Sora's Quest (Cat's Eye #1) Read online

  Burn laid Sora out on the examining table and stepped back, his face pale and drawn. Crash stared at her body as well — she was completely still, he couldn't even tell if she was breathing. He wondered if she was already dead. She seemed smaller than he remembered, the size of a child.

  The Healer began removing her shirt, then paused. She looked up at them. "I'm glad you two care so much, but I think the patient would appreciate some privacy. When I'm done, you can come back in and take her up stairs." She looked pointedly at the assassin. "I'll be seeing you next. Now out, both of you."

  Crash and Burn filed out of the room silently, each at a loss for words. They sat on a bench in the hallway. Both were quiet as they sorted through their own emotions and memories; every couple of seconds they glanced at the silent door. After a few minutes the Wolfy got up and started pacing, and Crash watched him, his body exhausted yet filled with a nervous, twitching energy. He would have paced too if he had been able to stand. Finally he sat back and closed his eyes, trying to rest, though he knew it would be impossible. Every time he sat back, he saw flashes of the battle, the wraith's dark, foreboding hood, the stench of magic and blood. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but there was nothing else to think about. There were no fond memories to summon, no better times.

  Eventually Burn's steps came to a halt. He sat down again, the bench creaking slightly under his weight. After a moment, he said very quietly, "We will need to give Dorian a proper burial."

  Crash's eyes flashed open, their green light suddenly rekindled. He hadn't thought of the thief. The cold body in the next room might as well have been a piece of wood. Was that what Burn had been pacing about — funeral rites? "Time means nothing to the dead," he grunted. "Dorian can wait."

  Burn frowned calmly. “Perhaps. But I can't."

  "Then bury him yourself. I don't believe in funerals. Nothing but useless vanity.”

  The mercenary was silent for a long moment. “I suppose you would say that,” he muttered darkly. “Is that all death is to you? Vanity? Something we do for attention? I'm not fooled, assassin. You may think you are above it all — that you have come to terms with your own mortality — but I still had to pull Sora out of your arms.”

  Crash didn't know what to say to that.

  Burn grunted softly. “After you're healed, and Sora is awake, then we will worry about Dorian."

  Crash refused to answer, knowing for the first time in his life that he couldn't trust his own voice. Silence was better than betraying oneself. Didn't the mercenary understand? He cared about the girl — maybe, partially, why not — but it was only because she was still alive. If she had been killed in the fight, would he have fussed over her empty body?

  No, of course not. He wasn't touched by such things, sentimentality would have killed him long ago. What did it even mean — to be buried? That was only a comfort to those who mourned; to those who grieved. No help to the ghost, if there even was one. He had seen a lot of deaths in his life, but never any spirits. No strange dreams, no visitations. Perhaps the underworld truly was a myth.

  He turned his face away from Burn and stared at the wall, telling himself all these questions were unnecessary. They left a bitter taste in his mouth. She's just a girl, he thought angrily. She will either live or die, just like anyone else. How long was this going to take? If the Healer didn't come out soon, then he might just knock on the door and let himself in. Why waste time with useless anxiety? There was nothing sacred about a healing space. He had a right to know the truth.

  As he fought with himself on whether to move or not, his question was answered by the door opening.

  The Healer was wiping her hands off on a cloth, and Crash could see blood on it. His stomach did a tiny flip, though he had seen plenty of blood before. He didn't linger on the reaction.

  The woman turned to look at them; she appeared older now, perhaps forty. “And now we wait it out,” she said. He thought he might have heard a tremor in her voice, a slight weakness. “There's nothing more I can do. But she's young, she has a good chance at recovering. There is no infection, so that's a good sign, it's mostly blood loss. Burn, can you take her upstairs to the first bedroom on the left?"

  "Of course," the Wolfy said, and went into the room immediately. Crash was too relieved to follow, though he didn't admit it to himself. A moment later Burn came out with Sora in his arms, covered in a long white sleeping gown.

  The assassin stood to go with them, but the Healer — looking far too much like Sora — gave him a firm glare. She motioned for him to come with her into the room. Crash had half the mind to ignore her, but a twinge in his side told him not to. His wound was still seeping fluid. So he followed her and sat down on the wooden table.

