Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

Evelina shrank away, arching her back, and then was dimly aware of a chiming sound, like metal grating on stone. She had a brief memory of the grill’s rusted bolts, and then she was sailing backward, somersaulting through space toward the foaming surf.

IT WAS THE NEXT MORNING, AND EVELINA KNEW COLD.

Her perception had narrowed down to a spark sheltered deep inside herself, the merest pinprick of life. Cold was the only concept she could find a word for. The was no question of moving. She couldn’t feel individual things like arms and legs. They were useless to her now.

That wasn’t the worst outcome. There was none of that thing called pain, just a growing darkness that told her the pinpoint of her life force was about to be snuffed out. Then she wouldn’t even have to worry about the chill.

She was fairly sure she’d drowned, but there were other things wrong, too. The waves had been harsh, tossing her against rocks before they finally vomited her up here. Her legs had never bent at that angle before now.

She wasn’t sure how long she lay there. Long enough the sound of the water grew less and something many-legged tracked across her body. Gulls began to gather in the faint gray of the dawn, crying like the disappointed dead.

Then she heard feet crunching across the stones, the rhythmic step of a man stuck in the track of his routine. “Lor’ what’s this, then?” And the steps turned into a jog, stones crunching louder with each heavy slap of a boot.

A hand, rough and cold, touched her throat. “Miss? Miss? ”

Another hand pulled the wet curtain of her hair away from her face and the sun hit her eyes. The spark flared, alert. From beneath her lashes she could see a face was near hers, lined and forested with a thick gray stubble. Breath smelled of strong tea with a drop of the good stuff to keep out the morning cold. The face turned, an ear close to her lips to catch any faint sigh of life. Evelina wasn’t sure if he would feel anything or not.

The face turned back, wrinkled with sorrow. Within the weathered face, his blue eyes were surprisingly bright, like a flash of sun on a pale blue sea. The hand left her throat and pulled off a shapeless black cap. “I’m that sorry, miss. A bad end for a pretty girl.”

The words sang with the lilt of the countryside, and she thought as last rites went it could be worse. At least it was heartfelt.

She wasn’t expecting it when the dark power struck, swift as a cobra. It lanced up from deep inside, arrowing through her too quickly for conscious thought. Suddenly she was sitting and her lips were on his, tasting that tea and smuggler’s brandy, and devouring the man’s life with savage, thirsty gulps. Life coated her mouth and throat, soothing like honey until it hit, sweet and burning, in her core. She felt the healing strength of it stretch out through salt-logged lungs and crushed bones, stitching her torn body anew. But more than that, it rippled through her veins with heady pleasure, drawing her up to her knees so that her mouth could get a firmer fix. Her mind was staggered with it, blinded, so she was as helpless as her prey as she sucked and drank, shuddering with the intensity, the shattering fullness of so much power ringing through her. She was gorged, and then almost sick with it until, finally sated, she fell away with a sigh. Only then did she let the man go.

Evelina rocked back on her heels, reeling as if drunk. Ideas were slow to arrive. The gulls had flown away. The sun was warm on her face even if the rest of her was waterlogged. She wasn’t cold anymore, and all her limbs worked as they should. She closed her eyes and opened them, bringing the world into painful focus.

Where am I? She turned her head slowly, the world sloshing a little as she did it. Her back was to the ocean and Magnus’s tower was far to her left. To her right was a lone cottage and a dock thrusting into the water, a boat tied at the end. A fishing vessel, she thought, and then she remembered the man.

With a gasp, she looked back at him, alarm and guilt confusing the part of her that had deemed him prey. I survived. Now I should just run . But she stayed.

He’d fallen on his side when she’d let him go. Evelina crawled over to him, her mind still squabbling about what she should do. In a reversal of roles, she reached for his throat to feel for a pulse.

He sat up with a cry, grabbing for her wrist. His grip was weak—she’d taken all his strength. “Devil!”

“I see you’re all right.” Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, cool and detached.

“You came from the castle,” he hissed, fumbling with his free hand inside the neck of his threadbare shirt.

“Have you had problems with the castle before?” she asked, still in that distant way. I’m in shock , she thought.

“The Lord Magus set his fiends on us in my grandsire’s time.” He held out a silver medal stamped with the image of Saint Peter, patron of fishermen.

“Magus. Magnus,” she muttered. The same Symeon the Mage, perhaps, from the ancient writings? Just how old was the sorcerer? She found herself staring at the medal the man thrust toward her, and felt a twinge of temper. Saint Peter didn’t bother her, but the fact that he was waving the medal at her did.

She pulled away easily, rising to her feet. The fisherman rose and scrambled backward, putting some distance between them. “Please,” he said. “Take me but spare my wife.”

Evelina’s jaw dropped, but then the full realization of what she’d done broke through. The man was pale and breathing hard, unsteady on his feet and trembling as if he had a violent fever. She’d clearly hurt him—might have done some permanent damage. If he’d been anything but the tough fisher stock, she could well have drained him dry. But I was nearly dead . What she’d done was pure instinct, as reflexive as fighting for air.

The why of it didn’t matter. This was how Magnus kept coming back, and back, and back. He’d done it so long he couldn’t let go even when he’d gone off like old cheese.

She put a hand to her mouth, sick—but it wasn’t the kind of sickness a simple spasm of her gut could fix. She had passed some point of no return, the darkness in her now stronger than the rest. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do it.”

The man took another step back, still brandishing the medal. “The demon has you in his thrall. Heaven save your soul but please don’t come back here.”

“I won’t.” She hoped that was true. She had no idea what she might do. Evelina began backing away, hoping that meant this poor man would escape her. He called me a thrall. Just like Magnus did . And then she turned and began to run. She’d lost her shoes, but her feet flew over the rocks and sand as if they barely touched them. Her limbs moved with an ease they hadn’t had since she was a child, her hair streaming behind her in a wild dark mass. She ran and ran, barely touched by fatigue, leaping up the rocky tumbles of the cliffs as if they were no more than the shallow steps to a ballroom floor. As she ran, the sun broke fully into the sky, spilling orange and pink flames across the rippling sea.

One thought filled her mind. I’m no man’s thrall . And as she thought it, her feet turned toward Siabartha Castle. She had tried to run to avoid activating these powers, but that had happened anyhow. Escape hadn’t solved a thing.

And she needed a solution. She’d finally got a stitch in her side by the time she’d reached the wall of the castle. Her clothes were dry, though they were stiff and stained with salt. Her skin and scalp itched. Otherwise, she felt strong, almost invincible. She hated what that stood for. I’m not like him. I’m not!