Falling Blind
Page 17

Her lips parted, and Cain held his breath, everything inside of him coiled tight in anticipation of her vow. “Wait. Before you say what you’re going to say, you need to know that what comes next can be frightening. You’ll see a vision of . . . something. I don’t know what, but I don’t want you to be scared by whatever you see. Nothing can hurt you, okay?”
She nodded. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
He collected a drop of blood on his finger and touched it to the necklace.
She didn’t get it yet, but she would. Eventually she’d learn that he would always worry about her—at least for as much time as he had left. She was part of him now. The rest of the binding ceremony was a formality. A vital one, certainly, but her decision to take his luceria was the catalyst that had changed the shape of his life forever. She’d given him hope for a future that was otherwise bleak and desolate, and for that, he would never be able to thank her enough.
Rory pulled in a deep breath. “I will stay with you long enough to find the person or thing that I’ve been looking for—the one that makes my visions go away.”
Cain’s hope shriveled and died, just as it had when Jackie had chosen Iain. A woman as determined as Rory would find her savior within a few weeks. Perhaps even a few days.
She hadn’t saved his life. She’d found a way to end it sooner.
He knew better than to let hope get the best of him, and despite his warnings to the contrary, he’d let himself get pulled into the fantasy.
At least she’d saved him from spending his last days in pain. He tried to take solace in that, but could find none.
He couldn’t hide his disappointment and grief. He knew she’d see it on his face, and he didn’t want to burden her with his selfish wishes.
Cain turned away to hide his expression and an instant later, a vision slammed into him.
He saw Rory as a child, perhaps five or six years old. Her hair had been a pale blond then, but her dark eyes and the curve of her upper lip were unmistakable. She sat in this very house, at the same dining room table that still perched in the same spot. An older woman—her nana—sat with her, her aging body drooping with grief and guilt.
“Your mama is gone, honey. The drugs have taken her. She’s not coming back.”
“Mama always comes back. She said so.”
“Not this time, Rory. It’s just you and me now.”
And that statement had proven to be true. Cain saw a string of events, and while there were fleeting glimpses of others, the only constant at Rory’s side was her grandmother. She didn’t go to school with the other kids. She played alone. As she grew, that loneliness hung on her, weighing her down with sadness. And then that sadness disappeared and in its place was anger, rebellion. Her hair changed color. Her clothing became revealing and chaotic. She’d pierced her nose, her eyebrow, her belly button. Each new piercing brought a deeper frown to her nana’s face.
Then something happened. The visions slowed to show Rory sitting at the same table in the same chair where she’d always sat. Tears streamed down her face, making her heavy makeup run in black rivulets.
Nana was gone. Dead. Cain could feel Rory’s grief as clearly as if it had been his own.
She was truly alone now.
Time sped again, and several of the piercings disappeared. The slutty clothing became less revealing and more defensive. The colorful hair remained, but began to grow out to its natural blond. Rory worked a lot, spending hours and hours at her computer.
Her life was a string of quiet isolation, marked occasionally by brief trips into the city to search for a way to rid herself of her visions.
Finally, the story the luceria had chosen to show him was over, but he didn’t know what he was supposed to take from it. The confusing jumble of images had to have some meaning, but he wasn’t sure what it was.
The only thing he could think was that the man she was supposed to be with—the one she would eventually find—would have known what the luceria was trying to say. The fact that Cain couldn’t figure it out only strengthened his conclusion that Rory wasn’t truly meant to be his. This situation they were in now was simply a passing mistake on her part—one she’d correct as soon as she found her true partner.
* * *
Ronan rarely dreamed. It was better that way. Safer. But today, his usual control over such things had slipped while the sun hovered high in the sky, muting his limited powers.
A dream had sucked him in, weaving around him in grim despair.
Everything was dark, tinted with helpless defeat. His hunger was consuming, driving him to hunt for even one drop of sustenance, but there was none to be had.
The streets were empty. Human homes sat vacant and hollow, their doors ripped from hinges as a sign that others had passed this way before him. Ronan’s wasted body ached as he forced his legs to move.
The stench of decay and filth hung in the air, so thick it created a cold fog around his feet. It sucked the heat from his skin and forced his weary heart to beat faster, restoring what little warmth it could.
There were no more people to be found—no more blood. The only blood that remained was the tainted poison flowing in the veins of Synestryn.
And that of his own kind.
The dream shifted and Ronan faced his friend, Tynan. They’d shared their lives for millennia, hunting side by side, working to ensure the survival of their race by protecting the strongest human bloodlines.
Their efforts had failed, and all that remained was ash, rot and hunger.
Tynan was as hungry as Ronan was. His flesh hung on his bones, loose and empty. His face, once beautiful, was now the face of death—as gaunt as a skeleton and burning with the sickly tint of infection.
