Page 91 of Remnants: Disruption
Aiming for my face.
“No,” I moan, watching as it descends.
It traces along my throat, drawing a trickle of blood as it moves. I can’t feel the other wounds. I can’t feel anything.
I can’t—
The room explodes into an incandescent red. Daggers and tendrils dissolve like snow in the summer—wiped clean like they never existed in the first place.
“Arya?” a voice cries out, sounding genuinely horrified.
I stare into the red hue and see her—glowing red eyes wide with panic. Panic that I’ve never seen before. Not even when Darkrend had beat the fear of God into me.
And I don’t even believe in a God.
“Who did this to you?”
“I did,” I whimper, feeling the wound in my abdomen slowly begin to knit.
I can’t even muster up the strength to move when she closes the space between the bed and the door. She wraps long arms around me and pulls me tightly against her. The mattress dips as she slides onto it.
She smells of the same spiciness that clears the senses. Except I don’t want to be reasonable. I don’t want to think about what she’s doing. So, I lean in further, letting her hold me.
“What the fuck do you want from me?” I sob into her warmth.
“To help you control this. To help you become more powerful than any of us.”
“I don’t believe you,” the tears aren’t even embarrassing anymore. I haven’t cried this much in years, but here I am—crying against the chest of the woman who wants to use.
“I will never betray you, Arya,” her words are soft against my ear. “I need you to fight the darkness. Please.”
I only nod. Not sure of what I’m agreeing to, but certain that the plea in her voice is honest.
And it’s the last thing I hear, too, as my senses darken into comfortable nothingness.
Chapter 38
Restart
November 4th, 1030 A.D., Morning
When the Alliance was bathed in Affliction, there was only one person they could turn to. One being. It was time to begin again.
Dr. Aaron Carter, On Azazel, the Red Mage, 1020 A.D.
Light floods the room as the door opens. This time I can see the room in its entirety. It’s nicer than my old apartment by at least two tax brackets.
And my heart thuds with a pang of disappointment as the white masked figure stops beside the bed.
“I hear you had trouble last night,” their voice betrays no sympathy nor mockery. Just a statement.
“Your sources are well-informed,” I say with definitive sarcasm in my tone.
“Care to explain what happened? I received reports that your neighbors heard screaming and your sheets appear to be a different color.”
I glance down at the bedding and notice a stark lack of blood. There had definitely been blood, though I don’t know what color the sheets were before the shadows played five finger fillet with my body.
“So how do you know something happened?” I ask, tilting my head to study the way they stand—feet still turned as if they might try to make a run for it. “Maybe I was just having really good sex.”
