The Witch's Daughter - Laken Cane Page 0,59

back again.

Over.

And over.

And over.

No one came to save her.

No one.

In her despair, she damned them all.

“Shhh…”

Finally, bored, the crawlers scuttled away and left her paralyzed and abandoned on the stone floor. Left her lying in thick pools of blood and gore and loss, and another person slipped into the room to kneel beside her.

“My sweet child. My sweet baby.”

Damascus’s sorrow hung like a cloud in the freezing room, bathing Rune’s destroyed body in warmth and life and a hope that there might be an end to the suffering.

“Kill me,” Rune begged, forgetting that for her, death was not possible.

Damascus caressed Rune’s face, softly, sweetly. “Hush, baby.”

“Kill me.”

Rune wasn’t sure of anything other than the fact that for the thousandth time in her life she wanted to die more than she’d ever wanted anything.

And she couldn’t.

The witch lifted her from the floor and cradled her against her chest, her eyes pure and loving in light that was kind and forgiving, like the dewy light of dawn.

“The crawlers will die,” she promised, gently rocking. “I will kill them in most awful ways for what they’ve done to you. But you, child, will not die. You cannot, you know. Were you to be parted from your head and heart, you would still live on.”

Rune whimpered, and unable to help herself, pushed her face more closely against the witch’s warm skin.

“Yes,” Damascus crooned. “We will kill them all, you and I, and you shall rule by my side. Just as you should, my child. All you have to do is accept me. Ask me to, and I shall destroy everyone who ever caused you pain.”

Damascus is the enemy.

Isn’t she?

“I, too, have been betrayed,” Damascus went on. “I, too, have been deceived. Deceived by those who wish my demise. But I’ve found you. I’ve saved you. You’re mine, dearest, and I shall take care of you from now on. Ask.”

“Kill…”

“Hush, child.” She stared down at Rune and in her eyes was succor. Relief. Joy. Love.

Rune floated as the pain left her. Fear left her.

She was overtaken by a feeling unlike any she’d ever felt in her life. Not even the aftereffects of Jeremy’s punishments made her feel what she felt right then, staring into the witch’s eyes.

It was good.

So, so fucking good.

She floated, high.

Drugged.

Oh, so good. So good.

“This is where you belong,” Damascus said. “Right here with me.”

“I…”

“Yes. Say it. Say it, child.”

But in her relief she found her will. “No.”

Damascus smiled. “You will. Soon.”

Rune lay there, cocooned in safety, rocked gently by the witch, her enemy, her savior.

Held securely by the most powerful woman in any world.

Her mother.

At that moment, there was no place she would rather have been.

Sometime later she awakened, still hurting, still healing, and still broken upon the floor.

Alone.

She’d dreamed the witch.

And she wasn’t really sure why that knowledge disappointed her so.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The crawlers didn’t appear again until the gray light was gone and Rune was once more in the nearly impenetrable dark.

She was ready for them.

No, not ready, but waiting.

Waiting.

She had nothing but her claws and her fangs and her strength. They’d taken everything else.

And her strength was ebbing.

Her body would heal—slowly, because they’d torn her apart—but it would heal. Her mind…that was a different matter, and she knew it.

She had no idea how to stop them, or how to free herself.

Except to call out to Damascus.

To beg Damascus.

To give herself to the witch.

And she wasn’t doing that.

She’d searched the room for a weak spot, a door, a hint of an escape route.

There was nothing.

But she discovered the walls and floors were made mostly of obsidian.

The obsidian walls did not render her helpless, as a stake would have done, but they weakened her.

It didn’t matter. She could have had all her strength and the weapons of a thousand people, and still the crawlers would not have been affected.

But nothing was created that didn’t have a weak spot, a vulnerability, somewhere. She just had to find theirs.

She had to.

Fire, she thought, would destroy them.

But she had no fire.

She had nothing.

So the crawlers came.

She dropped her fangs automatically and the crawlers snapped them from her gums. She shot out her claws and they ripped them from her hands, breaking them, splintering them.

She fought them with bloody fists and bare feet, and they cried “Shhh!” as they broke her bones and dined upon the marrow.

Finally, she curled on the floor so they could do as they would, and she retreated into her memories.

Nicolas Llodra, the man she’d killed—one of the fathers she’d killed—was