Unborn (18 page)

19

There was no pause—no plan of attack. The horde raining down upon us allowed for little more than reaction from the brothers, and that was no coincidence. We had most certainly been ambushed.

“Get her in the house!” Drew screamed, but his words were unnecessary. Kierson had already closed the distance between us and the spotted building, throwing me through the front entrance before the order was given. He slammed the door behind him, but only after he tossed me one of his many hidden blades.

“Stab anything that comes in here,” he barked before locking me in the darkened quiet, the fight outside muffled by the walls. I looked around quickly, taking in my surroundings before making my way to a broken window. My need to see how the few were faring against the many was uncontrollable.

When I peered out, it was impossible to ascertain which side was winning. A sea of bodies encircled the house, my brothers swallowed by it. And that is when I felt it—the pull. The darkness called again, only this time it was hundredfold. My eyes darted to the front door, the sound of cracking wood and heavy steps on the porch demanding my attention, as did the darkness that the one on the other side of the door possessed.

As if it was weightless, my body glided toward the barrier that kept me from that which I so deeply desired. With every phantom step I took, the intensity rose, stoking the fire that grew within me. Whatever awaited me, I wanted it and would stop at nothing until I had claimed it. The darkness was mine.

And then the craving subsided.

For a second I felt its absence like a wound, sharp at first, then fading abruptly to a dull and pervasive ache. I lunged for the doorknob, needing to find what silenced the call. But before I could reach it, the door flung open and Oz stormed in, his eyes wild, his body covered in blackened blood.

He stepped toward me, weapons in hand. Without hesitation, I obeyed Kierson’s words and stabbed Oz.

He looked down at the dagger embedded in his arm, myriad emotions playing across his face.

“Your aim needs work, new girl,” he mocked, plucking the blade from his forearm as though it were a splinter—a nuisance and nothing more.

“Kierson said to stab anything that came in the house.”

“Perhaps he and I will have to have a discussion about specificity once we all get out of here alive,” he purred, a look of wicked amusement overtaking his hardened expression.

There was something else in it, something beneath the bravado and arrogance, but I was afforded no time to analyze it further. The darkness called again.

“Time to go,” he said, scooping me up in his left arm and tucking me inelegantly underneath it. I fought his hold with every step as he retreated from the house, taking to the streets, and, consequently, the ongoing battle within them. All the while, that sweet song of evil sang to me, calling me to join it.

That was all I wished to do.

Oz slashed his way through the melee sgn=seng of till engulfing the colorful neighborhood. Then I heard him call to Drew. The only response from him was, “Get her out of here!”

Doing as he was told for presumably the first time in centuries, Oz wound his way through the bloody brawl, breaking free of it after some time. With incredible speed, he ran down the street toward his Jeep. Unfortunately for him, he was not alone.

The battleground seemed to ebb and flow based on my presence. As soon as it was apparent that I had left, a wave of remaining Stealers followed us, gaining ground as Oz struggled to get me into the vehicle. I would not go willingly.

“For fuck’s sake, Khara,” he yelled, shoving my head in the door while my arms remained splayed out across the entrance in protest. “This is hardly the time to play hard to get.”

At the sound of my name on his tongue, I relaxed, and he took full advantage of that single moment, heaving me through the driver’s side door and across the interior to come crashing down on the passenger seat. Jumping in behind me, he turned the ignition, threw the vehicle into gear, and raced down the road, narrowly escaping the approaching mob.

He wove through the streets of Detroit with ease, driving at speeds far greater than those of the other vehicles occupying the road. In a matter of minutes, we arrived in a familiar area. Our house was near.

With growing distance from the Stealers, my head cleared. The call of darkness faded until it was little more than a buzzing sensation in the back of my mind. That, too, eventually disappeared.

As he drove he said nothing, his utmost concentration remaining on the task at hand: carrying out Drew’s orders. He had accomplished part of that with our successful escape, though it was through no help of mine—a point that I was most certain he would address once we were inside the home.

The Victorian soon emerged on the horizon, and Oz sped toward it but did not stop. Instead, he drove past it, turning down a side street two blocks away. When the house was fully out of view, he parked his Jeep and got out.

