Page 78 of Scorched Earth
She won’t. It’s you she wants.
How he knew, Killian couldn’t have said, only that he was turning, his arms rising to take the impact as Lydia slammed into him.They grappled, rolling across sand and rock, slamming against the corpses of blighters and corrupted alike.
Her hand latched around his throat, but she was still wearing gloves. He heard her scream of frustration above the wind. Killian ignored it and caught her wrist, rolling her facedown and then pinning her arms to her sides.
Every breath was a struggle, sand worming its way under his clothes, scratching and burning. If he died, there’d be nothing to stop her from turning on the others.
Think think think.
What had he seen when he’d looked down? A stone platform. Endless sand and rock and… a small stone structure next to the platform.
Now all he had to do was find it.
Keeping his arms around Lydia, his hand locked on his own wrist, Killian heaved to his feet, hunting for his bearings.
The wind was rebounding off the escarpment, billowing in all directions like a cyclone. Cautiously, he moved backward, praying he’d hit the cliff wall rather than wander into open desert.
His foot caught on a corpse, nearly causing him to fall, but Killian pressed onward. His lungs ached from coughing, his arms shaking from restraining the thrashing Lydia. If he hadn’t already been weeping tears from the sand, he’d have wept for joy as his back slammed against rock.
Allowing his mental map to guide him, he eased down the rock face until he guessed himself behind the platform, then he started forward until he reached the smooth stone.
Going by feel, he worked his way to the left side of the platform, then forward until he collided with a structure. As they edged around it, he found the opening, relief filling his chest as his boots found steps leading down.
He started the descent, praying that nothing worse than sand and dust would greet them at the bottom. His boots met a flat surface, and with the wind no longer blasting him in the face, he used the back of Lydia’s head to pull down the strip of fabric covering his eyes.
And was greeted with blackness.
With his arms preoccupied with Lydia’s squirming, there wasn’t anything he could do about the light, but he’d endured worse than sitting in the dark for a few hours.
With Lydia in his arms, Killian explored the space and swiftly determined that it was nothing more than a small chamber that hadbeen carved out of the bedrock, either for the storage of goods or as a shelter against storms. Leaning against a wall, he slid down so that he was seated, Lydia on his lap.
He squeezed his eyes shut, coughing up sand and grit while she thrashed, drumming her heels against his shins.
“Don’t,” he growled back at her. “I’m not going to let you go, Lydia.”
She didn’t answer, only smoldered with rage and frustration.
Killian felt himself sinking into despair, but Baird’s words filled his thoughts, and instead he said, “Do you remember when we were sneaking into the sewers to help Finn take care of the orphans? How many children do you suppose you healed? Had to have been at least a hundred.”
“For all the good it did.” Lydia’s voice was low, once again carrying the cruel edge that it’d had when they were in the rowboat on the lake. “Emmy’s dead. She was poisoned by blight and spent her days telling everyone howyoufailed to protect her.”
“Wasn’t her doing the talking, though, was it?” He shifted, his ass already going numb against the rock. “Was the Seventh.”
“Doesn’t mean it was a lie.”
A shot of guilt fired through him, but Killian forced it away. “What is your goal in saying these things? Is it that you think I’ll get angry enough to make a mistake so that you have the opportunity to kill me? Or are you trying to provoke me into killing you myself?”
“Have you ever considered that I might just be saying what I really think?” she snapped. “Because I assure you, Killian, that the things I say are a small fraction of those that pass through my mind.”
Hehad, in fact, considered that. “There is a difference between a thought crossing your mind and it being what you truly believe.”
“Whatever makes you feel better.”
Part of him wished Agrippa were here, if only for the fact that the other man would relish the verbal sparring, whereas it made Killian miserable. “I know that I’ve not been what you needed,” he finally said. “In truth, I’ve been so consumed with my own anger that it’s been hard to see anything else.”
“Are you angry because I’m not being a sweet girl that you can imagine marrying?” Her tone was saccharine and mocking. “No one wants a murderous monster to mother their children.” She hesitated, then said, “Though perhaps your concerns arebaserthan that.”
He ground his teeth but refused to rise to the bait. “Anger at myself, is the answer. My purpose is to protect you, but I’ve done a terrible job of it.”
