in panic, fear, death, I didn’t know, but a scream erupted in my head as light burst from the body. It happened so fast, like a vicious blur, and it was done. The First One was dead, dropped to the ground, discarded.
Shit. My heart pounded as his Disciple roared with fury, attacking with a passion and speed that was incredible to witness. He rolled, coming up with the First One’s severed arm still gripping the sword. He shoved it into Sachâth’s side. A spine-chilling screech filled the plateau as the creature stumbled back. I held my breath. It was wounded. It could be wounded.
A shadow lashed out and decapitated the Disciple. The helmet rolled, skipping over rocks before coming to a stop several feet from the battle.
Ahkneri and the other female lunged at the wounded Sachâth, pressing the advantage. Ahkneri closed in and they fought with such pace, it was like watching a battle on fast forward. The two Disciples rotated in; Ahkneri’s Disciple took over and was stabbed clean through the armpit as he lifted his sword arm. The shadow came out through his opposite shoulder blade. His sword clattered to the ground. The shadow withdrew and the Disciple crumpled to the red ground.
The other female First One rotated in and delivered a vengeful blow, her blade sinking straight into Sachâth’s heart.
Ahkneri screamed, “No!”
I knew it was a killing blow.
Sachâth looked down in surprise and then its face became more animated, more humanlike. Emotion poured into its eyes as its shadows reached out and pulled the First One close. “Forgive me, sister,” it said before darkness threaded its way from the wound, wrapped around her sword, covering her hand and then scurrying up her arm, covering her like a horde of insects.
The female’s Disciple went berserk, hacking at Sachâth, attacking, trying to save her, but he was tossed like a rag doll. He landed forty feet away, the crash of his armor loud in the sudden quiet.
Ahkneri lowered her sword and began backing up.
That is why we cannot kill it. Strike a deathblow, and you become Death. It’s a fail-safe. To ensure there is only one outcome—the total annihilation of my kind. When the last one of us is dead, Sachâth will return to the Creator.
Ahkneri’s black wings shot out as she moved slowly away from Sachâth. Then she turned in my direction, and ran. Supernaturally fast. Arms pumping. Face determined and haunted. She took flight, shooting past me, the tip of her wing passing through my shoulder, heading for the Disciple who’d been thrown.
He was flat on his back, but jerked suddenly and woke swinging, as if from a nightmare, a broken cry on his lips. He struggled to his feet, jerked the helmet from his head, and flung it, roaring his pain to the sky. His golden hair was damp with sweat and blood, and his power and grief were so raw that his cry seemed to rip the air apart. And for a moment, I thought I was looking at Leander, but then Ahkneri’s wings swept in, blocking him from view. She grabbed him and flew away.
The scene retreated as though I was being pulled away along with Ahkneri and the Disciple.
I returned to the cave, swaying slightly at the sudden disorientation, and having to grab on to the sarcophagus for support. Pen’s dragon head lifted. He watched me with solemn eyes as I bent over and tried to get my wild pulse under control.
I felt like I’d been in battle myself for how shaken I was and how hard my heart pounded. Ahkneri had allowed me to see something of great significance. All of it brutal and unbelievable. All of it needing a moment to sink in, which I took.
That was the last battle ever fought with Sachâth. You can kill the creature, Charlie, but you will take its place if you do. You will become Death. Sachâth can only be killed with a divine weapon. No one but us can wield them. And yet, you strike the blow, and you take its place. Another fail-safe.
I thought for a long moment. What about someone else, can someone other than a First One kill Sachâth?
As you saw, the Disciple delivered a blow with a divine sword that wounded the creature. Had he held the sword, however, it would’ve killed him. There were times in battle when Disciples attempted to slay the creature with our weapons . . . suicide, they knew, but just one moment was all we’d need, just one killing blow that did not come from our hand . . . and yet that blow never came. We tried everything, coordinated attacks, launching our weapons from afar, but our weapons are an extension of us. Struck by hand or afar, the killing blow still kills the weapon’s owner and another Sachâth rises. If another were to use my sword and kill the creature, I’d still become Death, wherever I was.
What about using a sword from a First One already gone? I asked. Sachâth would die, and there’d be no First One to change into Death.
It was a thought that worked better in theory. No one can wield our swords, Charlie. And most, even if they could for a few minutes, did not have the strength to defeat Sachâth in that short period of time.
What about other races, I went on, their powers, can they harm it?
We fought Sachâth at a time when other races were in their infancy. There are primal powers perhaps strong enough, but Sachâth is . . . perfect.
Anything else you can tell me?
Sachâth will only attack one of my kind, unless it is provoked, then it will defend itself. But it is not programmed to seek out and kill others. Just us. That is all I know . . .
“Thank you,” I said, hand flat on the sarcophagus.
That incredible being I’d just seen fighting her heart out was lying beneath the lid. I shook my head. It wasn’t right. Ahkneri was good, not some evil being cast to Earth like in our biblical stories.
I have accepted my lot. You are . . . like us, but . . . different. You wear your weapon on the inside. You are the weapon. But you will still become Death should you strike the blow that ends the current Sachâth. Even now, your power calls to it. You grow stronger every day. Soon it will hunt; your power will be a beacon, a lure it cannot resist. If you run now . . .
I can’t run. I had a life. A family. A child. I couldn’t leave her. Just the thought of it was like a kick in the gut. Leaving Emma and running was no different than if I died trying to defeat Sachâth. Either way I was out of her life for good. Because I sure as hell wasn’t going to uproot her and drag her all over the world while Mommy slept in a fucking stone coffin.
I, too, had a child, a family . . .
Well, it’s not right. It’s not fair, I told Ahkneri sadly. I have to face it, or sooner or later I’m dead anyway. And I’d do it on my terms, and hopefully with a little help from my friends.