“In case we were followed,” he offered as though he knew what I was pondering. I watched him closely as he stood outside the vehicle, staring back at me. “We need to get to the house. Now.” Still, I remained unmoving. With a loud, put-upon sigh, he slammed his door and made his way to my side of the vehicle, cursing as he did. “It’s like you’re trying to get yourself killed,” he muttered as he threw my door open and glared at me. “Shall we?” He made a sweeping motion of his arm, bowing slightly to me in a mocking manner.

Tentatively, I emerged from the vehicle, still recovering from the night’s events. My clarity of mind was returning slowly, but it did not prove to be fast enough for Oz, who was soon in my face assessing something, his disgruntled expression intact.

“Are you still in their thrall?” he asked pointedly. When I did not immediately answer him, he grabbed my arms and shook me slightly. “
Khara!
Are you still in their thrall?” His words were more urgent and demanding that time, and my gaze wandered up to his fierce and threatening eyes.

“My name,” I whispered, my voice sounding distant and detached.

“Yes, I said your name. Can we go now?”

“Something happens when you say it . . .” I continued, ignoring his reply. “At the car . . .” For a moment I paused, trying to make sense of what I remembered. “You said my name and I hesitated.” With a clearer mind, I thought back to the few instances when Oz had used my givad >en name to address me. Every time it had some sort of effect on me. “Why?”

He looked at me strangely, as though he were preparing to argue with me, then stopped. His lips pressed together tightly in a grim expression.

“If it helps you make better decisions while trying to escape a horde of soul-sucking savages, does it matter? Can we go now,
Khara
?”

Without responding, I stepped out of the vehicle to stand in front of Oz, who was looking over me, into the distance. My skin prickled. His eyes narrowed.

“Definitely time to go,” he said, grabbing my arm as he started running in the direction of the Victorian. His speed was impossible to match, and he once again snatched me up, throwing me over his shoulder as he hastened toward the safety of the wards.

With only a few houses left to pass, he came to a halt, snarling under his breath at something before him that I could not see. But I did not need to. My soul recognized the beautiful song instantly.

“So good of you to collect her for us, Ozereus,” a melodic voice called out. It sounded vaguely familiar.

“Is that what I’m doing?” he replied venomously.

“You know she will be ours,” the man said calmly, his words falling on my ears like sweet music. “Hand her over now, fallen one, and this can all be over. No need for further bloodshed.”

“Speaking of bloodshed, how did you manage to escape it? I saw you with the others, and they weren’t faring so well when I stole her from under your noses.”

“The PC brothers, though skilled, are not infallible. They have lost in battle before, Oz. They will lose again. Do not overestimate the abilities of those you have allied yourself with.”

“I ally with no one,” Oz corrected as he dropped me to my feet beside him. The second I was free, I turned to see whose voice beckoned me. Under the spell of his darkness, I showed no surprise when I saw the man I had shared drinks with at the Tenth Circle
looking back at me. The one who presumably set this entire plan in motion.

Though I should have wanted to flee him, I instead felt my body drifting toward him—him and the army of his kind that blocked us from the protection of the warded Victorian. Oz held me back, his arm a tether around my waist. I wanted to stab him again to get free.

“I am well aware of where your loyalties lie, or, better yet, where they do not. Funny, though, that you fight for one of your own who doesn’t want you. Look at her strain to escape your grasp,” he said, then turned his attention to me. “You want to come to me, don’t you, Unborn?”

And I did. With every fiber of my being, I wanted to float toward him, riding on the haunting chorus that sang only to me. His deep-set, dark eyes could see it in my expression, and he extended his lithe arm, further beckoning me to him.

“
Khara
,” Oz said calmly, his tone even and unfaltering. Again, my head cleared just enough to let his words permeate the haze that threatened to permanently overtake my mind and deliver me to the vacuous creature before me. “Do you know where the house is?”

“Yes,” I replied, wondering why he would ask such an inane question. I looked beyond the wall of hungry Stealers standing between me and the safety of the warded Victorian. I realized then that his question was less about my knowledge of where I lived and more a test of my lucidity at that moment. “Do you remember what Kierson told you? Back in Heidelberg Project?”

“Of course.”

“That rule still applies,” he said with a slight smile in his voice. “With the exception of me this time.”

I stole a glance up at his expression, but got nothing in return. Whatever humor had tinged his response was gone. His harsh, cold eyes were all for the enemy before him. It was a sight to behold indeed.