  The woman shut the door and turned to him. "Now, let me look at that wound."

  Crash didn't hesitate. He lifted his shirt to reveal the stab wound on his side. The woman took a bottle of clear liquid and dabbed a cloth into it. She wrung it out and clamped it over the wound without warning — for good reason, too, as it burned like hell. The gash began to foam; it stung as though she had rubbed salt into it, and in amazement he saw dirt and other toxins begin to bubble out, purged from his body. His face paled in pain, but he didn't make a sound. She did this a few more times to other small scratches, her eyes traveling over his scar, then she took out a needle and thin length of white thread.

  "This is worm thread — I grow it myself. It's made from silkworms and plant fibers. It will dissolve on its own in about three weeks," she said, mindlessly threading the needle. Crash nodded, looking down at her eerily familiar face, watching her deft hands. Sora had thinner fingers, he observed.

  Then she knelt towards his hip, her hands poised, ready to pierce the flesh. She glanced up at him. “This might... tickle, just a bit.”

  Crash nodded wryly, appreciating her humor. Then the needle pierced his skin, once again without warning. He inhaled sharply at the original sting, but to be honest, he was already in so much pain that it hardly mattered. He watched her hands at work, weaving in and out of the wound, sewing it together inch by precious inch. She was careful and thorough, taking her time, her face drawn with concentration.

  After almost twenty minutes, the Healer finished. Crash looked down at his side, at the deep wound that was now a thick pink line of raised flesh. He was mildly surprised. She was better than he had originally thought — far better than he had seen before, and he had visited quite a few Healers. Some could hardly mix cold medicine, and worked out of horse stalls or other unsavory places. No, this woman was quite experienced.

  Crash turned back to her. Blue eyes gazed at him steadily, a small smile on her lips. She seemed to know what he was thinking. He shifted uncomfortably; he didn't like that gaze, it saw too much.

  Then she spoke abruptly. "So does that tattoo on your arm mean anything," she asked, "or is it just a decoration?"

  Crash was surprised again. He glanced down at the green snake wrapped around his forearm, coiling up his wrist, twin fangs dripping poison. Usually he had his shirt on, so it was covered. "My namesake," he murmured.

  "Viper?"

  "Yes."

  "Ah. I thought so." The woman grinned. "An assassin indeed."

  Crash's green eyes flashed, immediately suspicious. What does she know of our ways? The Healer only laughed, her chuckle deep and throaty, so unlike Sora's that he began to relax.

  "It's obvious," she answered the unspoken question. "Your kind always have those silly tattoos."

  He was absolutely shocked. He had been impressed by the woman's knowledge of the Cat's Eye, but now he was speechless. Not many got close enough to an assassin to learn such things. What else did she know? And could he trust her?

  "Now tell me, Viper — or Crash, as you seem to prefer," she said, and handed him back his shirt. Then she turned to stare him in the eye, her expression far from friendly. "How do you know my daughter?"

  Chapter 13

  Sora was floating in a
black space.

  Every now and then there would be the murmur of voices on the edge of her hearing, but they were mere echoes, small stars in the milky backdrop of her mind. Peace flowed through every part of her, and for the first time in weeks, she felt completely safe.

  Then the darkness began to lighten to a gray shade, and finally to a soft white. She began to lose her hold on the peace, her mind stirring, rippling. Disgruntled, Sora finally accepted the fact that she was waking up. With a small groan, she welcomed back her senses with reluctant arms.

  She opened her eyes to slits and looked above her. At first she thought she was still dreaming, for there was a white, flat surface overhead — then she realized what it was. A ceiling. Her eyes widened in surprise, her heart racing. Had the Catlins captured her again? Now where am I? The last thing I remember I was... I was.... It took her a moment, but when the memories finally came back, they were crystal clear, full of color. She let out another groan, and this time felt the pressure of a bandage against her ribs. Her entire body was sore. She knew she was wounded, but she couldn't remember how.

