trouble imaging it.
“Yes,” Sicarius whispered. The word came out, not in his usual monotone, but in an accent that put more emphasis on the vowel than was normal for a Turgonian.
“I don’t want to die out here,” Amaranthe said, wondering what type of bargain she could try to make that would entice a dead man. “Is there anything I can do to win my life?”
Sicarius’s hand tightened about her neck. “You already cost one of my people his life, his plan.” He spun her about so quickly and with such power that her toes dragged in the dirt. They bumped against a rock, almost knocking it from its resting place.
Sicarius did not lower her, and her feet dangled. Her neck protested the manhandling, but she bit back a moan of pain, not wanting to alert the thief to her position. Besides, her neck would hurt a lot more if he decided to break it…
“You see those ruins?” He pointed up the slope.
Trees choked the view, though she knew what he was talking about. The old Darkcrest homestead was on this end of the island, a sprawling stone structure choked with vegetation that was gradually taking back the land.
“I’ve seen them, yes,” Amaranthe whispered.
“They’ve been my home for decades now,” Sicarius whispered. “An abandoned haunt filled with spirits of people who loathe me and my kind. I’ve had to suffer their taunts, about how I failed my mission, about how Turgonia will wipe my people from the world and write them out of history. I’ve had to-”
“You think you failed?” Amaranthe asked.
Sicarius-no, Azon Amar, she reminded herself-had turned so Amaranthe’s back was to the beach, and she could see the thief out of the corner of her eye. The woman had stopped and turned in their direction. If Sicarius was fighting the Nurian spirit, might his reflexes be a touch slower than usual?
“Your general, Hollowcrest, said the emperor lived,” Azon Amar said.
A plan whispered into Amaranthe’s thoughts, a dangerous one, especially considering her foe was occupying her closest friend’s body. All she could hope was that the thief wouldn’t be a good shot.
“He lied to you,” Amaranthe said. “You succeeded in killing our old emperor.”
“I…” He shook her. “You would tell me anything to live.”
“You’re in my friend’s head. He knows the truth. Look around.”
“No. I will kill you now. With your friend’s hands.” He chuckled without mirth, and it was jarring coming out of Sicarius’s mouth. Sicarius never laughed.
His second hand came up next to the first, and his fingers tightened about Amaranthe’s throat.
She kicked the rock. It clunked and skidded into the undergrowth.
A shot fired.
Sicarius grunted and his grip loosened. Amaranthe rammed an elbow into his ribs and leapt free.
Not certain if he had been shot or simply surprised by the noise, she rushed to grab the knife on the ground and sprint into the brush. In the darkness, there was no way to run quietly. Leaves shook and branches snapped as she sprinted away, parallel to the beach.
She kept an eye toward the thief and ducked a heartbeat before the rifle fired again. A bullet thudded into a tree over her head.
Amaranthe popped up, steadied herself, and hurled the black knife. It was too dark to see it spinning through the air, but the thief reeled back and dropped her rifle.
Afraid Sicarius-Azon Amar-whoever-would recover quickly, Amaranthe abandoned the foliage and sprinted down the beach. The moon peering over the crest of the island illuminated her all too well, and she ran with her shoulders hunched, fearing a bullet or knife in her back at any second. She sprinted five hundred meters, pebbles shifting and flying beneath her feet, until she reached the side of the island closest to the mainland.
She chanced a glance back down the beach as she veered into the water. A black-clad figure was sprinting after her, closing the distance quickly.
Had she the breath to spare, Amaranthe would have cursed Sicarius’s athletically inclined ancestors. She high-stepped out as far as she could before diving into the water. She was paddling her arms and kicking before her belly splashed down.
Sicarius could easily overtake her before she reached the mainland. Her only hope was that Azon Amar’s reach ended before Sicarius caught up with her. And she had best move quickly enough that no blighted seaweed had time to stretch up and entangle her.
For the first thirty meters, Amaranthe did not even lift her head to breathe. Her legs burned from the effort of kicking, and her arms turned into lead weights. Finally she lifted her head for air and to get her bearings. Through the water streaming into her eyes, she spotted the dock where they had stopped earlier. She shifted her angle toward it, put her head back down, and kept swimming.
If Sicarius was right behind her… she didn’t want to know. She was out of weapons and out of tricks.
Her knuckles grazed the bottom, and she scrambled out of the water. Fear-charged limbs propelled her up the slope and to the cabin. She tried the door but found it locked. She spun about, putting her back to the wood, and scanned the lake, searching for blond hair made silvery by the moonlight. He wasn’t there. Had he already climbed out?
The logical part of her brain insisted that Sicarius would be himself if he reached this shore again, that the Nurian’s curse would have faded. The panicked tired-of-being-shot-at-and-tormented-by-that-island part of her brain had trouble believing it.
Time limped past, and Sicarius did not appear.
Amaranthe walked back down to the dock, a new fear worming its way into her mind. What if Azon Amar had summoned Sicarius back before he could swim away from the island? What if the Nurian spirit meant to keep Sicarius there as a prisoner for the rest of his life?
Amaranthe lifted her chin. That would not happen. If she had to, she would return to the city and collect the rest of her team to rescue him. They could drug him if needed and carry him Someone touched her shoulder, and Amaranthe jumped and whirled about.
Sicarius stood there, damp hair sticking up in tufts, his face hidden by the night.
Amaranthe skittered back until her heel found the edge of the dock. He did not move.
“Are you… you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
The accent had disappeared, and the monosyllabic answers had returned, so she supposed that meant it was him, but she had a hard time relaxing. She would not soon forget the memory of those fingers wrapped around her neck.
“You sure?” she asked.
He extended a hand, palm up. Amaranthe hesitated before stepping closer and accepting it. Gently and slowly, he pulled her into a hug. It surprised her, and she did not know what to say. The closest he usually came to hugging people was grappling with them in wrestling practice-the “hug” tended to end with one being hurled head- over-heels onto one’s back. He held the embrace for a long moment, and she found herself wondering just how close he had come to killing her. Had he been aware of everything he had been doing while under the spirit’s influence?
She did not want to dwell upon that, so she kept her tone light when she said, “Is this supposed to convince me that you’re telling the truth? The real Sicarius doesn’t hug me often.” Despite her words, she slid her arms around him, intending to appreciate the gesture of camaraderie. Her hands encountered dampness, not dripping water from the swim but sticky warm dampness. “You’re bleeding,” she blurted, pulling her arms away lest she hurt him further.
“You did arrange to have me shot,” Sicarius said dryly.
“I didn’t think she’d luck into actually hitting you,” Amaranthe said. “I’m sorry. I needed a distraction to-”
“I know,” Sicarius said grimly. “I should never have gone over there with you. I’d heard the story, of a team of soldiers sent to plant a box of blasting sticks and blow up the island, and of the warrior mage’s spirit taking over one of the strongest and using him to kill many of the others.”
Amaranthe thought of the skeletons on the beach. How many more dotted the island?