“Where can she go, Oz?” the presumed leader of the Stealers asked, his voice condescendingly diplomatic. “There is no hope of her escaping, with or without your aid. We are too many and the pull is too strong. Even now, I can feel the draw, however muted. She wants to come to us.”

I could not dispute his claim.

“
Khara
,” Oz cautioned, tightening his hold on my waist. He leaned in close, whispering something in
my ear. His lips brushed against me while a low rumbling of foreign words echoed through my consciousness. When he finished, he stole a glance at me to be certain that, on some level, I had understood what he had said. Much to my surprise, a part of me did.

Drawing my borrowed blade, I stood beside Oz, awaiting his directive. The air prickled around us, the energy nearly electric between the two parties. Between evil and not.

“Time to see exactly what you’re made of, new girl,” Oz purred, his body coiled to strike the congregation before us.

I mimicked his stance. With a cleared mind and able body, I, too, was ready to see just what I could do against those that sought to steal my light. I would not be remade into something else. My soul, tainted though it may have been, was mine.

And I would fight to preserve it.

20

Whatever ancient words Oz had spoken, they awakened something in me. Something that had always been there. I felt the shift deep within me.

The second Oz lunged at the slew of Stealers facing off against us, I followed. They were many and we were not, but it took only one to rule the evil of the Underworld, and I had studied him for centuries. Surely I had learned something of value in that time.

My feet felt light and swift beneath me, moving with a speed previously unknown to them. I fell upon the darkness before me, slashing at the Stealers as they reached for me, trying to pull me into their web of emptiness. But I would not be theirs to take.

Oz at my side, we fought in unison until nearly half the Stealers had been disposed of. As they fell, I felt our chances were good, not only for escape but also for the total annihilation of those attacking us. Imminent victory was a heady feeling—and my arrogance may have been my undoing.

The very moment I allowed myself to be distracted, the tables turned.

Oz was glorious to watch, fighting with an ease and grace befitting his kind—
our
kind. But he, unlike me, had centuries of practice and unfaltering focus. In that single second when my attention waned, I was grabbed from behind. Whatever good Oz’s words had done evaporated in an instant. The darkness took its place.

“So sweet . . .” my assailant whispered in my ear. My head turned of its own accord to seek the lips of he who spoke. I did not struggle. I did not call for help.

I did nothing but anticipate what was to come.

“Khara!” Oz screamed, breaking the psychological hold the Stealer had on me. I quickly broke his physical hold as well, pie

Somehow, despite how hard we fought and how many we killed, it appeared as though their numbers were increasing. Instead of seeing a few Stealers left to dispose of, an entirely new crop had replaced those that had been slain. I knew not where they were coming from.

“Khara!” Oz shouted again as we attempted to slash our way through the formidable mass of enemies. “The wards . . . get to the house.” Though my arm sawed through the evil before me as if possessed, I knew that we were succumbing to the numbers amassing around us. “I can’t watch you and kill at the same time,” he shouted when I refused to leave. “Go! Now!”

So I did as he bade me, taking out as many Stealers as I could on my way. After a path was cleared, I ran for the home just down the street with a foreign and lightning speed. I knew I would make it. I knew I could not be caught.

I crashed upon the front door in a blur of motion, yanking it open without care and slamming it behind me. The second I did, I heard a cry from the battle that rattled my very core.

“Oz!”

Unthinking, I threw open the door that had just shut out the ongoing war in the street, needing to see what had caused him to make such a sound.

That carelessness was the reason I soon found myself in the entrance of our once-grand home being courted by death.

My life had been spent around evil, learning its every move, its inner workings. “Know your enemy,” Father said often, his words now echoing through my mind while the one who would drain my soul stood in front of me, beckoning me to him. I would have choked on the irony of it all, wondering if I had any soul left at all to steal, but I was too preoccupied with the darkness to acknowledge anything else.

My time had come, and I welcomed it.

The leader’s voice caressed my skin softly as his lips neared mine, whispering of wondrous pleasures that would soon be upon me. I awaited them with bated breath. It felt as though he had seen something in me that I had not seen myself and called to it deliciously, coaxing it to the surface with every look, every movement, every word. I was soothingly lulled into a trance, rendering me vulnerable in every possible way, and I delighted in the feeling—the escape. I craved it.