The emotion I got from the ancient being was patient understanding. No doubt, she’d felt the same as I did at one time. She’d been there, tried that, and look where she ended up.
I straightened, not allowing myself to think like I was defeated before the battle had even begun. If Sandra thought there was a way, then I had to think the same.
And one thing I knew for sure—the oracle was never wrong.
I sat at Pen’s kitchen table, nursing my beer as he grabbed his second one from the fridge and bit off the cap. He spit the cap into the nearby trash can, parked his hip on the edge of the counter, and then took a long, deep swig. Since he was no stranger to the truth about the First Ones, I confided in him about Sachâth, the details of my vision, and Alessandra’s prophecy. He might have embraced some of our modern ways, but Pen was old. Rumor was he’d once been worshipped as a Celtic god. He was a Druid, too. And he was intimately acquainted with the arcane and with Nwyvre.
“Nwyvre is a primal power source,” he said, picking up where our conversation left off. “The Creator didn’t create Earth, or Elysia and Charbydon for that matter. They were already there; they exist outside of divine influence. The Creator simply made the First Ones and then seeded the worlds with their offspring. The Adonai, the nobles, and humans all descended from the Creator’s divine children, but the rest of us, we rose directly from our home; we evolved on our own, albeit much later. Interesting thing,” he said, eyes going narrow and thoughtful, “you have the power of all three noble races within you, which makes you divine, but . . .”
“Yeah?” I prompted when he fell into silence.
Pen smiled wryly and pulled out a chair, flipped it around, and sat down. “Well, think of it this way . . . Even the noble races have evolved since they were first given life. They’ve acclimated and changed. The Adonai, for instance, they learned to utilize the power of Elysia with utter precision, they wield it, heal from it, draw it into themselves . . . You don’t think that has changed them over the course of millennia? It has. You weren’t given the genes of those early ones who seeded the worlds; you were given the genes from those who had evolved over thousands and thousands of years.”
“True,” I said. “It makes sense, but how is that going to help me?”
Pen shrugged. “Not only are you divine, but you have ties to each world. You don’t rely solely on divine power. You’ve used Charbydon and Elysian power in the past, yes?”
I nodded.
He took another drink. “Sachâth’s power is divine. The Creator is also a primal power. How do you fight primal power?”
“With another primal power,” I answered. “We fight Sachâth with Elysian or Charbydon. Or both.”
Pen smiled. “Or we hit him with all three.”
I knew there was a reason I liked the Druid. A very tiny spark of hope lit in my mind.
“I can pull insane amounts of Nwyvre through the henge, so I’ve got Earth covered. You come with Elysian and Charbydon power and we strike it with all we got . . .” He shrugged and drank. “Then we might have a shot.”
“That’s drawing the creature right into your territory, using the henge,” I pointed out.
“If it only attacks other races when provoked, I don’t see a problem. I’ll make sure my Kinfolk won’t attack. The bigger problem is getting a primal energy source, raw, arcane stuff, from both Elysia and Charbydon. Good luck with that.”
“Thanks.” I stood up and set my half empty beer on the counter before turning toward Pen and giving him a long, curious look. “Why would you help me? There’s nothing in it for you.”
He went still as he studied me and the hairs on the back of my neck lifted. Then the sensation was gone as quickly as it came. “If Sachâth is gone, Ahkneri will be safe.”
Oh, I had a feeling I knew where he was going with this. Not good. Not good at all. “She can never rise, Pen. You know that. No one even knows how to awaken her, except maybe a Disciple. And the tablet about them was destroyed by the Circe. And even if she could rise, her existence would start a three-world war. You can’t seriously be thinking this.”
He drained the last of the beer, watching me as the liquid slid down his throat. He set the bottle on the table. “She rises. We reveal the sarcophagus. Let the jinn, the Sons of Dawn, and any other cult out there see that it was empty all along, then she can live in peace. That’s all she ever wanted, Charlie.”
“And her weapon? Her power. You can’t hide that.”
“Sure I can. I’m the Druid King.” A small smile played on his lips. “Tell me you don’t want to see her free, too.”
“Of course I do,” I answered immediately. “Christ, Pen . . . Let’s just take this one step at a time, okay? We get rid of Sachâth and then we’ll work out a plan. But we have to agree, have to cover all our bases, before we even seriously consider what you’re thinking.”
“Done.”
That was too easy. “I want a geis. Your vow.”
His expression went shrewd and that eerie color washed over his irises again. His chair screeched along the floor as he unfolded himself. He held out his left hand, palm up. “Place your palm flat over mine.”
Having never actually demanded a binding vow like this, I was a little hesitant as I stepped forward and placed my palm over Pen’s. A tingling energy wrapped around my hand and the winding tattoo that covered his left side moved, or at the very least shuddered, awakened . . . Along his wrist and hand, a shadow of it climbed over my skin like vines, threading together and making a knot over our hands. A bond. As it did this, Pen vowed that Ahkneri would not be awakened until we agreed upon terms.
And then he dropped his hand and it was done.
I rubbed my hand. “So what happens if you break the vow?”
“I can’t even if I wanted to. I won’t be able to move beyond an intention to break the vow, so it’s a moot point.” I slid my hand into my jacket. It felt prickly, like it had fallen asleep. “The henge is yours. You let me know when you figure things out.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. You’ll be taking over Killian’s case, now that you’re back, I presume?” It was phrased as a question, but sounded more like a demand, a very subtle one, but still.
“Yeah, let me get Death off my back, and I’m all yours.” Pen’s eyebrow arched, a raven’s wing that didn’t seem to appreciate my sarcasm at all. “I’ll get an update from Ashton and Liz, look over the labs and paperwork. I’ll let you know the status as soon as I can.”