  Was she really still alive? Her last waking thoughts had been with the acceptance of death. Just to make sure she wasn't dreaming or in some kind of afterlife, Sora raised her hands in front of her face, an action that took a peculiar amount of effort. Each limb felt numb, leaden, full of sand. Finally her fingers were in sight, and she blinked in surprise — she had been planning to pinch herself, but this was almost as good. Goddess! My fingernails are clean! Then something else occurred to her. Who cleaned them?

  "Welcome back, kid," came a voice from somewhere beyond her line of sight.

  Sora didn't have to see the person to know who it was, and a weak smile spread across her lips.

  "You had us worried for a while. Call me crazy, but you might have even gotten through to Crash." Burn loomed over her bed and grinned down at her. From this position, he seemed impossibly tall, far too large for the room they were in. He, too, was clean and wearing fresh clothes. Where were they? How much time has passed?

  "It's good to see you," she mumbled. Her lips felt numb, clumsy. She could feel her wound strain with her stomach muscles. It was a strange, unexpected sensation.

  "How are you feeling?" the mercenary asked.

  "All right," she murmured. "I'm just finding it a little hard to... move." She tried to sit up but a jolt of pain cut through her. She winced.

  Burn frowned in concern. He looked like he was about to say something, but then another voice cut him off. "You're badly wounded. You shouldn't move."

  Burn's head turned to the doorway and he said, "Finished sulking, have you? Get over here and pay your respects to our little heroine." The Wolfy chuckled. “She saved our lives."

  "I know," was the sour response.

  Sora wasn't particularly thrilled at the tone of Crash's voice. She had been cheered by Burn's teasing, but the assassin sounded as though he was in a bad mood. Like I've ever seen him in a good mood, she thought. But wasn't there someone missing? Where was the fourth member of their party, the one she had chatted with the most? Dorian?

  For a moment she waited — maybe he would come in next? Her mind dug back into the memories, shifting through the pain and fear and adrenaline. When had she seen him last? Back in the fields.... The wraith had attacked them, yes, she remembered now... its sword stabbing downwards, the thief throwing himself in front of Burn... blood spraying the grass....

  She felt suddenly sick. Her heart plummeted. She almost choked. "Dorian!" she gasped. "Where is he? What happened?"

  Burn stared down at her.

  She met his eyes in fear. "Tell me," she said. It sounded hysterical, even to her own ears.

  His eyes were dark. Those long, delicate ears twitched. The silence grew. Anxiety and fear clawed at her. Dorian... he can't... he can't possibly be....

  "He's gone, Sora," the Wolfy whispered.

  "G-gone?" she echoed, searching for any other explanation. "What do you mean, gone? Gone where? I don't..." But she did understand, and only too well. She didn't need Burn to continue; in fact, she didn't even want him to continue. Somehow saying the words out loud would make it more real, more inescapable.

  Should I be crying? she wondered. She tried to summon tears. Tried to raise some sort of response from her heart — a scream, a tantrum. But she felt numb. Full of cotton.

  “Burn...” she said quietly, scared by her own lack of response.

  His giant hand reached down and stroked her head. “Give it time,” he said. “It will sink in. Just give it time.”

  Sora closed her eyes, trying to forget the look on Dorian's face before he had died, the screech of the wraith, the way his body had fallen to the ground. When she opened her eyes again, Burn was gone. She didn't know how much time had passed, certainly not more than a minute. She turned her head, trying to see around the room, but it was hard to move and her neck was stiff.

  "We buried him a short ways from here," Crash said, causing her a jolt of surprise. She had thought she was alone. “We were waiting for you, but you have been unconscious for more than a week.”

  His shadow fell across the bed. She looked up at the assassin, curious. Why was he here? He was clothed in his usual black, though the shirt and pants were patched and clean. Her eyes followed the scar from his shirt collar up to his face.

  "Trying to make it better?" she said, a wry quirk in her mouth.

  "No," was his blank reply. "Just don't overreact. Dorian was no angel."

  Hearing the name suddenly felt odd, but she ignored it. Instead she frowned up at the assassin, irritated his tone, at his ambivalence. Heartless bastard. I wish he'd just go away.

