Race the Darkness (Fatal Dreams, #1)(10)
Only then did Chosen One lift him from the water.
King gulped in giant lungfuls of air, sucking river water into his mouth and up his nose, tasting and smelling the mud and algae searing his sinuses. In the river, bathed in dawn’s divine light, the only sound was of his body snorting and snarling to find a new equilibrium after his return from death. It was a beautiful resurrection.
Chosen One’s strong hands stayed on King’s body, holding him up until his legs were strong enough to support his weight. Finally, when King calmed, Chosen One stepped away. With one finger, King pressed a nostril closed and blew out the waste in the other one, then repeated the gesture with the other nostril to complete his cleansing and resurrection.
“Thy will be done,” King said, his voice thick, his body weak and shaky. He returned to his position to watch each of his Brothers go through the ritual.
By the time they were finished, dawn was an hour old, and heat and humidity and mosquitoes were an irritant. They waded back to the shore in the same order they’d entered the water. In the silence that followed the profound, they dressed. One by one, each of his Brothers bowed their heads to Chosen One and then left to return to their regular, routine lives. One brother was a lawyer, another a professor, another a doctor, and King was the chaplain for the local hospital.
“Brother King, would you stay a moment more?” His leader’s tone was mild, but King sensed the urgency underneath.
“Certainly.” A small smile of triumph teased his tongue and twitched his lips.
“Brother King, I sense a change. Your resurrection was particularly powerful this morn.”
“It was.” He drew in a breath. “I ordered Queen to kill the Dragon last evening.”
Chosen One’s eyes widened. “Rex!” He lapsed into using King’s birth name and grabbed King’s arms with both of his hands. “You completed your task.” He brought King in for a hug, and King let himself be held by the powerful man who was more than his Chosen One. He was also King’s father.
“I knew your simple sister would be of assistance to you. Serving you in this task has always been part of her purpose.” Chosen One released him. “I am proud of you. You have struggled with this burden for far too long. You must know—especially today—that the Lord only chooses those who are strong enough to carry the burden of his destiny.”
“I am pleased it is over, but my weak mind still struggles against…struggles to understand…the Lord’s will.”
“It is much the same for all who’ve been asked to complete such a task. We are here but to serve the Lord, not to question. You must now carry out the last rites, or the Dragon will never truly be dead. You do understand the importance?”
“I do.” King’s guts shriveled. He still needed to chop off her head, burn her body, soak the ashes in holy water, and inter them in holy ground. A nice little list of horror. But he hadn’t struggled this long to leave his duty to the Lord unfinished.
Chapter 4
Only sound existed for Xander.
Heartbeats.
Two of them.
His beating rapidly, Isleen’s catching only every third beat.
The whisper of their mingled breaths made a song—a rhythm only Xander was able to hear. He couldn’t feel or see anything, but he wasn’t freaked. It felt like they were in an odd sort of suspension, where only peace and grass-smoking hippies could thrive. A thought floated across his mind.
We should be dead. But we aren’t. Our hearts are beating. We’re breathing.
The rest of Xander’s senses came back online in a rush of color and texture and sensation. He lifted his head, realizing he had buried his face against the span of skin where Isleen’s neck sloped into her shoulder—an oddly intimate place for his nose and mouth. He found himself kneeling, knees on the grass, with Isleen crushed to him, her chest mashed against his. The way he held her was no sweet romantic gesture; it was determination to keep her with him. Keep her safe.
Overgrown weeds grew unimpeded toward the sky, and giant dandelions pocked the yard with their pretty color. On three sides of him, all Xander could see were cornfields.
Waves of malicious intent lapped at his back. He didn’t need to twist around to know the trailer and his truck were behind him.
How had they gotten here? His memory provided no answers. One moment the trailer had exploded around them, the next they had been suspended in the weird place where only sound existed, and somehow here they were.
Flawless, fresh sunshine warmed his skin. God, just to be out of the darkness and despair of the trailer was a miracle. But now the extent of Isleen’s misery was spotlighted. Every bone protruded against her translucent skin. Her eyelids were lavender; her lips nearly the same color. Wounds covered her entire body—some almost healed, some beginning to heal, and some heartbreakingly fresh. A meager stream of blood oozed from the gash in her side.
Underneath all the suffering, Xander saw something he recognized, something familiar, something he couldn’t place and would have to ponder in order to understand.
The truck’s ignition wheezed, chugged, and then caught. The roar of it rammed tension up his spine. He turned in time to see the vehicle bounce and jolt, trying to break free from the room it had plowed into. A small pile of debris was the only thing standing between them and a head-on collision.