Covenant's End - Ari Marmell Page 0,19
think. Primal screams and wracking sobs, a wounded animal lashing out at anything within reach. Jagged rents in her glove, and the flesh beneath it, wept crimson runnels down her fingers to splatter across the filthy floorboards. It barely registered at all, and when it did, she only vaguely made the connection between that pain and the jagged hole punched into the flimsy wood of the wall.
Her gut burned, hot, corrosive. The room tilted, until she couldn't understand how she failed to tumble and slide across the floor. She spun, trying to toss her sword across the chamber, but either the twist itself or the fact that she succeeded only in yanking herself sideways by a scabbard still firmly fastened to her belt sent her reeling to the floor. There she lay in a gangly tangle, chest heaving, face drenched with sweat and tears. The shrieking had finally subsided, replaced by soft, mewling, primal sounds.
Only then, finally, was she able to feel Olgun's touch, his frantic efforts to reassure her, to calm her. Even without the need for words, with the emotions washing directly through her, they felt distant and meaningless.
Until she sensed the tiniest flicker of the fury beneath it. A divine rage, feeding off of and feeding into her own, roaring just below the surface. A rage that Olgun fought tooth and nail to control, to hide from the reassurances he offered her.
And that was enough. If he could make that effort for her, she could do it for him. She took no peace from it, no comfort, but what it could provide her was control.
Clutching the furniture, her breath coming more slowly albeit still in ragged gasps, she staggered upright. A careful check of her sword, and her injuries, first. Then, gaze carefully averted, she felt around until she located the ring. Shaking its gruesome burden free, she wiped it clean on one corner of the sheet and slipped it on her own hand. With the glove, her finger was large enough to wear the band with little chance of slippage.
Only then did she allow herself—or was it force herself?—to look once more over the bed. Emotion roiled up inside her again; she clamped down, hard, nearly suffocating before it subsided.
“I'm going to find whoever did this to you, Alexandre. And I'm going to kill him.”
Widdershins had never been casual about death. She'd killed, yes, but only under the most violent or extreme of circumstances. Yet her promise here was cold, as matter of fact, as stone.
She very carefully latched and locked the door on her way out, though she knew it wouldn't stop anyone sufficiently determined. Scuffs and whispers sounded from the other flats as she passed down the hallway. The morbidly curious, no doubt, their attention drawn by her earlier screams, but wise enough not to open their doors until they knew the place was safe.
Safe as it ever got, anyway.
One door did open, just a crack, revealing only blackness and the dull yellow-white reflection of a single curious eye. Shins snarled something, deep and unintelligible, and it quickly slammed shut.
Back down the stairs, not pounding or stomping, no, but certainly without her earlier caution. They quaked, groaning with the effort of clinging to the wall against which they'd sagged for so long. Shins didn't notice, didn't care.
The sky above, the one time she glanced upward—searching, perhaps, for guidance—held no stars. Just gray on black, a night choking on clouds. The moon, presumably bright and crisp beyond the overcast, was to her nothing more than a careless thumb-smear of lighter hue against the darkness.
It felt appropriate. The world tonight should be shrouded, shadowed, black as Widdershins's thoughts and intentions.
“I don't know!” she snapped at an almost tentative question from her partner. She knew, could hear it in his not-voice, that he forced himself to calm, shared her fury but held it at bay so he might balance out her own. To continue feeding her some measure of control.
Her reaction even to that, though understanding and even grateful, was tinged with irritation. She wanted to lose herself to her anger, or part of her did; felt that it might just be the only way, in the long run, to stay sane.
“I don't know,” she repeated—more calmly, if only by a sliver. “I don't know who would, or who could. How they knew about the bolthole, or my connection to Alexandre. And no, I don't have the first idea how we're going to figure it out. But