The second his lips touched mine, everything changed.

What had just seemed so tempting and sweet soured in an instant. Gone was the promise of joy beyond my wildest dreams; pain and horror quickly replaced it, and I frantically fought to escape.

He forced me deeper into the house while I clawed at him wildly, wanting nothing more than to separate us. In the short time it took to reach the living room, I felt the futility of my fight. The longer we were connected the more my desire to combat him dissipated. I could feel him searching through me, looking for the light he so desperately sought—the sweet sustenance he required. Things I had long forgotten were brought to the forefront of my mind to be relived as he scoured my mind and body for what he had come to claim.

“There is so little left in you,” he muttered as he held my face to his. “Such a hard life. So much pain. I shall end it soon . . . you will thank me for that.”

My mind began begging him to make good on his word, wanting anything but to relive the centuries of physical pain that had surfaced simultaneously while he endeavored to steal the essence of my being. It was intolerable.s iwanting an Death or emptiness seemed a far more favorable option.

Instead, I was delivered from my fate in an entirely different way.

The sound that the Stealer made when the blade sunk deeply into his throat was something I had heard before, though I had not expected to hear it anywhere apart from the Underworld. His shrill but garbled cry was the same sound that those brought to Father under false pretense would make. There was a certain agony to their tone when their sentence was carried out. He told me it was because they were taken against their will—that their souls cried out for justice. I did not presume to know if Stealers had souls of their own, but I wondered if it was the souls he had stolen that cried out instead. If so, their cries were heard.

Justice was swift.

When its body fell to the floor, shriveling into a desiccated mass, it revealed who had been standing behind it. The one who saved me from my pain—saved me from my doom. Oz stood inches away from me, the blade still in his hand. He appeared to be talking to me, but I heard nothing, just the call of the damned and the dark voices in my head.

“Cold . . .” I whispered, uncertain if he could hear me. “I am so cold.”

He lunged at me, taking my chin in his hand. He stared at me, long and fiercely—all the while rambling on about something, the details of which I still could not comprehend. His eyes dropped to my throat, and he tilted my head back to gain a better view of it. Brutal heat seared my skin when his fingers danced along my neck quickly, and I screamed from the pain.

Collapsing to the ground, I shook violently. He darted away from me, only to return in an instant with bandages and tape.

“Try to hold still.” I heard his voice as only a whisper, though I could tell by the strain in his features that he was clearly yelling his order at me. I did my best to submit to his command, but I could not quell the systemic tremors that coursed throughout my body. “Dammit,” he yelled, the veins in his neck bulging grotesquely. “I have to cleanse and close this. Your body cannot tolerate his blood—it’s poison. This is going to hurt.”

With his trailing words, he pinned his knee firmly against my chest, pressing the weight of his body down onto it. Again the fiery burn was upon my neck and, though I tried desperately to contain them, my screams escaped instantaneously. Then they stopped.

My hearing returned in full, which was greatly demonstrated by the assaulting volume of Oz’s voice. Along with my hearing came the cold.

“Khara!” he snarled, thrusting his face into mine. “Snap out of it!” With his words, the clarity of my thoughts returned, however slightly.

“What happened?” I whispered shakily as my body continued to revolt against my mind. “Why do I feel this way?”

“Because you almost let that evil bastard suck you soulless, that’s why.” His expression was furious and condescending. “He was just getting started, but if I’d arrived a minute or two later . . .”

“So cold,” I said softly, trying to focus on what he was saying. I could not. The only thing I could bring attention to was the frozen emptiness I felt and how to abate it. It was as if the frigidness I had endured my entire existence had been multiplied exponentially. “I need to warm myself.”

I tried to push up off the floor with little success, my body continually betraying my every attempt.

“Here,” Oz mumbled, lifting me into his arms abruptly. “Where are you trying to yoidth="7% go?”

“The bathroom . . . the shower,” I started, raising a feeble and shaky arm to point in that direction. It was the most logical place I could think of to lessen the iciness consuming me. He whisked me in there and sat me down before he turned the water on as hot as he could tolerate, then helped me undress.

My skin was ghostly white—deathly pale. Oz ushered me into the blistering spray of the shower without a word, though he stared at me intently. He looked pained in his silence, as though holding his tongue was the greatest challenge he had faced that night. I stood awkwardly, bent in on myself from the incessant contracting of my muscles, and let the water pelt me, burning my exterior while my insides remained frozen to the core.

