Rapture by L.V. Lane
CHAPTER NINE
Winter
PASSING THROUGH A portal is never an easy undertaking. The calmer you are, the less resistance you will feel.
The look upon the child’s face has put my mind into a spin. I thrash and scream into the void.
I am spat out on the other side.
“Mama!”
The high, sweet cry of hope can only be the child.
On my hands and knees, I heave up the small amount I ate for breakfast, even as I hear the ring of clashing weapons. The air is hot and humid—a shock after the icy snow of Bleakness.
The ground beneath me is soft and loamy, the light overhead dappled. A forest.
“Mama!”
I spit to clear my mouth, swaying, vision blurred, and head ringing.
Growls, savage and full of fury, penetrate the fog. I am snatched to my feet, a cold blade pressed against my throat.
“Halt, or I will slit the Blood’s throat!”
I blink back tears. Before me, Jacob stands, bloody sword in hand. Around him are the fallen bodies of human overseers and orcs. One… three… no, five.
More men and orcs surround him, weapons trained.
His chest heaves, vicious wounds have sliced through his armor in places, his temple bleeds, and his right eye is turning black. Eyes locked with mine, he growls as he tosses the sword to the floor.
Cold skitters down my spine as I try to reconcile what has happened.
“Don’t hurt Mama!”
A shudder ripples through my body. Enemies converge on Jacob, beating him to the ground.
I cry out in horror and in sorrow. I feel the echo of every blow. He has slain their people, and they will see him punished.
The blade at my throat disappears, and I am shoved forward roughly. I try to turn to see what is happening to Jacob, but the overseer behind me thrusts me forward again.
“Get ’em in the wagon!” he calls.
Arm fisted, I am pushed into the open cage wagon. Stumbling, I fall forward, just as Jacob is tossed in beside me.
The cage door shuts with a rattle, and a heavy lock is snapped into place.
“Move out!”
The cart lumbers forward on the narrow forest path. I crawl to Jacob’s lifeless body, my hands hovering over him. He is face down, but his chest is rising and falling, and I take small comfort in that.
I am terrified that he might be too weak to even take my blood.
I am terrified to even touch him, lest I hurt him further.
A great wail goes up as the struggling child is snatched up into her overseer’s arms.
“I want Mama!”
That cry is like a tiny fist squeezing upon my heart.
I am no mother, nor am I her mother. Yet, to her memory, I must look much the same.
Her tears break me as the man holding her strides ahead and out of my sight.
Groaning, Jacob heaves himself up, spitting blood to the cart floor. He slumps back against the cage wall.
Goddess, what have they done to him?
His face is red and swollen, skin stretched tight and split over swelling. One arm wraps protectively around his ribs. A gash to his shoulder bleeds profusely.
He needs blood.
“When was the last time you were outside, your ladyship?” he asks on a growl.
My eyes narrow. I do not like the way he calls me ladyship. The brute manages to make it sound like the gravest insult. “It has been some time,” I say, tone clipped as I wrestle with my horror at his injury and the belligerence in his tone. “What of it?”
“Some time? Exactly how much time?”
“Cecil swore you had an even temperament, yet I see little evidence. I begin to suspect the old warrior master was playing me.”
“Fuck Cecil,” he growls. “How fucking long?”
“Fifty years or so,” I say. “I fail to see how this is relevant.”
“Fifty fucking years? A lot can happen in fifty years, my fine mistress. Had you ventured to ask my opinion, I’d have told you of the impossibility of what you sought to do.”
It was impossible, in hindsight. His rage is justified, for we are now prisoners. “The Chosen do not care for excuses,” I say feeling the sting of his reproach.
“There is more than one way to skin a cat,” he says and, staggering to his feet, paces the lumbering wagon, bleeding all over the cage floor. Surely it would be advisable for him to sit or rest? “And with all due respect, the Chosen have not ventured outside of Sanctum since the endless war began!”
“You should not speak to me so,” I say, feeling off-kilter in every way. “I’m forced to reflect that the binding is not what it once was.”
“The binding?” he demands. “Really, we are going there? The binding stops me from strangling you, and that’s about it. Although I sorely wish to do so.”
“You must obey me,” I repeat, like I’m trying to convince myself I’ve not already lost control.
“I am fucking obeying, am I not? But I can’t fucking protect you if you don’t give me blood.”