  "I know that," she said, averting her eyes and speaking to the wall. "He was just a thief." Her voice choked slightly. "At least he died nobly, saving our lives."

  Silence. Then, "You're the one who saved our lives," he murmured.

  But I couldn't save Dorian - gods, I shouldn't have hesitated! Something cracked, and Sora's eyes filled with tears. It was all her fault. Dorian might still be alive if she had acted quicker.

  "Why didn't my Cat's Eye work against that creature?" she demanded bitterly. "You know, don't you? Tell me!"

  "There's nothing more you could have done."

  "But what was it? A ghost? A demon?" She wished Crash would just spit it out. She tried to calm herself down — her lungs were straining against her bandages, her heart pounding. She felt dizzy, despite laying down. It couldn't be good for her wound.

  "Volcrian has many powerful spells,” Crash finally said. “He uses blood to create monsters, servants. Most spells use animal sacrifices... but there are spells that require human blood too. Blood is dangerous. With it, he can manipulate the dead, create mindless servants out of bodies. They are not purely magic. They were alive, once... in some ways, they still are. Perhaps the Cat's Eye is not as useful against these beings.” Crash met her eyes. “He must know about you and the necklace. He's growing desperate.”

  Sora's eyes were wide. “So... so that wraith, that apparition....”

  “Was his creation. Yes.”

  “That's... that's terrifying.” She turned back to the assassin, blinking tears from her eyes, imagining Dorian's final moments on the battlefield. A sudden fire lit within her — hatred. It was fierce, far stronger than anything she had ever felt before. She hated Volcrian, hated him even more than the man in front of her. Why would a Wolfy kill his own race? Revenge? It was the act of a madman, a lunatic.

  They stared at one another for a long moment. "I could have done something," she finally said, unable to hold back the bitterness. She needed confess, to put her guilt out in the open. “I should have acted sooner. Saved him. It was in my power.” Her throat closed painfully.

  Then Crash did something unexpected.

  He sat down on the bed, his hand landing close to her face, gazing down at her intently. For reasons unknown, Sora felt her breath catch in her throat; her chest constric
ted peculiarly and her stomach clenched. She wanted to look towards the wall, the ceiling, anywhere but in those emerald depths — but she couldn't look away. She was trapped, sucked into his eyes. It wasn't a spell, but it was just as powerful.

  "Listen to me. It doesn't matter." His voice was soft and rich, and for some reason her heart fluttered at the sound of it. "Nothing matters, Sora. What's past is past, it cannot be fixed. Guilt is useless." Still he held her eyes, carving himself into her mind. "You are alive. That is all you should worry about. Let it go.”

  Sora couldn't speak — frankly, was having trouble breathing. Strangely poignant words for an assassin. They echoed in her head, blunt, loud. Let it go? Her guilt? Her regret? Impossible. Dorian was gone forever — how was she supposed to let that go?

  She nodded anyway, even though she didn't understand a word of it. What the hell did he know about grief? He was the coldest man she had ever met. Crash was still staring at her, leaning close, hovering over her body. An expression flickered through his eyes. He seemed conflicted, torn by something unspeakable. For a moment Sora imagined that she could feel his roiling emotions — but no, that couldn't be right — maybe it was her own emotions, grappling inside of her. Startled, she blinked her eyes free of tears and focused on his face.

  Her breath caught. He gazed at her, piercing her, as though he knew every inch of her, every thought, every ounce of confusion. She felt her heart begin to race. Was he leaning closer? Why? Why would he do that? Did he enjoy seeing her like this — defenseless, paralyzed, unable to even lift her head?

  She closed her eyes, trying to hide her pain; she didn't want him to see her anymore, exposed and vulnerable. But one tear escaped and ran down her cheek.

  His finger traced its path across her skin.

  Brushed across her lips.

  Then there was a knock at the door.

  Crash's head snapped up. He stood quickly. The door opened as he moved away from the bed. Sora watched him disappear out of her line of sight, and for a moment she felt... What? What is this? Loneliness?