Shan opened his eyes to darkness, and even that hurt. It felt like something vital had been wrenched out of him, torn by taloned hands and an enchantress’s lips.
“We should kill him. It’s some kind of trick.” A woman’s voice this time, quietly ferocious.
“No. Do you want to be as bad as them?”
“Nothing can be as bad as them.” Shan’s voice grated against his throat. He had screamed, hadn’t he? At some point. And he had kept on screaming until he couldn’t make a sound anymore.
Four faces stared at him, like ghosts in the shadows, human faces, thin with dread. Only humans.
“Just—just stay away from us,” another man stammered, though his eyes were hard. Stubborn, determined, Holters. River Holters. Just like Jeren.
Shan struggled up from the cell floor. His weapons were gone and he felt like some kind of ancient elder, frail and broken, dried up and devoid of energy. His head swam as he got to his feet and he braced himself, terrified he would fall. How would the Holters take that?
“I mean you no harm. I’m but a prisoner, like yourselves.” He groaned, trying to keep his dismay to himself. His head pounded as if something inside was trying to mine a way out. He looked from one terrified, hostile face to the other. “You are River Holters, are you not?”
The first man stiffened, pulling himself a little further erect, his head rising in pride, albeit a shaken pride. “We are. I am Leithen Roh, Body Servant of the Scions of Jern.”
The girl, however, snorted. “Who have turned on us and sent us to our deaths.”
“One has, Doria,” Leithen snapped. “Only one, only Gilliad. His father was the soul of honour and Jeren…”
“Jeren abandoned us to our fate,” Doria replied, her hands on her hips, her thin elbows thrusting out.
“Jeren had no choice,” Shan cut in, no longer surprised at the innate need he felt to defend her. “Gilliad’s plans for her were unspeakable.”
“You’re the one,” said one of the other men, his eyes rounding in shock. “You’re the one she left with.”
Shan sketched a bow, with only a trace of irony. “Shanith Al-Fallion, and yes. Jeren left with me.”
Leithen moved in a blur, his body transforming with anger, with rage. He charged, bull-like at Shan, but all the Shistra-Phail had to do was sidestep him, quick and deftly neat, avoiding him. Leithen swung back at him, ready to attack again, but Doria stepped between them, her hands raised.
“Get a hold of yourself, you fool,” she snapped. When Leithen stopped—his chest and shoulders heaving as he drew in angry breaths—Doria turned around to face Shan, her mouth a thin hard line. “Where is she? What have you done with her?”
Shan spread his hands out on either side. “Safe. She is with my people, training as Felan trained.”
“And why are you here instead of with her?”
Ah, that was the question, wasn’t it? His hesitation and embarrassment must have shown. He shifted and flushed as a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Women of River Holt were trouble. That was for sure.
“I had a duty to my people. I failed.” His head swam again and the image of the Enchassa rose in his minds eye. Her lips closed on his, devouring, her hands on him, her mind inside him tearing at his soul. He couldn’t suppress a shudder as he remembered his own screams, the pain, his helplessness. And even now, Ylandra was going back, ready to deceive and betray Jeren, to bring here to suffer a fate far worse than death. “We have to get out of here.”
“There’s no way,” Leithen replied, his voice somewhat quieter now. The others murmured in agreement.
“But the children managed it.”
“Children?” Doria gasped. “You’ve seen Devyn and the little ones? Are they safe? Are they whole?”
“I sent them to Jeren. It was all I could do.”
Doria shook where she stood. Then a sob rippled up through her body, breaking out at the same second as the tears burst from her eyes. She buried her face in her hands and wept. “My babies. Oh, sweet Bright Lord, my babies are alive.”
Leithen swept her into his strong arms, holding her close. “I told you. I told you, my love. They’re going to be fine. Devyn will take care of them, take them to Jeren. They’ll be safe.” He murmured to her, over and over, until she calmed once more.
Shan waited, watching them, watching the others uncoil in relief and even laugh a little. Their children were safe. That was all that mattered.
He studied their surroundings covertly. The cavern that formed the cells was not as vast as that occupied by the Enchassa, but it was large enough to hold four separate cells, with wooden bars separating them. All but this one were empty. There were no Feyna here, none but him. As he had feared.
“They’re all gone,” Doria said, her voice still trembling. “There were just a few Fair Ones here when we were imprisoned. But the Fell…took them away. One by one. Even the…the young. Especially the young. That’s why we knew we had to get our children out.”
Shan nodded absently. “I came in vain,” he muttered. “Or perhaps it was indeed a trap all along. We were led here. Like lambs to the slaughter.” His head throbbed and he swayed where he stood.
Doria caught his arm and helped him sit. “When they feed, they draw something vital from your spirit. You need to rest.” He wanted to shake her off, to deny the rest that his body needed to recuperate, but she was right.
“Very well,” he conceded, “but if they come…” He shook his head. The fog of exhaustion already threatened his consciousness, even as he lay down. “Though I sleep only lightly, if they come and I do not rouse, wake me as soon as you hear them.”
It was all he could do. That, and trust that the Holters would not decide to do away with him while he slept.
Warm fur, damp with melted snow, brushed against him and Anala made a little whine deep in her throat. She licked his face, her breath washing over him, stirring him to a wakefulness that was not true wakefulness. How could it be? He knew she was dead. And yet she stood before him, her eyes studying him, her tongue lolling to one side, as if she grinned at him, as if she laughed.
He reached out and his fingers touched fur. Beneath his touch, her heart beat. He pulled himself to her and buried his face in her warmth.
“Get up,” said a voice deep inside his head. “Get up, Shan. She needs you. You would not leave your mate in jeopardy, would you, young wolf?” Her cold nose nudged his face and shoulder, pushing him away. “There is treachery in more places than one. There is danger. Go to Jeren now. Get up!”
He tried. He struggled against the darkness which suddenly clung to him with talon-like nails, the darkness which kissed his lips and drank down his spirit, robbing him of all strength like a black leech.
The Enchassa laughed and her voice rang through his body. He convulsed, his body and mind straining for escape, for salvation, but her grip on him was strong, so impossibly strong. Even as he slept, she drained him, as if a line of darkness tethered his soul to her, as if he would feed her constantly until he was nothing but a lifeless husk.
“Get up, Shan!”
Doria! It was Doria’s voice, her hands shaking him, her terror ringing in his ears.
“They’re here!”
He jarred into wakefulness, just in time to see the Fellna warriors slide like ghosts from the shadows and open the cell. They moved so quickly that even as he lurched upright, they seized the remaining Holters.
Doria screamed, striking out at them as they laid hands on her. Shan didn’t think. He didn’t have time. He moved as fluidly as his enemies. While they held their prey, they could not turn to shadows. His fist smacked into the face of the nearest, the one holding Doria, and felt a surge of satisfaction at the crunch of bone and the flow of black blood. Staggering back, the creature’s hold on Doria relaxed and Shan pulled her free, throwing her behind him.