My plan was not working.

“I can’t stop shaking,” I uttered through chattering teeth.

“I know,” he said, eying me tightly. “The cold you feel has nothing to do with temperature. It is the start of the emptiness
.
”

“I have always been cold . . . this is far worse,” I whispered shakily.

He stared at me momentarily, then reached in without my suggestion and turned off the water, wrapping me immediately afterward in a towel. His hands worked furiously to dry me before he scooped me up yet again and carried me downstairs to my room.

“I don’t know what to do for you,” he said angrily, “but something must be done. He may not have succeeded in taking your soul, but he took something nonetheless. Something that needs to be replaced.”

“He said I had so little left,” I whispered faintly. It was becoming increasingly arduous to talk while my body constricted against my lungs. “What did he mean?”

“Light,” Oz replied with his back to me. “He meant you have little light left in your soul. It had already been overcome by darkness, or maybe it was never very light to begin with. Either way, the irony of that is it may have been your saving grace. Souls are not easily taken. Apparently yours was harder to steal than most.”

“I felt the evil . . .”

“It’s not hard to when it’s sucking on your face.” His voice was harsh, but when he looked up at me, his eyes falling heavy on mine, there was something in them—pain. “Don’t worry about that . . . it’s not important now,” he said, getting up to search for warm clothing to give me. He handed me what he could find, then continued. “Do you remember anything? Anything about what happened?”

“My memories,” I whispered, shuddering at the pain I had relived.

“What about them?” he pressed, squatting before me. There was urgency in his expression as he leaned in closer to me.

“It was as though he was sifting through them, selecting certain ones and leaving me to relive others.”

“Do you remember what he tried to take?”

“No,” I whispered. “All I remember were the things I had long ago forgotten. Things I had not wanted to recall. Whatever he found while rummaging through my memories, he kept.”

Oz cursed loudly as he helped to layer the clothing he found onto my body.

“Your father—Hades—you love him, right?”

I considered his question for a moment.

“I do,” I answered, confusion evident in my expression. “But I cannot remember why. I feel that I cared for him, but I cannot think of anythihin="7ng that would warrant that emotion toward him.”

“Shit!” Oz shouted, throwing something heavy across the room. “Can you think of anything that ever made you happy? That brought you joy of any sort, no matter how little?” I shook my head in negation. “Fine,” he replied, his eyes darting around as though searching the room we occupied for the answers he sought. “What if you could replace what was taken?” His words were spoken aloud, though they sounded like a thought that he had accidentally allowed to escape. After a moment of silence, he focused on my eyes, leaning against my legs as he moved in so close that our noses nearly brushed. “What if you could fill the emptiness, Khara? What if you could fill it with memories like those that were stolen?”

“More memories?” I replied, not following his train of thought.

“Memories . . . feelings. But new ones. Lighter ones.” He captured my face in his hands, gently demanding my attention. “Khara—”

The smashing of the front door interrupted him, the start of a ruckus breaking out upstairs. My brothers had returned.

“Think, Khara,” Oz growled, grabbing my face more fiercely. My mind momentarily cleared. “Does nothing bring you happiness? Is there nothing that could fill this void?”

I stared into his deep brown eyes, wondering if anything could replace what light was stolen. The desperation I found in them was startling. His dark expression accurately portrayed his hopelessness, which implied that he, for once in the time I had known him, felt something other than anger, bitterness, or entitlement. He dropped his hands to my shoulders, sliding them down my arms while we continued to stare at each other in silence. My shaking quieted in his grip.

“Khara!” Casey rumbled from the floor above, reminding me that they, too, had been embroiled in battle that night. Until that moment, I had not known what the outcome was. At least Casey had survived.

I looked back to Oz, only to find his formerly panicked face masked by its normal arrogance.

“I am all right,” I called loudly enough to be heard both through the door and over the commotion above.

The basement door nearly flew off its hinges before Casey descended the stairs while two others followed him down. They quickly consumed the space around Oz and me.

“What happened to her, Oz?” Drew asked, his tone threatening. “Explain.”

“I think, Drew, that the body upstairs along with the ones littering the street outside should be explanation enough, don’t you?” he replied, coming to stand nose-to-nose with my brother.