His eyes glowed, flaring with a weak flicker of light. “One of us must die.”
Ronan nodded, even that small effort nearly too much for him to maintain. He tried to tell Tynan to take his blood and end his suffering, but the ravening beast within him—the one driven by hunger and instinct took over.
Ronan lunged for his lifelong friend and ripped his head backward until his neck nearly broke. Tynan’s skin parted easily for Ronan’s fangs. His friend’s blood filled his mouth, too weak to do more than ease his growling hunger.
Tynan’s pulse slowed. Ronan ordered his body to stop, but his mouth kept moving. He sucked down great gulps of blood until his friend’s heart stuttered, and then finally, inevitably, stopped.
Ronan held Tynan’s corpse in his hands and knew that he’d just killed the last creature on earth that had loved him. He’d just destroyed the last being he could ever love. And now the world was not only devoid of food, it was also empty of friendship and love. Forever. Ronan’s greed had destroyed all that was good, and in doing so, he’d slain hope.
His hunger returned, worse than before. This time, there was no way to appease it. He was going to die of starvation. Alone.
Ronan woke, sweat pouring from his body. He was shivering, his muscles so tight he could barely breathe. The cellar of the Gerai house where he slept seemed to close in around him, suffocating him.
He forced himself to take slow, even breaths while the shivering terror passed.
That nightmare hadn’t been natural. There was a taint of malevolent magic about it—a dark Synestryn stain Ronan recognized only now that he was awake.
A tendril of power hovered nearby, reaching up from the earth.
Furious that some creature dared invade his mind, Ronan grabbed that tendril and shoved his consciousness back through it, following it to its source.
Deep within the earth a Synestryn lay hidden, sending out twisted threads of power. As soon as Ronan felt the fetid confines of the demon’s mind, he reeled back in revulsion. Rotted, stinking decay clung to the creature’s thoughts, each one pulsing with the staccato beat of hatred and revenge. There was little sense to be made of such chaos, but Ronan could feel the power this demon wielded. He was stronger than most—stronger than Ronan could ever hope to be given the dwindling supplies of Athanasian blood lingering on the planet.
The demon sensed him immediately, and tried to snag him, pulling him farther inside the decaying constructs of its mind. Ronan dodged the attempt, but he was clumsy, and the effort left him weak. There was no time to linger and figure out what this demon had planned. Ronan had to escape now, before he no longer could.
With a hard thrust of power, he shoved himself out of the Synestryn’s mind. Searing hot claws raked across the inside of Ronan’s skull, making him cry out in pain. He landed in his own body, panting and shaking. His head throbbed, and blood leaked from his nose.
He was nearly too weak to breathe, much less move and clean the blood from his skin. He didn’t know how strong the wards on this Gerai house were, and whether or not they’d keep the scent of his blood contained. Even though he rested in the darkness of the locked basement, there were no guarantees that he would not be found here as soon as the sun set.
Ronan tried to sit up, but his body refused to obey his commands. Even his pitiful attempts to wipe the blood away had done little more than spread it across his face. He needed help, but all of his brothers were sleeping and suffering through their own daylight weakness.
Ronan felt the demon poking at the edges of his mind, as if seeking a way in. He went still, reserving every bit of strength he had as he concentrated on keeping the creature from invading his thoughts.
It was stronger than he was. It was hungry and violent, battering itself against Ronan’s defenses in an effort to break through.
Instincts warned him that if he let down his guard, his mind would never again be the same. Touching such darkness would leave its mark, permanently.
Ronan began to sweat under the strain of protecting himself. He could no longer feel the diseased touch of the demon, but that didn’t mean it was gone. Some instinct told Ronan that he was no longer alone.
With slow, painful care, he retrieved his phone from his pocket and sent out a call for help. For blood. If someone didn’t come soon he wouldn’t survive the day, but at least they’d know where to find his body.
Chapter 10
Rory was used to visions, but what she was seeing now was way more than that. There were sounds and smells to accompany the sights she witnessed, as well as a low vibration of emotion coming from those she saw.
Cain had said not to be afraid, and that was the only thing that kept her from freaking out.
She stood in a bedroom she didn’t recognize. It was dark, but somehow, she was still able to see. Cain lay asleep in a big bed, his body sprawled beneath a sheet. There had been lots more leaves on his tattoo then, which meant he must have had some removed.
Something about that conclusion was wrong, but she didn’t waste time questioning it. Not when she saw the huge, furry monster slinking across his carpet.
Rory screamed at him in warning, but he didn’t so much as twitch. The monster came closer, moving as silent as a thought. She tried to pick up a book and throw it, but her hand passed through, reminding her that this was all a vision, albeit a fucked-up one.
The monster pushed itself upright, standing at least eight feet tall. It pounced on the bed, digging its claws into Cain’s chest.